Before him, Winter Cohen had everything - family, freedom and a future. She had dreams and aspirations of being an artist. To have her own gallery, to be a name people remember.
Then he came along, taking everything.
Roman Cross is a monster. A cold...
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Aspen, Colorado
His eyes, she felt it on her back from moment she walked into the Ski Lodge. A burning gaze that drinks her in from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.
The warmth of the heater in the main foyer doesn't even compare to the way his gaze heats her body.
Curious, Winter pivots slightly towards it and her eyes suddenly widens when she meets a pair of hazel irises. His eyes are like a pool of honey and amber hues with speckles of emerald. They are warm and inviting that her body slowly gravitates towards him.
She stands still, rooted in place, and the entire room seems to go silent. She could hear nothing but her own rapid heartbeat and shallow breathes.
Those hazel eyes belonged to the most manly gentleman she ever laid eyes on. He's rugged with dark hair, clipped short, and well kept facial hair on a defined jawline. Her own eyes trace his features from his lips which sits in a firm line to his crooked nose, the fine lines around his eyes and forehead.
He's way too old for her, she realises. Though, it seems he doesn't because his gaze lingers on her; leaving her skin flush under the intensity. She should turn away and take the high road because there would be nothing but trouble.
Yet, she couldn't walk away. Winter holds his gaze, a look that made her feel like the only woman in the room.
Then he stands, his height and structure making the lodge feel tiny. He's so big that Winter steps back just to take him in. He's at least six foot six, a whole foot and a bit taller than her. Wide shoulders, arms as big as tree trunks and legs that strain tightly against his dress pants. He looks the part of an affluent family member in a Hermes three piece suit in grey and brown plaid, a thick trench coat that kept him warm in the Aspen winter and black gloves that covered his large hands. A red cashmere scarf dangles around his neck.
He walks over and the room seems to part for him. His stride is that of power and authority. She's never seen a man command a room the way he does. When she notices he was making a beeline towards where she stood, Winter spins on her heels and fusses around the hot cocoa table. A blush creeps up her neck, staining her skin maroon, from the embarrassment of being caught staring.
It doesn't take long to feel his warmth against her back. It envelopes her body in a tight hug. She imagine those thick arms holding her against him, keeping her warm during these cold nights. Winter shakes her head - it should feel like an invasion of her personal space but it doesn't. What is wrong with her? Fantasising about it man she didn't even know. How couldn't she when all the women in this room are drooling over him too?
Winter ignores his presence and pours herself an eggnog hot cocoa. Then long arms stretches out grabbing a red paper cup where she catches a glimpse of the thick veins on his wrist.
