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"Four 1/2 Stars! Winter Thaw is a quick read that you won't want to put down. I can't wait to read more from Jaide Fox. If historical are your delight this is a must read. If not, Winter Thaw would be a great one to start with." Timeless Tales
"I thoroughly enjoyed this story. I've read other books by Ms. Fox but this is my favorite. I thought the characterization was really good and the dialogue sparkled." Sensual Romance Reviews
"Four Stars! Winter Thaw is the story of a man who believes that the woman of his dreams exists under layers of spoiled society lady. His desperate plan to uncover that woman is a treat to watch unfold. Winter's emergence is well told and a testament to the fact that you must be true to yourself and the difficulties of doing that. This story has all the aspects of a keeper book. It has very sensual love scenes. A heroine that is independent and determined to make her hero work for what he wants, and an Alpha male hero, who will stop at nothing to make the lady his own forever. This is a one sitting type of book, so have your cup full and a comfortable place to read Winter Thaw." Brenda Edde, Timeless Tales Reviews
“Four Stars! WINTER THAW is a very nicely written book of the historical genre. Although not as hot as some books, it will have you squirming in your seat. Ms. Fox does a great job of showing these two very stubborn people coming to the realization that they love each other.” Oleta M Blaylock, Just Erotic Romance Reviews
"WINTER THAW explores quite a bit. There is a lot of sexual tension between Logan and Winter. But, what's more, it is the past that the two of them are reluctant to deal with. The emotionalism of this book counters very well with the sexual chemistry that Logan and Winter share. I look forward to Ms. Fox's next release, as she's proved with WINTER THAW, she will always keep me interested." In the Library Reviews
"Four Roses! Ms. Fox has created a story that will draw you in from the beginning. She gives us a story that blends old hurts, misgivings, an adventure or two, and an unthawing so to speak. After reading Winter Thaw, I will pick up her next historical book." Pam Clifton, A Romance Review
"Four Hearts!...let me just say that Winter Thaw by Jaide Fox is HOT! She has taken a very proper period of time and made it wonderfully naughty. Jaide's highly arousing descriptions and unique writing style make this a great read. I highly recommend Winter Thaw if you want to feel a little naughty and nice at the same time. Good job Jaide!" The Romance Studio
"Winter Thaw is a good read. Logan in all his cockiness is exciting and he entices the reader to learn more about him. Winter is strong willed but still green in so many ways when it comes to a relationship between a man and woman. Once they get past their differences the passion ignites." Love Romances Reviews
WINTER THAW
by
Jaide Fox
(c) copyright Jaide Fox, March 2003
New Concepts Publishing
Cover art by Eliza Black, March 2003
4729 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
CHAPTER ONE
Alexandria, Virginia 1821
Winter Stevens gasped as Vincent Giovanni unveiled his creation to her at long last, whipping the cover cloth to the side with a flourish that threw a fine mist of dust into the air. The air born particles drifted through the beam of sunlight that poured through the open window, shining on the painting like a spotlight.
Looking upon it, Winter felt a bolt of shock akin to lightening pass through her body. As if she’d suddenly been transformed into petrified wood, Winter found she could not move, could not blink, could not even breathe.
It was a monstrosity.
“I call it The Ice Princess,” Mr. Giovanni said proudly, apparently pleased with Winter’s reaction. He seemed to be laboring under the assumption that she was stunned speechless with admiration.
Thaw set in. For a moment, Winter felt herself hovering between a faint and violent illness. Her stomach clenched in a painful knot as she continued to gape wide-eyed at the painting, backing slowly away in disbelief until she bumped into a chair and collapsed into it. She wanted to cover her eyes, but she was powerless to look away.
Blissfully unaware of her initial, and subsequent, reaction, Giovanni remained engrossed for some moments in studying his latest masterpiece.
