Summary: Gin is fire… glowing, vibrant and full of life.

Harry Potter is ice… cool, distant and difficult to reach.

Harry knows that Gin is the last woman he would fall for. After all, apart from her beautiful eyes, what else does she have going for her? For her part, Gin hates the handsome man who has destroyed everything that made her happy. Then fate intervenes and Harry finds himself fathoms deep in love with the mysterious Ginevra Raven, but Ginevra seems to be the only woman who is immune to the irresistible Potter charm…

Chapter 24

"I think I prefer you with a yellow nose."

"What?" Hermione spun round, paint roller in one hand, eyes wide. She was wearing a pair of denim dungarees over a plain white T-shirt, her hair was caught up in a tiny ponytail. She had paint all over her nose. Ron had never seen her look more beautiful.

"Your yellow nose. I like it."

"Oh, wonderful," she grumbled, her eyes twinkling. "Perhaps I'll start a whole new fashion trend."

Ron cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps green would go better with that outfit you're wearing. What do you think O setter of trends?"

"I think you'd better get on with your half of the wall, or I'll be finished first. Then what will you do?"

"Go away and sulk, probably. Either that, or take the roller off you and ravish you in a corner."

"Oh. Well, that's all right then," she said and turned back to the wall. It was, Hermione thought with a smile, strangely satisfying to decorate an apartment. When she'd first seen the place a week before, she'd been angry. It seemed so unfair that he had to live like this, when she could give him so much more. But she knew better than to offer to buy him a bigger place. Besides, he'd genuinely wanted her artistic input on how to do the place up. It was the first time anyone had ever asked her for help before. From that moment on, Project Apartment had taken control.

The walls had needed to be stripped and sandpapered, and the skirting boards done. The floorboards, they both agreed, would look wonderful polished. Hermione, who'd never done a single day's physical labour in her life, found herself at ten o' clock most nights on her hands and knees, scrubbing floorboards. If her father had been able to see her, no doubt he'd have kneeled over in shock. She chipped nails, her knees ached, her back ached, her neck ached and as for her arms…

Of course, none of it had mattered, just as it didn't matter now that she had a prim-rose yellow nose. Ron was right there with her, complaining that his neck, back and arms ached more than hers did. It didn't matter because every night. After the work was done, they'd sit up on the two beanbags she'd bought, that were the flats only furniture, and share coffee out of the one single mug they had, and talk and laugh and hold hands and kiss until midnight. Hermione couldn't remember being happier. Broken nails notwithstanding.

"There. Finished," Ron's voice cut across her reverie and she looked over, a chagrined frown crossing her smooth, dark brows. She glanced at his smooth still wet and shining expanse of wall and almost growled.

"You must have cheated."

"Rubbish," he said crisply. He threw his dark, wonderfully handsome head back. "You're just a sore loser, that's all."

"Do you want to have a pint of paint thrown at you?"

"See. Sore loser," he grinned, then, when she turned to round on him, he laughed, hands held out in a gesture of appeasement. "OK. O. I'll make us some coffee. Perhaps the caffeine will calm you down. What a grouch!"

He made mumbling, uncomplimentary comments all the time he worked in the small kitchen. As she dipped the roller in the tray of paint for the last time and watched the last bit of unattractive plaster disappear behind the layer of paint, she smiled. Finished at last!

Her day at the office had been a particularly hard one. Since her illuminating and disturbing talk with Harry Potter she'd had her team begin a detailed analysis of what it would take to build their own hotels from scratch. It had turned out to be an enormous undertaking. She was beginning to see what Harry had meant when he'd talked of building a company out of your own sweat. But she was getting there.

"You look like a cat who's just found a canary in her dish of cream," Ron said, taking a sip out of the mug and then handing it to her. She accepted the mug and took a hefty swallow of coffee. It tasted good, even though she knew it was cheap instant stuff.

"I was just thinking what a great job I did on this hell-hole," she said, looking around.

"How modest you are. But, now that I come to think of it…" he too looked around. The light coloured walls made the whole room look twice as large as before. All it needed was furniture. He smiled. "What say we get this sheeting up and the rugs down?"

