Icebreaker (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 2

  Great, makes a girl feel good.

  “I’m Connell Crane,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m the manager here.”

  Sienna cleared her throat as she took his hand. Was she going to be able to pull this off? Actress, she reminded herself. “Elle O’Grady.”

  Elle had assured her that no one at Hotham had ever met her. “You just need to be me for a week,” she had said. “No one will ever know.”

  Sienna wasn’t sure if she was just being oversensitive, but she thought she detected a flinch. If he was manager here, maybe he knew she had been employed to check out Prescott? If so, there was no further acknowledgement.

  Connell smiled−the heartbreaker smile that Sienna was always a sucker for.

  “I hope we will see a lot more of you this season,” he said smoothly, and as he left, she found herself hoping the “seeing more of” might be rather literal.

  Chapter Two

  Steve Prescott moved papers across his desk and selected out his latest plan. House of Corrections. Probably not a name Hotham was quite ready for. Maybe Department of Corrective Services? At least this idea was raising a smile. It wasn’t like all his other ideas, which were aimed at making money, though he was fairly sure it would. This was for fun. He was already basically running it out of his sprawling Dinner Plains house so he didn’t see why there was a fuss. Or rather he knew why, knew that Draco wanted to keep Hotham firmly as his monopoly, and wondered about a discreet bomb on Jerkovitch’s helicopter. Not really, but a midair disintegration had a certain appeal.

  Steve was bored. If he had a bucket list, everything would have been ticked off. Almost, anyway. Making money just didn’t give him the same buzz anymore. Sure, it was nice to have, but then you just wanted more stuff and worried that someone else would get ahead faster than you and none of this was making him any happier. The last time he had felt good, really good, had been when he’d beaten Connell in a downhill slalom race. That had to have been ten years earlier. Perhaps there was one other time, when he had thought he might get married five years ago, but he had trained himself not to think about that fiasco.

  A discreet club would just make life in the winter months so much more palatable. In summer in Melbourne, the discreet Mae Lin, at Half Moon in the lane behind his city apartment, fully catered to his needs, but he liked the snow and needed to be at Hotham for part of the season to keep an eye on his investments. He wondered if the mayor’s wife could help him get her husband on side. No, better to find a woman for the mayor. A discreet, submissive one.

  * * * *

  Sienna was up early. Steve Prescott owned a popular breakfast café and she figured opening weekend, he would be there. She rehearsed her lines, double-checked that she looked the complete ski bunny bimbo, and stepped out onto fresh snow. The sky was blue and the place looked like a little bit of winter magic. She grinned. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  The café was on the other side of the road to Snow City and about as different in every way as it could be. Attached to an architectural design winning group of apartments, it was elegant and understated, floor-to-ceiling glass looking out across the ski fields and enormous open brick fireplaces ensuring both warmth and atmosphere. At seven a.m. it was already busy.

  “A cappuccino,” Sienna ordered from a girl she at first didn’t recognize as Amy.

  “Anything to eat? The pancakes look awesome,” Amy offered obligingly.

  “No thanks.” The bimbo outfit was already tight enough. “How are you finding it?”

  “Great,” said Amy, beaming. “The guys here are the best.”

  “I hear the owner is pretty hot, too,” said Sienna. “Is he around?”

  Amy shrugged.

  Sienna took a window seat and settled in to watch and wait. The traffic was entertaining—mostly under thirty and mostly beautiful. Money seemed to be dripping everywhere. Sienna was grateful for the Elle makeover, even though her clothes had been derived from dubious sources. George—that was George number three that Elle was now up to—did something in fashion. All the Georges had done vague things that were glamorous but left doubts about just how legit they were. She’d never met any of them, unless a vague overweight shape in the back of a limo counted. They were all from somewhere exotic and dangerous-sounding like Lebanon or some part of the former Yugoslavia or USSR, had cars with loud engines and flashy bits, tattoos, and a tendency toward belligerent. It really had been no wonder Elle had never graduated from the police force.