Winter took a deep breath, attempting calm, fighting down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She would not by ruled by her emotions, least of all by stark terror. She swallowed, trying to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. She realized after a moment that her tongue felt swollen and uncooperative for the simple reason that her mouth had gone dry as dust. She swallowed convulsively, several times, and managed to gather a little moisture into her mouth. “Mr. Giovanni, why have you ... what happened to my ... why has my portrait been composed as a nude?” she managed faintly.
His accent was heavy, but his English was flawless. She knew she couldn’t have misunderstood his intentions when he’d sought her out as a model. She’d been so thrilled, so defiant of her mother’s stern admonition that she could not, under any circumstances, pose for the brilliant artist. He had never mentioned anything of this sort, nor could she reconcile the genteel old man with any deviousness of character. Why then, had he done this?
She had not—definitely NOT posed for him without her clothes! And yet, the painting depicted a woman completely without shame, lounging in a pile of dark, supple furs, clothed only in her hair. Crystalline walls protected her from the harsh, beautiful winter raging outside. There was such exquisite detail in her face and form—no one would believe that she’d been wearing her best walking dress as she’d posed for him. No one would believe that this ... this monstrosity was the result of nothing more than the man’s vivid imagination ... no one would doubt that she had posed nude for him.
He nodded, so engrossed in his admiration of his handiwork it was obvious he had not heard one word out of three. “Nude, yes! Is it not perfection? Is it not exquisite? At first I was doubtful, but I do not regret that I allowed myself to be persuaded ... I believe you are one of my best subjects. In truth, your unusual coloring intrigued me from the beginning. I may like to paint you again someday.” He thought about it a moment. “Though in a different setting, of course.”
Winter nearly strangled on her incredulity. Was the man mad? She would never do something like this again if she managed to recover. Why would he think she would ever sit for him again?
Scandal. The foul word clung to her thoughts like a stench. It was the only thing her mind could wholly grasp. She deeply regretted going against her mother’s wishes now, for deceiving her mother into believing these past weeks that she’d been going to the park with her friend, Sarah. In truth, she had no friend named Sarah.
When she thought back on the lengths she had gone to, only to find ruination!
Her mother must never find out. She’d had far too much heartache in her lifetime to weather her daughter’s deceit and ruination. It wouldn’t matter that she was an innocent still. Never mind that Vincent Giovanni was at least thirty years her senior, no one would believe they hadn’t been lovers after viewing his painting of her. It reeked of intimacy.
Her stomach heaved. She clamped a hand to her lips, placing her other hand protectively over her stomach, soothing the ulcer she could already imagine forming.
Her thoughts were chaotic in her desperation to find a way out of the mess she’d gotten herself in to. Abruptly, a solution presented itself, uplifting her spirits. All was not lost! It wasn’t too late. She could destroy the portrait before anyone else saw it. Once she pried it away from him, she would burn it in private with none the wiser. “Thank you, Mr. Giovanni. It is beautiful. Now, for payment—”
“It has already been taken care of, Miss Stevens.” He faced her, smiling.
Hope soared, but she tamped it down to reality. He’d worked long on this project, she couldn’t allow him to simply give it to her, even if it was what she wanted. “No, I cannot allow you to give me such a gift.” Years of pride dictated she not accept charity, nor could she allow him to go unpaid even if she’d been inclined to accept charity. It was unfortunate she had not had the foresight to stow away more of her meager allowance. If she hadn’t had to pay for conveyance to his studio.... That was over and done now and could not be helped. She had saved what she could. It would have to be enough.
He chuckled then and covered the painting once more.
She was grateful. It was unnerving to see herself so depicted. His amusement, however, confused her. Questions burned her tongue for want of asking, but, from his attitude, she felt he was building to some revelation. She could feel trouble brewing like a storm about to erupt.
Finally, he settled himself down behind his desk, devoting his full attention to her.
“The Ice Princess was a commissioned piece of work. You were requested specifically as the model. I had no choice but to seek you out and invite you to sit for me. It was fortunate for us both that you agreed.”
