Alya had come to a stop next to him. There was no one else in the entrance hall, just the two of them, dressed in snowsuits and hats and boots, staring at this miraculous place around them.
“It’s breathtaking,” she whispered.
“You were right,” he said. “Definitely more than just cold.”
And then he was inside one more of those moments, the kind he was trying so hard to hold on to. It wasn’t just the Icehotel itself, but that they were both standing there, together.
Alya walked across the snowy floor to one of the pillars and pressed her gloved hand against it. “Where did they get all this ice? And how do we know it’s not going to crash down on us?”
“I read that the skeleton of the structure is metal, covered with layers of an icier version of snow. The blocks of ice are carved out of the river just outside in the spring, when the ice is the thickest. They’re stored in an enormous freezer building until the next winter comes around.” Henning had done extensive research, off-hours, to answer all his safety questions. To make sure this place was well-engineered. He walked over to another pillar, running his finger along the seam of the ice blocks as he made his way toward her. “Seems pretty sturdy to me.”
Alya looked up at the ceiling, then smiled at him. “Look who did his homework.”
He shrugged. “I was a good student.”
Her laugh echoed in the open room. The sound was magical, and he was the one who had made her laugh. Fuck, that felt good.
“I bet you were,” she said. “You seem very...focused.”
Her eyes flickered hotter for a moment, so he took it as a compliment. Corinne had called him many things, long before the disastrous bust. Too intense. Too closed off. But the way Alya said this felt different. He moved closer to her until he was standing right next to her, looking down into her blue eyes, peeking out from under those dark lashes and fluffy hat. His gaze strayed down to her full red lips.
He wanted to kiss her right now, to make these first moments in this ice palace come alive in new ways. Just a kiss, to make this moment everything it could be. Anything intimate in public was supposed to be off the table, but right now, it was hard to remember why. Slowly, he tipped his head down toward hers, and Alya parted her lips. Just one little taste.
But before his mouth reached hers, the door to the Icehotel opened again, filling the room with voices and then people. Henning took a step back, blew out a breath and frowned. Fuck. What the hell was he thinking?
The group of models started through the entrance hall, their voices dying down as they passed. He caught some curious glances and a few nods in Alya’s direction. They weren’t afraid to stare, and he had almost given them something to stare at.
The group of women continued down the large ice hallway, but the magic was gone. It didn’t stand a chance when the real world crashed in. Even putting media concerns aside, what did he think this was between them? Henning could protect and he could satisfy, and years ago in the hospital, Corinne had made it clear that those two things were his worth. He didn’t have more to offer, and Corinne left when he couldn’t give them anymore. The idea was hard enough to swallow as he lay on the hospital bed, his face a wreckage of stitches and angry red scars. He never, ever wanted evidence that Alya felt the same.
Henning frowned and nodded in the direction the models had headed. “Ready to continue?”
Alya nodded.
The hall glowed with dim lights, positioned behind the carved blocks of ice. Henning slowed as they passed other ice sculptures. Someone had made each Viking warrior, carved each link of the belt, each fold of the warrior’s tunic. How many people had worked to imagine and build this monument of art?
Reindeer pelts hung from the doorways of the rooms. Alya lifted one to look inside, and Henning moved in, peering over her shoulder. The scent of her hair was muted by the sharp bite of reindeer fur. Yeah, they were definitely the real thing. The room had the same mystical blue glow as the hallway. In a twist of irony, the theme seemed to be a tropical island shipwreck. Ice statues of palm trees stood in both corners, and at the far end of the room, a grass hut was carved at the shore of a clear, glassy beach. The bed stood alone in the center of the room, the base of it an ice sculpture of a driftwood raft, floating in the sea of snow. Reindeer pelts were spread where the mattress should lie.
Alya sighed. “This is incredible.”
Henning was so close to her, her fuzzy white hat tickling his nose. He leaned in for a breath of the sweet scent of her hair, and a rush of lust ran through his body. What would it be like to lie in this bed with her, just the two of them, all alone in this shipwreck? Cold, that’s what it would be, unless they worked to keep each other warm. The image was there before he could think better of it: him on top of Alya, looking down into the blue depths of her eyes, heavy with the same want he had seen in the hotel room, his cock ready to sink into sweet, wet heaven.
Henning bit back a groan and frowned. That was a fantasy from another life, before he left the AFP, before the nightmares that meant he should never sleep in a bed with anyone. Fuck. They had two beds in their warm room, so they must have the option of two beds in these ice rooms, right?
“When we stay in one of these tomorrow...” he started.
In his pause, she finished his sentence. “It’ll be incredible.”
Henning opened his mouth to make it clear that they needed separate beds, but when he looked down, the awe in her expression stopped him. She only got to experience this for the first time once, and he couldn’t drag his own shit into that. He could ask her later. This moment was for her, and he wanted it to be good.
So he pushed all those thoughts aside, and went with the next thing that came to mind. “You think there are bathrooms in this place, too?”