  She saw him the moment he came in. Not through the front door as she had expected, but out of the kitchens, planting a kiss on one waitress’s cheek and—was he for real?—kissing Amy’s hand. Sienna rolled her eyes. Elle would have loved him. He was wearing an open-necked white shirt that revealed tufts of dark hair and loose baggy trousers that probably cost a fortune. Taking a deep breath, Sienna went up to order another coffee.

  As Steve was holding court, no one noticed her for at least a minute. And then it was him who looked up and grinned at her. She couldn’t believe it. He had dimples. Honest to God dimples and eyes to drown in.

  “More coffee?” asked Amy.

  Sienna nodded, eyes focused on Prescott. She had wanted his attention. Seemed like she now had it, but how best to leverage it?

  “You’re Steve Prescott,” she said, finally remembering her lines.

  “The one and only, around here at least,” he said. “And you are?”

  She meant to say Elle O’Grady. But some sixth sense at the last minute stopped her. Maybe it was remembering Connell’s flinch, or just realizing that there was no advantage at this moment to being her friend who moved in dubious circles. “Sienna Martin. I saw your photo somewhere.” She frowned. “Can’t remember where.”

  Steve picked up the coffee Amy had poured, and his own, came from behind the counter, and guided her to a table.

  “Skied here before?”

  “Ah, not exactly.” Sienna smiled the dumbest, cutesiest smile she could manage. To her annoyance Steve’s eyes look liked they glazed over. “It wasn’t a photo,” she said suddenly. “I’ve seen you somewhere. A nightclub maybe?”

  “Oh really?” He was now looking around and she felt she had about five seconds before she lost him. “Which one?”

  Sienna’s mind went blank. She really wouldn’t have made it as an actress. What were those clubs called? “Half Moon,” she blurted out. It had been the only one that had sounded interesting. The others had names like The Flea Pit.

  The change was immediate. Steve turned and looked at her, really looked at her, and smiled. He fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “If you get bored come and join us, any night from eight p.m.” Then he kissed her hand and left her shaking. It was only after she had taken several deep breaths that she managed to look at the card. Black with the picture of a woman’s red fishnet-clad leg in a very high silver heel. Written next to it was “High Towers” and a Dinner Plains address. What on earth had she just got herself invited to?

  * * * *

  It was a beautiful day and, remembering that at the end of her one-week skiing she had been able to mostly stay upright, it made her wish she could afford to ski. Maybe a one-day pass. Right now what Sienna needed to do was find out more about Prescott. The obvious person to try was Connell. Just how to go about it?

  She found his office and unlike managers in the city there was no officious secretary barring the door. He was at his desk on the phone and looked harassed.

  “No.” Silence followed as, unobserved, Sienna watched him frown and write something. “I can’t do it.” More silence. “Okay, won’t do it. It’s too dangerous. Look, can we talk about this when we meet? There’s a lot at stake.”

  Sienna listened with interest. Might be nothing, but then again… Connell’s head suddenly shot up and looked directly at her. His expression suggested it wasn’t “nothing.” In fact rather giddily she wondered if he had been talking about her. He looked guilty! She sm
iled, a slightly less dumb version of the one she’d used unsuccessfully on Steve. It had better effect, either for the change of man or the modification.

  “Yeah, speak to you then.” Connell put the phone down and smiled at her. He looked so guileless she wondered if she had imagined everything else. “Can I help you?”

  “I sure hope so,” said Sienna, leaning against the door, trying to channel—was it Marlene Dietrich? Someone like that who had been her birth month’s “Old Flames” calendar picture. Connell laughed, but there was a stilted feel to the sound. “Okay you’d better come in, Ms. O’Grady.”

  He had remembered. She blushed but was pleased nevertheless, even if wasn’t her right name. Or was it just because he knew something about the real Elle?

  “I was hoping you could help me,” she said.

  Connell lay back in his chair, expression inscrutable.