"You're on," she said catching his sudden excitement. They'd chosen the rugs together on Saturday morning at a local flea-market. They were second hand but still in good condition, and Ron had immediately liked the dark blue, white and yellow pattern of big lotus flowers. Hermione had been less sure, but, as they placed the two large rectangular rugs o the floor, finally agreeing on the best locations for them, she realised Ron's instinct had been right. The dark blue added depth to the room, while the white and yellow in the pattern perfectly matched the paintwork. "We'll have to be careful about the furniture," Hermione said thoughtfully, her eyes still o the rugs. "And give me that coffee before you drink it all, you pig."

"I always suspected you had eyes in the back of your head," he grumbled, but handed over the half-empty mug of cooling coffee. Hermione drained it, and then glanced at him. "Will you come with me to pick out a bed?" he asked suggestively, giving her a leer. If things worked out and he made his home here in New York permanent, he might even stretch to a sofa and a table or two. Then he felt the happiness slowly evaporate, as it always did when he contemplated the future. So much depended on Ginevra. And on Hermione. And on himself. And on what Granger Industries did. Ron shook his head. Let's face it, he told himself ruefully; your future is so unsure, it makes the stock-market look positively stable!

"What's up?" Hermione asked softly, moving over to him and leaning her cheek against his back, her arms coming round to frappe loosely across his waist. "You looked so sad suddenly."

She had caught that look on his face once or twice before, and it always worried her. Even though she knew the worst hurdle – her immense wealth – had already been cleared, and she believed him when he said there was no one else, she knew that there was something. She wished she knew what. She had a feeling it was important. Behind her cheek, she felt his spinal muscles shudder. Surprised, she raised her head and stared up at his tense shoulder blades. "Are you cold? I thought the heating in this placed was fairly good."

"It is," Ron agreed huskily. "Why do you ask?"

"I felt you shiver."

"Ahh… and the fact that you're pressed against me and driving me crazy couldn't possibly have anything to do with that, I suppose?" he asked, his voice husky now and almost breathless. Suddenly, Hermione became intensely aware of her nipples tingling to life against the smooth expanse of his back beneath his thin cotton shirt, and of her hands on his waist, pressing close to the top of his belt.

If she moved her fingers down just a few inches….

Suddenly her fingertips began to tingle in anticipation. She was suddenly aware of how much she wanted Ron. Not just a man. Not just sex. But Ron. She longed to touch every inch of him, and see if he had any moles, or scars. She wanted to taste him and see if he tasted the same everywhere. She wanted to hear his voice doing other things than speaking words – she wanted to hear him give a tiny moan, a loud sigh, a lingering longing groan of want and desire. She wanted him inside her, filling her, pleasing her… slowly she drew away and, as she did so, he turned to face her. From the look on his face, she knew, just knew, that he was thinking the same. "Hermione." The word was more than her name – it was a question, a celebration, a love poem.

"Come on," she said softly and took his hand, incredibly touched to feel it tremble slightly in her own. She knew how strong his hands were – she'd seen them bend back nails, work floorboards loose and hammer them back again. And yet in her small hands they trembled, and impulsively she lifted one to her mouth and began to kiss the backs of the knuckles, her eyes never leaving his. She saw his pupils dilate, his mouth fall slightly open, and heard the breath whistle in between his parted lips. "I think," She said softly, her eyes both tender and burning with volcanic heat, "That its time we christened those rugs of yours properly."

Ron swallowed hard. He knew he should say something, this moment was too precious, too meaningful not to. But no words come. Instead, he turned her hands over in his and bent to kiss one palm, loving the way her fingers curled up compulsively and lightly grazed his cheeks, loving even more the way she shuddered in delight at the contact.

Slowly, they sank down to one rug, their lips meeting in a long, lingering kiss that held the promise of a lifetime together. Ron slowly undid the copper coloured buttons on the dungarees at her shoulders, smoothing the fabric down to her waist. Against the white T-shirt her nipples thrust upwards, crying out for his touch, and when he spread one large hand over her breast, she arched her back, a small, inarticulate cry escaping her lips. "Hermione…" he said her name again, just for the pleasure of saying it, then kissed her again, unable to resist her soft, red, parted lips. Quickly his tongue darted into her mouth, and, when he felt her own tongue on his, his whole body shook.

She reached for his other hand and bought it up to her other breast, uncaring that now he was lying his whole weight against her. As if realising it, he moved slightly to his side, taking her with him and as her eyes shot open and looked into his she saw love, for the first time.

