Sterling’s Fortune

Chapter 7

Alistair had dismissed the driver.

He had practically snarled at Arthur to take the night off, snatched the keys to the Bentley, and shoved Elodie into the passenger seat. Now, they were hurtling toward the Queensboro Bridge, wrapped in a silence so thick it felt like physical pressure.

Elodie stared out the window. She was trying very hard not to cry, but the tears were hot and stinging against her eyelids.

"You're going too fast," she whispered.

"I am driving the speed limit," Alistair clipped out. His knuckles were white on the leather steering wheel.

"The speed limit doesn't apply during a blizzard, Alistair!"

She was right. The weather had turned apocalyptic the moment they stepped out of the Plaza. The snow wasn't falling; it was being driven sideways by a wind that screamed like a banshee. Visibility was zero. The streetlights were just blurry halos of orange in a wall of white.

"It’s just snow," Alistair muttered, though he squinted through the windshield. "I have traction control. I have four-wheel drive. I have physics on my side."

"You have a bad attitude," Elodie snapped, turning to face him. "And according to the rules, that means you have bad luck."

"There are no rules!" Alistair shouted, slamming his hand on the dashboard. "Stop talking about magic! I am trying to get you home so I can... so I can think!"

"So you can fire me?" Elodie’s voice broke. "So you can pretend that what happened at the apartment didn't happen?"

Alistair didn't answer. He swerved to avoid a taxi that was spinning its wheels in a drift. The Bentley fishtailed, heavy and expensive, before righting itself.

"It happened," Alistair said finally, his voice low. "And that is exactly why you have to go. I don't mix business with... whatever this is. It’s messy. It’s inefficient. And it’s dangerous."

"You're a coward," Elodie whispered.

The word hung in the air.

Alistair flinched as if she had slapped him. He turned his head to look at her, his grey eyes blazing with fury.

"I am protecting you, you foolish girl—"

He wasn't watching the road.

"Alistair, look out!"

A snowplow had stopped dead in the middle of the lane, its lights obscured by the swirling white.

Alistair slammed on the brakes. The Bentley’s systems screamed, ABS locking, sensors blaring, but ice didn't care about engineering. The car slid. It spun three hundred and sixty degrees, a terrifying carousel of lights and darkness.

Elodie didn't scream. She grabbed the dashboard and squeezed her eyes shut. She felt the bracelet on her wrist burn, a sudden flare of heat.

CRUNCH.

The car slammed backward into a snowbank. The force of the impact was absorbed by the luxury frame, but the jolt was violent. The car tilted at a precarious angle, sliding down the embankment of the service road, coming to a rest deep in a ditch.

Silence returned.

"Elodie?" Alistair’s voice was frantic.

Elodie opened her eyes. The airbags hadn't deployed, the impact had been soft, just deep. She was shaking.

"I'm okay," she breathed. "I'm okay."

Alistair unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for her. His hands were everywhere, touching her face, her shoulders, checking for broken bones.

"Did you hit your head? Does anything hurt?"

"I'm fine," she insisted, pushing his hands away gently. "We're in a ditch."

Alistair slumped back in his seat. He looked at the dashboard. It was dark.

He pushed the start button. Click. Click. Nothing.

"The electrical system," he groaned, hitting the steering wheel. "The impact must have severed a connection. Or the battery is dead."

He tried the door. It opened two inches and then hit a wall of solid, packed snow.

"We're buried," he said, staring at the white wall blocking his exit. He looked at her side. "Try yours."

Elodie pushed. Her door opened into the howling wind, but the snow was already piling up to the sill.

"I can get out," she said, shivering as the freezing air rushed in. "But go where? We’re on a side road near the industrial park. There’s nothing here."

Alistair checked his phone. "No signal." He looked at her, his expression grim. "The storm is a whiteout. If we try to walk in this, in evening wear, we’ll have hypothermia in ten minutes."

"So..." Elodie’s teeth began to chatter. "We stay here?"

"We wait for a patrol," Alistair said. "The car is insulated. We have air. We just need to stay warm."

He reached into the back seat and grabbed his wool overcoat, which he had discarded earlier.