  “I am doing an article for Cosmopolitan,” Sienna said, noticing a flicker of—disbelief? “On the social scene in the snow fields. You seem to know your way around. I’m after some advice.”

  For a moment she thought he was going to throw her out. Then, unexpectedly, Connell burst out laughing. She probably would have known how to deal with the first possibility better. As it was, she stared at him awkwardly.

  “Er…did I say something wrong?”

  “Ms O’Grady quite the contrary. I thought… Well, never mind. The social scene you say?” Connell’s eyes twinkled. “Just what would you like to know?”

  It was tempting just to ask for the lowdown on Prescott and be done with this whole farce, but she didn’t know what the relationship between the two was, didn’t know why he had laughed, who he had been talking to, what he had been thinking or anything about what was dangerous and at stake. No, she’d have to keep playing this game until the end of the week.

  “Everything, really. What places are hot and why, the undiscovered gems, who is who, and who would like to be someone and isn’t yet.”

  “Maybe you should meet my boss,” said Connell smoothly. “He’s definitely the man about town that makes things happen.”

  “The owner of Ski Spectacular you mean?”

  Connell nodded, watching her. Looking for what exactly?

  Sienna shrugged. “Probably not. I’m more interested in the people…on the ground.” In fact the owner was probably the last person she wanted to meet. If anyone would know she wasn’t Elle, it would presumably be him. Elle had been very evasive when discussing him and had resolved any concerns by informing her that he was overseas so she would be safe.

  Connell looked surprised. “Well, the social scene is rather night focused. How long are you staying?”

  “A week,” said Sienna.

  “Then we’ll start tonight, shall we?”

  Before he could elaborate, an agitated woman came running in, gesticulating about a pipe that had burst. Connell sighed.

  “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  And he was. But not before Sienna had taken the opportunity of removing the spare key from his drawer.

  Chapter Three

  Half an hour later, after ensuring a plumber was on his way and Elle had been dealt with, Connell closed his office door and sat back in his chair. Just what had that been about? Elle O’Grady was nothing like what he had expected. Was she really that guileless? Or was she just a good actress? So good that she had him looking forward to taking her out. She seemed far too nice to be up to her pretty pert tits in DJ’s business. That said, DJ had always had a good eye of a cute bit of ass, and she sure as hell had that. No reason not to enjoy, he supposed, but he needed to remind himself she was trouble, even if packaged in angel dust.

  Now out of her spell, he felt he could think clearer. He needed to keep her occupied. Fully. Right now he had work to do, so who to call? He was conscious he didn’t want anyone too interesting and attractive. The name came to him. Perfect. Jean-Claude would love her.

  * * * *

  “Darling, you must be Elle.”

  Elle, aka Sienna, who was in the Snow City lounge on the computer, checking out the local councils list of owners and building permit applications looked up, startled to see a hot sexy man in a red ski suit standing in front of her.

  “I am Jean-Claude, and I am all yours for the morning!”

  Of course he was, complete with French accent. This sort of thing didn’t happen to Sienna. Maybe she would change her name to Elle permanently.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, darling, it’s your lucky day,” said Jean-Claude. “Do you have skis?”

  Sienna looked at him blankly.

  “No? No problem, we go to see my friend.” He stood, waiting expectantly.

  “Look there must be a mistake,” said Sienna. “I can’t …”

  “But you must,” said Jean-Claude, hand now under her elbow. “I insist. The boss, he insists also. It is on the house. My season warm up.”

  Ahh. One of Elle’s perks. What the hell. If DJ was throwing this in, all the better, as Sienna had doubts about any money ever eventuating for anything that she might or might not find out.

  By lunchtime Sienna had reevaluated just about everything she had ever assumed about Elle and being a ski bunny. Jean-Claude was not just delicious—every gay bone in his body—but an excellent teacher.

