Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [54]
As they followed the manager down the corridor Venetia imagined the little boy scared and alone at the top of the white slopes; it must have looked so steep to him.
“He sounds like a very tough father,” she commented.
“He was—and is. But he’s still the best. He brought me up with no mother around and he did it the only way he knew how.” Morgan smiled wryly. “He was determined no son of his was going to grow up soft—money was for good food and a good education, not for pampering.”
Venetia privately thought Fitz McBain sounded like a tough old tyrant, but she kept her opinion to herself.
“Your room, mademoiselle.” The manager opened the door with a flourish.
It was spacious and sunny and filled with flowers. Two discreet single beds awaited her choice, and Venetia’s eyes met Morgan’s inquiringly.
“I’m right next door,” he explained. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes to get into your gear and we’re off, okay?”
“Lunch is being served in the restaurant, sir,” suggested the manager, following Morgan to the door.
Venetia laughed as she heard his reply. “Lunch? No time for that—we’ll grab a bite later at one of the cafes on the mountain.”
When Morgan wanted to do something, he did it immediately! He’d arrived on one plane in London, talked her into abandoning her quest for work, and scooped her off to Switzerland on the next flight. Vennie eyed the twin beds warily. Of course she’d expected to have her own room—Morgan would never be so presumptuous or so indiscreet as to book them into the same room—and anyway things hadn’t got to that point between them. Yet. She sat on the edge of the bed, dragged off her boots and jeans, and climbed into a pair of thermal longjohns, a cotton polo-neck shirt, and her ski suit. She pulled on the shaggy fur boots, clipped her bum bag to her belt, grabbed her goggles, and made for the door. Morgan was outside, hand raised ready to knock. “Beat you,” he said triumphantly. “Round one goes to me.”
“I thought this competition was on the slopes,” complained Venetia.
“It is, it is … just you watch out, Miss Venetia Haven,” he warned. “You’re in for a tough time!”
Venetia hadn’t remembered that it felt so wonderful. They’d begun on a red run—just to get their ski legs, Morgan had said, though privately she had thought that he was being kind to her and allowing her to chicken out if she felt the black runs would be too much. And they might have, she admitted, unclipping the bindings and shouldering her skis; her knees were trembling from the unaccustomed strain. But it was stupendous: the snow was perfect, the sky was blue with just a ridge of cloud coming up on the horizon, and the sun was hot. Meanwhile, she was here at the foot of the piste waiting for Morgan, who had taken two falls at the top of the slope and had lagged behind considerably. She’d beaten him by at least three minutes, she calculated as he swerved to a stop next to her.
“Beat me—fair and square.” He grinned. “Goddamn, Vennie, I didn’t believe you when you said you were good—you’re terrific. I can see I’ll have my work cut out.”
“Of course you will,” said Vennie loftily, “and the loser buys mulled wine and a sandwich for the winner, right?”
Morgan sucked in his breath. “You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for.” He shouldered his skis and put an arm around her, heading for the crowded cafe terrace overlooking the valley. “You may regret it by the end of the week, Vennie Haven. It’s gonna cost you!”
The sun dazzled off the snow in a million glinting prisms as they sat, warmed by its rays and the hot wine, and nourished by the crunchy ham sandwiches, contentedly surveying the scene.
It was just about perfect, thought Morgan. He