Dear god! Winter shook her head, trying to make sense of his speech. Someone had PAID the man to destroy her? Someone had specifically requested her, had plotted to ruin her by commissioning a nude of her? She’d never suspected something so vile ... not even in her nightmares.
An ache began pounding behind her eyes. She was ruined. She had ruined her family—her mother’s good name. It was all they’d had left and now they would not even have that much because of her willful disregard for her mother’s warnings. How could she have been such a vain fool?
“Who commissioned this ... this...?” Atrocity. If someone had deliberately set out to ruin them, she had to know who it was. And why. She could think of no reason for hatching such a plot. What could they possibly hope to gain by defiling her family name and destroying her reputation?
Blackmail?
She shook the thought off. That was absurd. It was common knowledge that they had no money to pay.
“I am afraid I can’t divulge that information.” He steepled his hands, his face gone serious as he studied her, eyes strangely saddened.
Winter felt that he wanted to tell her the truth, but something, or someone, prevented it. What person could have such a hold? Only one with power and riches—enough to crush anyone in their path. Enough to crush her. She prayed that she was wrong in her fears.
“Mr. Giovanni....” She paused, working up the courage to beg. “Whoever it is, you must not allow him to take it, Mr. Giovanni. I’ll be ruined, my family shamed,” she pleaded, knowing it was useless. Mr. Giovanni could not have failed to realize what the portrait meant ... ultimate disgrace. For whatever reason, he was under the conspirator’s power and could not help her now even if he had wanted to. His next words confirmed her worst fears.
“I have no choice. But, you need not worry. He assured me it was for a private collection. He gave me his word of honor, or I would not have agreed under any circumstances.”
“His word?” Winter echoed faintly, wondering a little wildly if Mr. Giovanni was feeble minded. What good was the word of honor of a blackmailer? A defiler of a young woman’s reputation? The urge to laugh was almost insurmountable, and she knew hysteria threatened. She was not such a beauty as to make someone desire a portrait of her, in innocence. This person meant to plot her ruin. And had paid handsomely for it. Winter and her mother had only a modest income. She knew without being told Giovanni had been well compensated, and she couldn’t blame him for succumbing to the needs of his purse. Would that she could earn some sort of income for her own family.... She would have never been placed in this predicament, never been so powerless.
Still, she could not simply allow this collector to have the painting. She would find out the man’s name, somehow, and appeal to his sense of honor and propriety ... if it was even possible—beg—threaten—whatever it took.
Winter shook herself. She could not let doubt creep into her now. She had to believe she would succeed. Tomorrow, she would return with a clear head and try to wheedle the information she needed from Giovanni.
With that thought bolstering her, Winter rose from her seat and shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Giovanni. It has been an ... enlightening experience.” If she never saw him again, it would be too soon. Vile deceiver.
It made her ill even to think what lengths she would have to go to to pry the information from the man.
She collected her cloak from the rack as a servant was summoned to see her out. Silently, he escorted her through the halls to the front entrance, though she needed no assistance, familiar as she’d become with Giovanni’s studio. She moved woodenly, her thoughts chaotic with plans as she exited the house and followed the walkway to the street.
Frigid wind howled and gusted, tearing her hair loose from her chignon to blow in the wind, tangling over her face as she walked. She clutched her worn cloak tight to her chest, watching the ground as she moved, avoiding the sheen of ice that treacherously coated the worn brickwork. She blew away the thick tendrils of hair obscuring her vision, but it wasn’t until she had run into him that she noticed the man headed for Giovanni’s studio.
He caught her as she stumbled into him, his strong hands gripping her silk encased arms, steadying her, his long, tapered fingers trapping locks of her pale hair that twined about his digits as if with a life of their own. Something about him struck her as familiar, his pleasant scent teasing her nostrils with their intimate proximity as she leaned into the broad shield of his body and recovered her balance on the slick cobblestone.
