‘Was the woman talking from personal experience?’
‘Hang on while I rack my brain for memorable encounters with someone audacious enough to take notes while I made love to her.’
Tom laughed and read on. ‘It’s Razi al Maktabi’s unforgiving gaze and striking physique, clothed in misleadingly sedate Savile Row, that gives him the edge, in the opinion of this writer.’
Razi’s looks were the result of a union between the Middle East and middle England, but even he would admit they were unusual. Emerald eyes contrasted sharply with the jet-black hair and deep bronze complexion of his Bedouin ancestors, and it was said he had the eyes and lips of the courtesan who had bewitched his father.
The same courtesan who had dumped him in the arms of whichever child-care professional court officials had seen fit to appoint. But that was another story. He’d moved on. He wasn’t interested in looking back, breaking hearts or taking revenge. On the contrary, he adored women. His love for them had remained undiminished throughout numerous attempts to trap him into marriage. As had his determination never to be tied down.
‘Enough,’ Razi exclaimed as Tom started reading another article about him. ‘Are you coming skiing with me or not?’
As he might have predicted Tom embraced his suggestion with enthusiasm. The ski company was a small part of Razi’s business empire and he kept it for pleasure rather than gain, moving to a different chalet each year, both to test them for his guests and to keep the press guessing. Was there any better way of celebrating life, loyalty and friendship before the duties and responsibilities of ruling a country ruled him than this one last trip into the mountains?
Tom gave a short, masculine laugh. ‘Though we’ll have to put a bag over your head if we’re to get any peace from the ladies.’
‘With you and the rest of the boys around I’ll blend into the crowd.’
‘Really?’ Tom murmured dryly.
‘This is a boys-only trip. There won’t be a woman in sight.’
‘With you involved I find that hard to believe,’ Tom argued in the upper-class drawl that always made Razi smile. ‘How do you intend keeping them away?’
‘That’s your job, Tom.’ He was lapping up this return to the easy humour they’d shared as boys at school and then later in the special forces. ‘You always were my first choice of wing man. Just watch my back.’
‘And if it’s a frontal attack?’
Razi’s lips settled in a smile of happy anticipation at the thought of all the beautiful women in the world waiting to be adored. ‘In that case, Tom, wait for my signal.’
Chapter One
SHE had the list of this week’s guests clutched so tightly in her hand her knuckles had turned white.
‘Hey, Luce, what’s the problem?’ demanded Fiona, another member of the elite chalet staff as she snuck out of the chalet Fiona’s usual good half-hour early. ‘You look like you got some troublesome guests coming to stay.’
‘No particular problem,’ Lucy Tennant replied distractedly over Fiona’s hearty laugh, glancing deep into the flames of the aromatic pine log fire Lucy had lit earlier. Was it only minutes before she had been feeling on top of the world? Shouldn’t she still be feeling elated? She had just opened a letter explaining she had been voted top chalet girl both by her colleagues and by her employers and it was the first time she’d won anything, let alone an acknowledgement that meant so much to her. But along with that letter had come this list itemising the preferences of that week’s guests, and for some reason, having read it, her confidence had shrunk to the size of a pea.
Tom Spencer-Dayly: no special requests.
Sheridan Dalgleath: Porridge made with salt, plenty of single malt to drink and any beef served must be Aberdeen Angus.
William Montefiori: Only fresh pasta, never dried, please.
Theo Constantine: Good champagne—lots of it. One other:
It was the world of white that yawned after the fateful words One other that had got to her. For some reason it had sent a shiver down her spine. There was also an addendum to let Lucy know that two bodyguards would be travelling with the party, one of whom, Omar Farouk, would be housed on the top floor, while the second, Abu Bakr, would take the small bedroom opposite the ski room.
The clients must be people with serious connections, Lucy reasoned, hence the unusual level of security and her apprehension. She had to remind herself that she’d seen it all before. Each week head office sent her the same standard form detailing the needs and expectations of the new arrivals and she always felt a little anxious, wanting not just to meet expectations, but to exceed them.
But she had never felt as uneasy as this before, Lucy realised, checking each line again. The list was quite straightforward. Which should have been enough to stop the shivers running up and down her spine, but wasn’t.
To calm her nerves she reasoned things through. This was one of the most expensive rental chalets in one of the most expensive ski resorts in the world. She was hardly a stranger to wealthy people, their needs, or the entourages that travelled with them. In fact, compared to most, this group appeared small and quite reasonable in their demands. Experience suggested a group of men would be mad keen to be on the slopes every daylight hour so she’d hardly see them, other than at mealtimes. Their main requirement would be lots of good food, plenty of hot water and clean towels and a never-ending supply of liquid refreshment when they got back to the chalet. With brothers of her own, it wasn’t long before she was starting to feel a lot more confident.
They would almost certainly be public-school educated, Lucy mused, studying the names again. So one man preferred to remain anonymous—there could be any number of reasons why that should be and none of them her business.
Stroking back a wisp of honey-coloured hair, she realised it was the note scrawled in ink on the bottom of the page that set alarm bells ringing: ‘If anyone can cope with this group, Lucy, we know, you can—’ Translated loosely, that said she was less likely to make a fuss if the clients were more demanding and difficult than usual, because Lucy Tennant was not only a highly qualified cordon bleu chef, but a quiet girl, a good girl, a girl who took pride in her job managing the company’s most prestigious chalet, someone who worked diligently without complaint. Her line manager knew this. So why did she get the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling her?
She shook herself round. Time was moving on. With Fiona’s social life making heavy demands on Fiona’s working hours, there was always plenty of work at the chalet for Lucy. But the crystal-clear alpine light was streaming in, tempting her outside…
Pushing back the quaint, carved chair, she went to draw the cherry-red gingham curtains a little way across the ecru lace to stare out wistfully. It seemed such a shame to close out the perfect mountain day, but if she didn’t she’d never get to work.
Work had always been enough for her—and working here, where she could almost taste the freedom of the mountains, the silence, the space, the intoxicating air.
And the loneliness…
Working here was fantastic, Lucy thought fiercely, blotting out the rest. A pang of loneliness was inevitable in a chic French town where everyone seemed to be part of a couple. She’d always known she would be on the outside looking in. It was a small price to pay to be part of so much energy and fun. Shy, plump and plain was never going to be a recipe for non-stop action in a community where glamorous, confident people revelled in using their bodies to the full—and not just for skiing. But she could cook for them and she could make a chalet cosy and welcoming, which had always been reward enough.
And one day my prince will come, Lucy mused wryly,