Confessions of a Chalet Girl:

Lorraine Wilson

A division of HarperCollins
Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

For the Minxes of Romance, Jackie Ashenden, Charlotte Phillips and Heidi Rice - without your encouragement to keep writing this book wouldn't exist. Thank you!

‘Get it off!’

Shouts and wolf whistles filled the packed bar. Embarrassment prickled at Holly Buchanan's skin. Chalet girl initiation huh? Why not just throw her to the lions and have done with it?

Swallowing hard, she scanned the crowd. Could she pull this off? They looked inebriated enough to have their designer wool scarves pulled over their eyes.

Bras of all colours and sizes dangled from the wooden beams of the bar's ceiling, resembling pastel-coloured Christmas decorations. 'The Wonderbar', the venue for her first night out in Verbier was, despite appearances, not a seedy strip joint but a favourite haunt of savvy seasonnaires. Not to mention the occasional billionaire.

She heard it grew pretty steamy in the small hours. Not that she was planning on sticking around to see. No way was she dancing on a table.

A throbbing tension headache pulsated against her temples.

What the frick am I doing here?

Enduring ritual humiliation in return for the ten free shots her team would get if she whipped off her bra was hardly her idea of a good night out.

‘Off, off, off.’

Her heart performed a neat back flip down to the soles of her boots.

Come on Holly, work it! You can do it
.

‘Off, off, off.’

She took a deep breath and stepped forward. It wasn't as if she even wanted the blasted drinks but failure was not an option. Fitting in was going to be difficult. Her wavy auburn hair contrasted with the straight, identikit caramel locks of the other chalet girls and a glimpse in the mirror confirmed she was paler than an anemic ghost beside their healthy tans. She'd packed for winter, not clubbing, and her cheap cashmere sweater clashed with the other chalet girls' strappy, sparkly tops that defied the sub-zero temperatures outside.

‘Off, off, off,’ the chanting grew louder and more impatient.

I hate, hate, hate this…

She slid one hand up underneath her jumper, giving silent thanks to veteran chalet girl Sophie who'd warned her about the initiation. It’d given her time to come up with a miraculous idea. An idea that had to work because no way was she doing this for real.

‘Off … Off … Off…’

‘Okay, okay. Give me a sec.’ She hoped she sounded breezy, fun … 

Fun.

If she heard that word once more she swore she'd walk out into the snow and pray for an avalanche.

‘It's a girl's prerogative to take her time,’ she said her line, attempting a false flirty smile while she pretended to be fiddling with her bra straps. Face burning with embarrassment, she pulled out the second bra she’d secreted inside the sweater before she left the chalet. A barman then snatched it out of her hands and hooked the strap over a nail on the beam. Raucous cheers were mixed with muttered complaints she hadn't flashed the crowd.

As if!

Sophie emerged from the scrum at the bar, her tanned face lit up with an enormous grin. She handed a shot glass to Holly. ‘A toast to you Holly. You're officially one of us.’

Holly smiled and took the glass, even though she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stomach it. At least the ordeal was over. The alcohol burned her throat and comforting warmth spread through her chest as she gazed around the bar at the spectators she hadn’t dared to make eye contact with so far.

The bar was packed with seasonnaires - chalet girls and ski or snowboard instructors starting the winter season as they meant to continue. Holly wished for the umpteenth time, with a gut-churning wrench, that her flatmate Pippa were here. This job had been all her idea when last winter's dreary London drizzle had seemed unending. She'd chosen the resort because an online review had voted it ‘best resort for anyone looking to marry rich’. Pippa's eyes lit up as she read aloud to Holly tales of £5,000-a-pop cocktails and the celebs and royalty who graced the resort, landing at the nearby airfield in their private jets.

How ironic that Pippa had fallen in love with penniless mechanic Steve, fallen pregnant and moved him into their rented flat in Wimbledon, leaving Holly with the option of taking the Verbier job as planned or going back home. At this very moment her room in the flat was being converted into a nursery.

Going back home was not an option. Getting a peek into the world of the rich and famous seemed an enticing prospect, like stepping into the pages of a magazine. Not that she could spot anyone famous tonight. Although…

Her eyes came to an abrupt halt as they met the interested gaze of a man with broad, rugby player shoulders and the confident stance of someone completely at ease with himself. He stood head and shoulders above some of the young ski instructors at his side. He was easily handsome enough to be an actor but his dark hair was too mussed and his face too weathered for someone who cared overly about his looks.