“Excuse me,” she mumbled, curiosity prompting her to peer up into his down turned face as he towered above her. She found herself gazing into a familiar pair of dark eyes, filled with mocking amusement. Shocked recognition made the breath freeze in her lungs. Her mind screamed the warning to run, but she found her legs had turned to jelly and could not obey.
Winter jerked from his grasp as though scorched by a heated iron.
He smiled darkly, his black cape and thick, midnight hair fluttering around him as a gust of wind swept between them. Surrounded by movement and immediacy, he seemed to retain a sense of stillness as he watched her, almost anticipatory of what she would do next. As though he wished she would run so that he could pursue her.
It was him. The man who’d haunted her conscience and her dreams with guilt for a year after she’d first known him. A man she had completely forgotten in the ensuing tragedy she’d suffered with her father’s death. Or at least, she’d told herself she’d forgotten him.
His name whispered in her mind like a curse and a caress.
Logan Cordell.
This man ... she’d wished never to see him again. His very name filled her with a deep shame at what she’d allowed to happen. It had been years since she’d seen him, not since she’d been a green girl on her first season. She’d been no more than eighteen at the time, and it seemed a lifetime ago. Despite the passage of time, however, she saw that every sensuous nuance of his face and form were the same.
She blinked away the memories, studying him now and realized that she had been wrong. He had changed over the years. His eyes no longer laughed, they mocked. The laugh lines around his mouth that she had once found so intriguing crinkled now in derisive amusement. The charming rogue had vanished. In his place was a man who had hardened, and she wondered with horror if she’d been the cause.
But he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in England, settling his estranged father’s affairs ... and living out his life there to the end of his days.
His presence here confirmed just how dire her situation was. She knew immediately who had commissioned the nude portrait—understood the irony of the painting’s theme. It could be the only reason why he would come to Giovanni’s residence.
A sickening certainty engulfed her, bringing with it raging emotions she could scarcely recognize as belonging to herself. With an effort, she controlled the urge to yield to them just as she’d always done—and always would.
“We meet again, Miss Stevens.” His voice rolled over her like black velvet, vibrating with intensity, seductive and warm as it had ever been in her memories. He took her hand where it hung limply by her side and pressed his lips to the back of it, the heat of his breath warming her hand through the silken lace. She could almost feel the soft texture of his mouth and the rough shadow of whiskers through her thin gloves, little barrier to the sensual assault he bore against her mind.
Every impulse urged her to snatch her hand away, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. He’d merely unsettled her, no more. She felt nothing for him now but an intense need to see him strung up by his thumbs. She had not been dubbed an ice princess by him without good cause. “Good day to you, Mr. Cordell,” she said with practiced calm as she withdrew her hand from his.
“What brings you to our mutual friend, Mr. Giovanni?” he asked, all innocence.
As if he didn’t know. Her temple pounded again, the headache coming back in full force with the struggle to maintain her facade.
He watched her with dark eyes, a half smile teasing the corner of his lips, as though he knew she’d discovered his mischief and thought to gain a rise out of her on the spot.
What she wanted to do was slap his smug face clean off. Her palm itched with pure need, but she remembered another time and place when she’d given in to her impulses. Had she retained better control then, she would not be in this situation now. Far better to rage inside than give in to her dangerous urges. “I was merely settling some private affairs,” she said through a forced smile, her face feeling as though it would crack under the strain.
“I’m sure.” His voice held the allure of intimate knowledge—a secret shared between them.
If she were not a lady ... she would slap him. She was already beginning to feel sorry she hadn’t. Instead, she said, “I had not heard you patronized Mr. Giovanni, nor that you had returned to town.”
“My interests would no doubt surprise you.” He paused and raked a hand through his unfashionably long hair curling in the wind. “As it happens, not all men of my profession are boorish oafs. I consider myself a patron of the arts.”
Winter thought she was going to be sick at the reminder. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be going.” She turned to go, but he blocked her escape with a hand on her upper arm—as if he had a right to touch her as he willed, that some permission had been granted him. She pulled loose from his hand and regarded him coldly.