“You mean ice toilets? I hope not.” Alya gave a little snort of laughter. “I think we passed them in the warm hotel, just before we went out the door. Thank God.”
The sound of her laughter was magical, and it melted some of his tension. He could do this. The corners of his mouth tugged up. “Just checking.”
Alya let go of the pelt in the doorway, and they continued down the hall. The muted din of voices grew louder. They were approaching the Icebar, and Henning steeled himself for the scene they’d face. He had to wipe his face of all traces of the emotions Alya stirred in him—want, lust, protectiveness and something more he didn’t want to name. Something that felt way too close to—
“Henning?” Alya tugged on the sleeve of his coat. She had come to a full stop in the glowing hallway, and she was eying him with a stubborn look on her beautiful face.
So he stopped, turned to her and nodded his head in acknowledgment, waiting for her to tell him what she wanted. Whatever it was, he’d give it to her.
“Sasha Federov, the designer, is a force of nature, but anything you see is about his business, not me personally.”
Henning swallowed. “You’re letting me know it’s going to be intimate between you.”
“It’s going to look intimate,” she corrected.
“You’re okay with that?”
“It’s the way this business works.”
Henning swallowed again and kept his expression neutral. Nodded. Put aside that mix of protectiveness and jealousy that crashed down on him. “No pissing contests. I promise.”
“Stay with me,” she said. “Stay right next to me all night.”
Henning stilled. What was this about? He took off a glove and swiped a hand over his face. His skin was cold, and he had the urge to touch her, to see if she was cold. But he didn’t.
“Is this in any way about your security?”
She shook her head slowly. “No.”
Fuck. He wanted to stay with her for every selfish reason. Because, in some alternate universe, he could see the scene so clearly, walking into the Icebar, touching her,
kissing her. Making it clear to everyone that upsetting her in any way would have consequences. But he could never, ever mistake that imaginary universe with the one he lived in.
Henning studied her face, her cheeks pink. The idea of saying no to Alya was causing him physical pain. His hand ached with the need to touch her, but if he did, it would make this even harder. So he put his glove back on.
“I can’t,” he bit out.
She tilted her head to the side. “Can’t or won’t?”
“In this case, there’s no difference. You don’t need me right next to you, and it’s not in your best interest.”
She rolled her eyes. “Now you’re patronizing me. Why, Henning?”
Henning looked up and down the empty hallway. She wanted to discuss this, right here? Fine. “Because you’re here to spread your wings, not to have your hulking bodyguard next to you, glaring at every man who touches you.” He blew out a breath. Shit. Did she hear the jealousy oozing out of that statement?
He could feel himself getting worked up, so the last thing he expected was for her to smile. But that’s exactly what she did. It was a beautiful smile, so wide and full of...amusement? That tightness in his chest was easing.
“You’re very intense,” she said, laughter in her voice. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Once or twice,” he said dryly.
She chuckled, shaking her head. “Fine. So you’re going to brood in the corner while I mingle?”
“Pretty much.” He was trying his hardest not to smile. It wasn’t working.
“Are you going to be jealous?” Her voice was smoother now, seductive.
Damn. She must have heard it in his voice. He narrowed his eyes at her and frowned. “What I feel when I’m working is irrelevant.”
“What about afterward, when we’re back in the room?” she said, her voice so soft, tempting. “What if you still feel it then? Will you tell me?”
The question spilled from her red lips, bringing his cock to attention. He scanned the empty hall again, just to make sure they were alone. Then he took a step closer and gazed down at her, letting her see all the want he was keeping tightly leashed inside.
“You want to play with that, baby?” he whispered. “You want to see if that makes you hot?”
She didn’t hesitate, despite the warning in his gaze. “I already know the answer. I’m asking if it makes you hot, too.”
* * *
This could either go very wrong or very, very right. Alya was really hoping for the latter. That don’t-fuck-with-her vibe he radiated when he was next to her was a huge turn-on, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—use a man as a crutch, just because it felt better than standing on her own. That was her mother’s path, and the result was a career and a life that crumbled each time the relationship fell apart. Back in Sydney, she had started to lean on Stewart, her most recent ex, until, finally, she wizened up and decided to take a break from relationships for a while. So Henning was right to turn down her offer, to take a step back when she didn’t need him. But...they could play with this set-up a little. Knowing he was watching her across the room, imagining the way he ached for her—that was about desire, not fears.
As long as Henning understood what he was getting himself into. She hadn’t missed the sharp flash of heat in his eyes as he sketched the image of a big, ripped bodyguard, there to protect her...and more. He had quickly covered it up with that stoic expression, but now, that sharp mix of heat and intensity shone in his eyes again as he stared down at her.
But he didn’t answer. Instead, the uninjured corner of his mouth curved up a little more. It looked like his smile took effort, as if he had forgotten how to do it somewhere along the way. But when he did, his eyes lit up, too, filled with pure, untainted pleasure. It was addictive to watch, to figure out what made him react, and she wanted him to smile a thousand times while they were here. She had some ideas about how to do that.