Minor royalty perhaps? Or maybe a Russian oligarch? He certainly had the arrogance of one. He stared at her unashamedly, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. Looking up at the latest addition to the bras swinging from the beam overhead he raised an eyebrow.

‘Not yours,’ he mouthed, a crinkle of a smile stretching across a tanned face shadowed by evening stubble.

Oh really? Who did this smart-alec think he was? He might act like a prince but most likely he was just a ski-slob instructor looking to make her another notch on his ski pole.

Emboldened by adrenaline from her 'initiation' and the heady warmth radiating though her body from the Schnapps, she negotiated the crowded bar to get to him.

She couldn't let him mouth off about her not doing the initiation properly. What if they made her do it again? For real next time? She had to shut him up.

‘Hi, I'm Holly,’ she introduced herself coolly, mimicking his raised eyebrows. ‘Who are you?’

Perhaps the ice in her voice would cool his over-familiarity?

‘Scott.’ He surprised her by offering his hand to shake, an oddly formal gesture for his jeans and T-shirt, laid back vibe. Instinctively she took it, his warm hand engulfing hers, clasping it for slightly longer than necessary.

Nice hands.

Involuntarily she found her gaze lingering on his toned physique. Her frostiness hadn’t brought the temperature down one iota and her icy attitude lay in a puddle around her feet. A strange prickle tickled her skin, not embarrassment this time but something even more unwelcome - desire.

I'm supposed to be confronting him, not offering myself on a plate!

Hastily stealing her hand back, she vowed to resist his charm and chemistry, all six foot two inches of it.

Who was this man? Given he was fit and bronzed by sun and wind, he should have blended easily into the crowd. Yet something about the confident way he held himself and his effortless self-possession set him apart.

‘I guess this isn’t your first season in Verbier, Scott?’ She tried to keep her tone neutral, to ignore the buzz of anticipation building inside her. Her body registered the off the scale attraction, desire tugging at her mind for attention.

Could I? Maybe?

Everywhere in the crowd couples were discreetly, or not so discreetly, pairing off. This was too quick though. She couldn’t just hook up with the first gorgeous guy she met. She knew nothing about him.

I don’t do this kind of thing
.

Scott stared at her with interested amusement, as though reading her mind. Her cheeks grew hot. She was aware, too aware of the warmth of his body temptingly close to her and the faintest hint of Armani Mania, her favourite aftershave. Time to make an exit. Armani Mania was worse than cocktails for appealing to her most primal instincts.

‘It's not exactly my first season, no,’ Scott answered her, still staring with naked curiosity. Like he was trying to solve a complex puzzle. The corners of his lips twitched with ill concealed humour.

Holly folded her arms over her chest; instinctively aware she'd made a faux pas. Heat spread from her cheeks to her neck. She hated looking stupid. Possibly as much as she loathed crowds of people watching her take her underwear off in public.

‘Hey!’ Sophie bumped into her back in the crush. She rested a hand on Holly's shoulder and whispered into her ear, her breath reeking of schnapps. ‘He's our boss you muppet! Lay off the seduction routine, he hates it, won't sleep with the staff…unfortunately.’

Was it Holly's imagination or had the chatter in the bar quietened at that very moment? It always seemed to when you didn't want someone to hear, it was one of those immutable laws like toast landing butter side down.

Scott's eyes gleamed, they really did look black. Although on closer inspection his irises contained flecks of dark brown, a deep cafe noir. His lips twitched again as he suppressed a smile. He'd heard every word.

‘I'm not, I wasn’t…’ she muttered, shooting a furious glance at Sophie who raised her eyebrows and disappeared back into the crowd.

Oh great. Fan-bloody-tastic!

‘Nice to meet you, Mr. Hamilton.’ She bit back her surprise that he was the owner of Luxury Chalet Experiences. He was …different to how she'd imagined. Much more of an athlete than a suit.

‘It's okay. You can call me Scott.’ He grinned and Holly felt unwittingly caught up in his smile, like a fly in a spider's web. She bathed in the warmth of it, transfixed. Her gaze travelled over his long, muscled limbs. He must be really fit … 

Stop this at once Holly!