“Do you require an escort? It has been long since I was in the city, but I am certain unmarried women of genteel breeding do not wander its streets alone.”
She recognized sarcasm when she heard it. Dare he suggest her actions at fault, when his own were so odious? “Thank you, no. I’ve arranged for someone to come.”
“Very well then. Perhaps you will allow me to call on you some time.”
Her lips tightened. “Friends are always welcome visitors,” she said snidely, hoping he was not too dense to perceive the obvious. He had never been a friend and was certainly not one now.
He bowed and left her as a coach pulled up on the street.
The skin on her neck prickled, and she could swear he watched her as she entered the coach to leave, but she did not look back to confirm her suspicions. She had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of knowing how much he unsettled her.
* * * *
From the window of Giovanni’s studio, Logan watched Winter’s carriage as it disappeared from sight, his mood pensive.
“My Lord, you are not pleased with the painting?” Worry tinged Giovanni’s voice.
Logan did not turn, continuing to stare out the window. “On the contrary, I could not be more pleased with the results,” he said pensively. He rubbed a thumb along his whisker roughened chin absently, his thoughts upon the subject of the painting and their late skirmish.
The painting, as exquisite and revealing as it was, could never compare to Winter. It depicted the beauty of her face and figure, but it portrayed no more than a pretty shell. It could not capture her life’s essence—so palpable he could feel it when she was near.
And yet, he had not lied. He was most pleased with the results, for he had seen in her eyes that she knew the hunter had come for her and she had found herself trapped in his snare.
The painting would be equal torment to them both—for he found it only served to heighten his hunger to possess her, to see her naked and wanting, writhing with passion beneath him. It spurred his impatience to break through that chill exterior she had cultivated so carefully to find the vibrant woman she hid.
She was just as he’d remembered, just as forbidden, just as tempting to touch.
Every memory of her, every secret longing he’d buried deep inside over the years pushed back into his consciousness, to be relived with painful intensity. He should not have come back. His father had been right in that at least, but, despite the years and miles that separated them, he’d found he could not forget her. And finally he had known that he would have no peace unless he sought her out, finished what they’d begun.
She had tormented him in her innocence, still did.
The smell of her hair drove him to distraction; her regal poise and cool stare; the seductive huskiness of her voice, tinged with the lure of the South.... He’d spent countless waking nights imagining what he would do when he met her again, what he would do when she was within his grasp....
It was madness to have come, insanity to have set his plot in motion. Or, if not, then he would surely be driven to madness before he accomplished his goal, and he hadn’t yet tasted her hidden delights. Her disdain, the sharp intelligence she possessed that cut to the quick might well be the death of him, for it had led him to this lunacy.
And yet he had no reservations regarding the course he had chosen for himself. He knew a wildcat lay just beneath her prim, icy surface, waiting for him to free her from her self-imposed prison. That promise drew him to her as surely as dying man to water.
The question was, would he come out unscathed, as he always had?
It seemed unlikely, and yet that in itself was a part of the challenge, to have his revenge and come out unscathed, as he had not before. But he also knew that Winter was a woman of hidden passion, that could draw him in and slay him with his own sword. A man could spend a lifetime trying to unlock her secrets. He relished the challenge of facing a foe his equal, when winning would be such sweet reward....
* * * *
Winter was nearly home when she realized she had done nothing more during the entire return trip than stare blankly into space while the images of her meeting with Logan Cordell replayed itself over and over in her mind. Each time it did, she thought of something far more clever that she could have said to set him back on his heels. By the time she became aware of her surroundings once more, she’d had him groveling at her feet, begging her forgiveness and offering up the painting, which she had promptly ripped to shreds—and still withheld her forgiveness.
Reality set in at last. She had been blindsided and she had done little more than stare at him with the frightened eyes of a rabbit caught in a snare, stammer and shake with fear. She seethed with anger, but fear reared its ugly face once more, undermining her righteous anger, which should have given her strength.