Henning leaned in, his mouth brushing against her ear.
“You’re late,” he whispered. “Go in there and do your thing.”
He straightened up, wiped the smile from his lips and the desire from his eyes, and nodded toward the Icebar. Game on.
She brushed passed Henning and headed in the direction of the voices. The arched hallway opened into a larger room, even more stunning than the entryway. The Icebar was a work of art. Glittering glassy ice surfaces were everywhere, the walls, the floors, the pillars, the arched ceilings of snow. It was a strange scene, filled with clusters of people, all dressed in the same outerwear. The documentary camera crew added to the vibe, like they were on the set of some futuristic film.
“I feel like we’re at the canteen of the rebel base,” she said over her shoulder to Henning. “What was that ice planet called?”
His voice was low and intimate. “You mean Hoth?”
“Exactly.”
“Definitely an upscale version,” he added.
True. Much like in the hallway, everything was ice—the bar, the small, round tables, the benches that lined the walls. Candles burned and torches lit with a flickering haunted beauty. The only other non-ice elements in sight were the pelts that lay on the seating.
Alya wrinkled her nose. “More reindeer? How many had to die to make this place?”
“All so we don’t have cold asses,” he said, patting the fur on a nearby bench. “Or slide off the bench onto the floor.”
She laughed, but this time it was a little too unguarded, a little too free. A dozen heads turned their way. Gazes flicked from Henning to her and back to Henning. And damn, she could see the conclusions in the arches of carefully plucked eyebrows and the parting of pouty lips. She could read those looks. And if she didn’t walk away soon, the documentary camera crew would turn their attention to them, too.
“I’ll hang back here,” he said, sitting at a table in the corner. He glanced over at the crowd. Heads were still turned in their direction.
Her smile fell, and her heart twisted. Fuck them all, she wanted to say. Come with me.
But he seemed to know what she was thinking because he shook his head. “I’d rather watch you.”
His eyes glittered with...playfulness? Henning? Oh, God, fuck them all indeed.
“You do that,” she said, her smile coming back. “Just watch and brood from the corner.”
Henning lifted his chin at her and then settled on top of one of those poor reindeer along the bench. He leaned against the snowy wall and crossed his arms, his deep brown eyes fixed on her, intense and guarded. She smiled a little and walked away from him, slowly making her way into the crowd. This was going to be interesting.
Long ago, Alya had come to terms with what it meant to be a model. For so much of this job, she wasn’t a real person, just a form for designers to hang their clothes on. But if she really wanted to make it in this industry, she had to be more than that. She had to be the embodiment of other people’s desires. These were desires that the magazines and ad campaigns fed into, the desire for happiness, the desire for a life of luxury, and the undercurrent of those desires was sex appeal.
But being this person was a strange thing. From a very young age, she had been told she was exceptionally beautiful, and her mother groomed her for a life with this at the center. She had grown up with an equal mix of both stares and glares because of it. Thank God her parents’ marriage didn’t explode until after they had their second kid; Alya might have withered up in loneliness without Natasha. Even today, her sister was one of only a few people in the world she was truly close with. Most women kept their distance, as if they assumed beauty somehow made her exempt from more banal desires like conversation and companionship.
The sex appeal part was the most complicated. On the pages of a magazine, she sold the allure of touch, of sex. She wasn’t even undressed for these photos, at least not all the way. And yet, as a rule, a stran
ger off the street was much more likely to approach cute Natasha than they were her. It was as if Alya had some sort of bubble around her with a sign on it: look, don’t touch. Plus, men’s real-life tastes tended toward women with bigger breasts and bigger hips. She elicited a more impersonal kind of desire.
You know you want me. I have what you need.
This was her job, but having Henning here while she did it was...well, different.
She looked over her shoulder and smiled at Henning one more time, focusing her attention on the scene in front of her. Though she had worked in this industry for years, it was hard to call anyone here a friend. Alya wasn’t much of a partier, which ruled out the easiest way to bond with a good chunk of this crowd. There were others she might have been more than just business acquaintances with, but between her mother’s antics and the mess with Nick, she could imagine why those people had stayed away. Her mother was known for her off-screen drama as much as for her on-screen performances, and Alya and Natasha’s younger years were filled with Ilana Petrova’s inappropriately young partners, public break-ups, and accusations of infidelity. And then, just as her mother finally settled down, Alya’s break-up with Nick turned ugly. For too many years, her life was a closely followed train wreck, and anyone with good business sense would have stayed far away. These days, she kept to herself more out of habit. Aloof and snobbish were much better, reputation-wise, than train wreck.
A couple models known for partying were settled up at the bar and clearly past their first drinks, with a sort of fuck caring about my image—I’m going to have fun with this air to them. Alya understood the impulse, but it wasn’t her path. One of the women she had worked with before—Brianna?—flagged her over.
Hotter on Ice Page 5