Mentally she shook her head, hoping to break his spell.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ He gestured towards her glass.

‘I've already got one.’ She clutched the shot glass to her chest, trying to conceal the fact it was empty.

Why did people always try to force alcohol on you? She'd never get how losing control was equated with having a good time. Holly never got drunk. Mum had cured her of any desire to have one drink too many.

‘Ah yes, the Schnapps was your reward for the 'performance' you put on tonight. I didn't realise I paid my staff so little they had to strip to make an extra buck.’

Taken aback, she narrowed her eyes, seething and biting back the retort that après-ski activities had certainly not been specified in her job description.

Being leered at by a group of trust fund ski bums wasn’t her life’s ambition. She was here to see Switzerland, to learn to ski, to maybe have an adventure… She didn't know what sort of adventure but it certainly wouldn't involve getting legless in a bar adorned with girls' underwear.

She shrugged, wishing a witty retort would come to mind. She’d think of it later tonight no doubt but for now her mind was peculiarly absent, still ruminating on the long denim-clad legs and strong arms. Not to mention that gorgeous whiff of Armani Mania playing havoc with her senses.

Get real, Holly.

‘Just kidding.’ His mouth widened into another grin. ‘I don't mind my staff having fun, as long as their hangovers don't keep them from making the breakfasts first thing in the morning. And you were certainly playing to the audience.’

What was that supposed to mean? She crossed her arms over her chest. Fun! Huh. Now where was an avalanche when you needed one?

After a five am start this morning to get to Luton airport in time for her flight to Geneva she really could be doing without this. The familiar signs of growing drunkenness around her increased her discomfort.

Gorgeous or not she wanted out of here.

Oh to escape to bed and pull the duvet up over her head away from prying eyes. She wondered how he'd known it wasn’t her real bra. She glanced involuntarily up at the plain white bra dangling from the beam. Scott caught her eye and winked.

‘I think I'll go back to the chalet. I've got a call to make and I was planning on an early night.’ She spoke to the floorboards, heat flooding her cheeks. It would be a relief to get outside in the cold night air.

‘Good plan. You’ve a seven am start tomorrow morning to help get Chalet Repos ready for the new guests.’

She had to get out of here before she embarrassed herself even more.

‘I'll, err, make that call.’ She hurriedly fished her iPhone out of her jeans pocket. ‘I'm going to head off now, the signal here's rubbish.’

‘I'll come with you.’ He took her empty glass from her and placed it on a table. ‘I've got some paperwork to do. And we need to sort your ski-pass. Sorry I wasn't around earlier but driving back from Italy was hellish - the passes were shut because of this early snowfall so I had to drive the long way round. But Sophie looked after you, right?’

Disconcerted, Holly had no choice but to let him join her. She felt in the wrong, a sulky teenager being handled patiently by the teacher.

‘Yes, she was really helpful,’ she said, staring down at her boots while he pulled his jacket on. She should be summoning a party girl smile and exuding some of that ‘can-do’ attitude she'd performed so well at the agency interview back in London. Heck, she’d even convinced herself at the time!

She ignored Sophie's smirk as they left the bar together, their footsteps crunching into the crisp, compacted snow. A new layer of powdery snow had fallen since she’d arrived at the Wonderbar. The reflected moonlight sparkled like diamonds on the snow's surface.

It was quiet, positively serene. A polar opposite to the bar. She couldn't deny the resort was beautiful. Really she should make the most of it, stop being stroppy. She'd chosen to come here after all.

‘Who are you ringing?

In the silent, deserted street Scott's voice felt intimate. His breath evaporated on the freezing air. Holly looked down at the snow, flummoxed. ‘I have to ring a friend, my flatmate Pippa. She was supposed to be here with me but she…um got pregnant.’

Great Holly, way to make an impression!

‘You were happy to come on your own though?’

Hot, unexpected tears burned at the back of her eyes. She blinked them back, feeling the muscles in her neck tensing. She shrugged. ‘Sure. Why not? It’ll be an experience.’

‘You don’t mind being away from your family for Christmas and New Year?’

‘No,’ she said, ignoring the urge to tell him the truth about why she’d been so keen to come here. The idea of going home for Christmas was so unpalatable she’d have gone to a Siberian work camp if it had been the only option on offer.