Winter could only wonder when Logan Cordell would strike again. She could scarcely bear thinking on it, for each time she did it heightened her anxieties to the point that panic set in, but she knew she would have to try to prepare for any eventuality. Perhaps nothing would come of it after all, she thought hopefully, and she was worrying herself needlessly.
The lie did nothing to ease her fears. As foolhardy as she knew it must be to act hastily, she was fairly certain that her nerves could not withstand the wiser course, to wait and see. She must think of something. She couldn’t help feeling that her situation could only worsen if she did nothing. But what could she do?
On reaching home, she was greeted by her mother before she’d gotten fully inside and removed her cloak.
Excited and breathless, her mother clasped her hands agitatedly. “Winter, you will not believe the news I have heard this day! Come, sit in the parlor with me. I must tell you at once.”
Winter couldn’t imagine what her mother could have heard to discompose her so. They never had visitors. Whatever friends they’d had before had disappeared in direct proportion with the money the debt collectors had accumulated from her father’s accounts after his death.
Naturally enough, her first thought was that her mother had somehow heard about the painting, and she thought for several moments that she might faint. Fortunately her sense of guilt and fear had not totally deprived her of her wits and she realized that her mother actually seemed excited by her news, not hysterical.
She was able to regain a measure of composure as she hung her cloak up by the door before following her mother. They entered the small room they referred to as the parlor and settled themselves near the iron brazier, the glowing coals banishing the unseasonable chill they had never grown accustomed to even though they’d lived here for the past eleven years. At times, she sorely missed Savannah’s warmth.
“Do you remember that gentleman from a few years back who wished to call on you—Mr. Cordell?” Mrs. Abigail Stevens asked excitedly of her daughter.
Winter nodded, unable to speak. Had he already set the next step of his plan to ruin them in motion? Had her mother discovered what her only daughter had been about?
“Your father thought him an unworthy suitor and you gave him the cut-direct, as any obedient daughter would have. I confess, he did not seem low bred to me, as your father accused. I worried that we would suffer repercussions from your father’s actions, but naught came of it, and I never gave it another thought.” She paused for effect, and Winter gritted her teeth in suspense, maintaining her ladylike facade of cool interest with a supreme effort. “As it happens, and I hate to admit this, but your father was wrong in his thinking.”
Winter stared at her mother blankly for several moments before she could think of the response she knew her more was waiting for to continue. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mama.” Where was her mother going with this?
Abigail Stevens patted her daughter’s hand. “Forgive me. I’m rambling, I know, and keeping you in suspense. It has just shocked me so much. To think we have an English lord in our midst! For it transpires that that is exactly what your Mr. Cordell is, my dear! A lord! Your father never trusted the English after the war, you know. I suppose he must have thought Mr. Cordell a spy, even though the war had been over so long.”
Winter felt her jaw drop. Resolutely, she snapped it back in place. “No. No, it cannot be true. Someone has played you false, Mama!”
“I would have thought so, too, my dear. But Mrs. Moxley has always given me sound information. ‘Twas she who called today. Apparently, when Mr. Cordell was in England settling his father’s affairs, he was also being instated as the new Earl of Remington.”
Blood rushed to Winter’s head as her pulse raced, sickening her with dread. She had wronged Logan Cordell, and all because of a prejudice instilled upon her by her father.
No, she thought, striving for honesty, the fault could not be laid entirely on her father’s doorstep. She had accepted his judgment unquestioningly. She was just as guilty for her part. Her predisposition toward recklessness lay at the root of most of her problems—it was why she always strove so hard to be the perfect lady.
Yet time and again, she failed.
Winter worried her lip, listening vaguely to her mother as she babbled happily about the prospect of having an English lord among them, too caught up in her own private drama to manage more than token responses.
It was too late even to consider tendering her apologies. He would see any attempt to do so as nothing more than a play to gain his sympathy now that she had placed his means of revenge in the palm of his hand. That he would exact a measure of justice from her for her part in his humiliation, she had no doubt. The question was, when?
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