"Put this on," he ordered, draping it over her bare shoulders. It was heavy and smelled like him.

"What about you?" Elodie asked. "You're just in a tuxedo."

"I run hot," he lied.

They sat in the dark for twenty minutes. The temperature in the car plummeted. The wind outside sounded like a freight train, burying them deeper with every gust.

Elodie was shaking violently now. The red velvet dress was beautiful, but it was thin. Her lips were turning blue.

Alistair watched her, his jaw clenched tight. He was shivering too, though he tried to hide it.

"This isn't working," he said abruptly.

He unbuckled her seatbelt.

"Come here."

"What?"

"The center console is too wide," he muttered. "We can't share heat across it. We need to get in the back seat."

"Alistair..."

"Elodie, do you want to freeze to death to preserve your modesty? Climb over."

It was an undignified scramble. Alistair went first, squeezing between the front seats. Elodie followed, her gown tangling around her legs.

The back seat of the Bentley was spacious, like a small lounge. But it was freezing.

Alistair sat in the corner and pulled Elodie toward him. "Come here. Between my legs. Back to my chest."

Elodie hesitated for a fraction of a second, then obeyed. The cold was painful now. She settled between his legs, pulling his knees up to bracket her hips. Alistair wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling the wool coat tight around both of them like a cocoon.

"Better?" he murmured against her hair.

"A little," she whispered.

It was more than a little. It was overwhelming. His body was a furnace. His chest was pressed against her spine. His thighs were solid walls of heat on either side of her.

Elodie rested her head back against his shoulder. She could feel his heart beating. It was racing.

"I'm sorry," Alistair said after a long silence. His voice was rough. "I did this. My anger... it caused the storm."

"You don't know that," Elodie said.

"I do. The old man said the luck responds to balance. I was unbalanced." He tightened his arms around her. "I was cruel to you because I was scared."

Elodie turned her head slightly, her cheek brushing against his jaw. "Scared of what?"

"Of needing you," Alistair confessed. "I don't need people, Elodie. I acquire them. I manage them. But I don't need them. But today... when that ornament fell... my first thought wasn't for myself. It was that if you got hurt, the world would go dark."

Elodie’s heart skipped a beat. She shifted in his arms, turning so she could look at him in the dim light.

"That sounds like a compliment, Mr. Sterling."

"It’s a terrifying fact, Miss Rose."

He looked down at her. In the darkness, his eyes were soft. He reached out and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her neck, warm and rough.

"You're still shivering," he noted.

"I'm okay."

"No," he whispered. "You're cold."

He moved his hands. Instead of keeping them outside the coat, he slipped them inside. He slid his palms over the velvet of her dress, rubbing her arms briskly to generate friction.

Then, his hands moved to her waist.

The contact of his palms, even through the fabric, sent a jolt through her.

"Warmth requires friction," Alistair quoted the old man, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Isn't that the rule?"

"Yes," Elodie breathed.

Alistair’s hands slid higher, his thumbs grazing the underside of her breasts. It wasn't accidental. He was testing the boundary.

"Alistair," she warned, though she leaned into his touch.

"We have to survive the night, Elodie," he murmured, leaning his forehead against hers. "Let me keep you warm."

He didn't wait for permission. He captured her lips.

This wasn't like the kiss in the apartment. That had been explosive, hungry. This was slow. Deep. Desperate. It was a kiss of two people huddled against the end of the world.

Elodie turned in his arms, straddling his lap, the red dress riding up her thighs. Alistair groaned, his hands gripping her hips to pull her closer.

The car was freezing, but where they touched, it was fire. The rose gold bracelet was glowing again, casting a soft, pink light over their faces.

Alistair broke the kiss, burying his face in her neck. He inhaled sharply.

"You are going to be the death of me," he growled.

"Or your fortune," she whispered, running her hands through his hair.

Alistair looked up. His eyes were unguarded.

"If we survive this," he said intensely, "I am not firing you. I am rewriting the contract."

"To what?"

"To whatever keeps you in my bed," he said. And then he kissed her again, silencing any protest she might have had.

Outside, the wind howled and the snow buried the car deeper. But inside, under the wool coat, the heat was rising to dangerous levels.