  “No darling,” he said. “Like this. That very cute little ass needs to stay over your skis, not under them…”

  They started on an easy slope, but Sienna quickly found that as soon as she established her balance everything else followed. She should have had a lesson before.

  “Wonderful! You are a natural!” He was exaggerating, but she did have good balance from Tai Kwon Do, and the few years in her teens of roller-blading might also have helped. She started to have fun.

  He knew everyone—as did she by the end of the morning—and she was sorry when he looked at his watch and they headed back to the ski school.

  “Do I need to give the skis back?” asked Sienna, knowing that rather than skiing she should have been tracking down information about Steve Prescott.

  “Yours for the week,” said Jean-Claude. “You will practice this afternoon, non?”

  “No,” said another voice, and she turned around to see Connell.

  “No?”

  “You wanted to see the social scene, right?”

  “Yes,” said Sienna cautiously.

  “Then come with me.”

  Sienna already had her skis off and Connell took them effortlessly in one hand as he led her back inside. “You might want to change,” he said. “Can you manage it in fifteen minutes? The helicopter goes at half past.”

  It wasn’t every day that someone took Sienna out in a helicopter. Never, in fact. Apparently today’s opening season lunch was sponsored by the heli-flight company, promoting the links between Falls Creek and Hotham. But rather than being held at Hotham, they were promoting the smaller venue. Sienna was changed and ready in twenty minutes, and Connell, looking delectable, ushered her across the snowy tarmac, introduced her to someone called Matthew, who would “look after her,” and then said he’d see her later that night.

  It wasn’t until the helicopter had lifted off that Sienna realized what he had done. He was getting her out of the way.

  * * * *

  Though furious at Connell and wondering how she could be so naive, Sienna decided to make the best of the situation. The ride, though noisy, even with the headphones, was magic, soaring over gum trees heavy with snow, iced lakes and rivers below. The pilot, fresh and enthusiastic at the season’s opening, pointed out all the highlights and landed them in a flutter of snow at the lunch venue. Sienna imagined that it was this type of lunch—along with the helicopters and free ski lesson—that attracted Elle to the many Georges. Smoked salmon, lobster, and tons of Aussie fizz, and that seemed to be just for starters.

  The lunch wasn’t a total dead loss, workwise, because getting her off Hotham didn’t mean she couldn’t ask about it. Matt had c
learly been worded up to know to say nothing, but a quick assessment as to who was both lecherous and drinking heavily led her quickly to Tony Latimer, who ran the tow company.

  “Making money already!” he said, looking out the window as the chairlifts drew past.

  “Have you been part of the ski world here long?” asked Sienna.

  “All my life.” He laughed. “Born and bred at the bottom of the mountain and have been up it every season since.”

  Excellent. “So you must know everyone.”

  “You name them, I’ll know them.”

  “Connell Crane kindly got me this gig,” Sienna said slowly. “Has he been here long?”

  Tony frowned. “About four years I’d say. Longest manager DJ has ever had, though he was assistant manager the first year and skied here long before that.”

  “Really?” Was he working out so well because he was as crooked as his boss? Sienna was more suspicious of him now, but it was hard to imagine those blue eyes doing anything but undressing her. Get a grip, she ordered herself, discreetly edging away from Tony’s hand that had landed on the edge of her chair.

  “DJ is not, shall we say, the easiest person to get on with.”

  “Is he here often?”

  “Breezes in and out.”

  “Seems he’s the big developer here,” said Sienna, “though I read somewhere…isn’t someone trying to crash in?”

  “Prescott you mean?”

  Sienna tried to look interested and innocent. It worked.

  “He wants to develop Dinner Plains,” said Tony. “Folks there would rather it stayed more secluded. It’s where the cross-country skiers go. Though I heard he was trying for a night club in Hotham central.”

  “Night clubs do well up here?”

  “You bet, lots of young people with hormones raging.”

  “I heard there is one night club that is a bit different,” said Sienna, hoping she wasn’t too far off the mark. “Have you heard of High Towers?”