Oh, she knew her father loved her, she knew her mother and Matthew had loved her. But she'd never seen love before, in somebody's eyes. Not the way she could see it now. And suddenly she knew why people killed for love. Why people died for love. Why poets wrote about nothing else. Why nothing else mattered as much as that look in his eyes. Her heart leapt as she realised he must surely see the same answering look in her own yes, for she knew she'd never loved anyone else, as she loved this man. "Ron… oh, Ron, I love you," she whispered as his lips left hers, leaving them feeling bereft and cold.

"I love you too," he whispered intently.

She felt hot tears slide out the corners of her eyes, and then he was lifting her up, hugging her, holding her against him, rocking her like a child. But she was no child, and her body clamoured for him. Her heart had just given itself away, her soul had joined his, and her body was not going to be left out. Quickly her fingers fumbled with buttons of his shirt, tearing them apart and then slipping inside, splaying over his chest, exploring the light smatter of fair silky hairs on his chest before finding his hard male nipples.

Ron groaned as her fingers pinched and soothed, then her hands were on his shoulders, shoving the shirt away, pulling it down his arms. Her lips went to his ears, then down his neck, then across his shoulders, finding the small, sensitive indents as if radar-targeted. He shuddered, tiny tingles spreading all the way down his spine and lodging in his loins, which were hardening uncomfortably against his jeans.

Not to be outdone, he quickly tugged the bottom of her t-shirt upwards and she lifted her arms obediently as he pulled it up and off her. For a moment he could only gaze in silence at her beauty. Her breasts were not large, but they were exquisitely shaped, with upturning tips of a rose pink that was totally irresistible. With a harsh groan that thrilled her to the tips of her toes, he ducked his head and sucked one nipple into his mouth, letting his teeth graze the hard button of flesh before his tongue closed around it, laving it lovingly.

Hermione cried out and fell against him, losing all strength in her body. She threw her head back and luckily his lips left her breast and rose upwards, kissing the long, aching line of her throat. Slowly he let her fall backwards onto the rug and then followed her down, leaning over her and cupping one breast in one hand and returning his lips to the other.

Hermione closed her eyes against the newly painted, pristine white ceiling. Her breaths came in deep, ragged gasps, and when she felt him pulling down the trousers of her dungarees she lifted her bottom up to help him, thrilling the feel of his hands curling around her bare calves. When his lips closed over her big toe her eyes shot momentarily open before closing them again. With infinite care, patience and enjoyment he blazed a trail over her delicate arches, then around her ankle, then up the bend into her back knee. He felt her leg muscles jerk spasmodically and then he was moving up, higher, to the plain white briefs that covered her most intimate possession. When his lips licked against them, Hermione shuddered. Reaching down, she quickly pulled off the last remaining garment from her body and tossed it away as if she hated it. Ron felt honoured by the strength of her desire and so grateful for her trusting passion that he felt tears shimmering across his vision. Slowly he lowered his lips to her hot, wet, waiting womanhood and began to lick her delicately, finding her clitoris slowly and then nibbling gently, carefully holding her thighs apart and won as she began to buck and moan in desire as a great tidal wave of pleasure washed over her. Quickly he drew off his own clothes, his penis springing to throbbing, upright relieved attention the moment it was set free. Hermione reached for him gently, wanting to feel him in her hands. She was amazed by the hard, length of his desire and by the silky, velvety feel of his skin. Holding his eyes with her own, she reached lower, delicately cupping his silky flesh in her hand, seeing the desire hit him ands end a warming red flush to his cheeks. His jaws stiffened even as his mouth fell open, and when his eyes closed in helpless desire, she leaned forward and kissed him feverishly, first his mouth, then his nose, then his closed eyes. Draco never let her touch him, and now she understood why. He hadn't wanted her, or cared whether she wanted him. But Ron both wanted and loved her, and as she had felt so right about opening herself and her body to him, so he also felt safe putting himself in her hands. It was a moment of complete trust and understanding, as well as passion, and it made silent tears of happiness slide down her own flushed cheeks. Then his eyes opened, and they were on fire, and suddenly they were kissing, and Hermione was pulling him down against her, opening her legs and guiding him urgently into her. Ron thrust instinctively, crying out as her hot, tight muscles sheathed him and her legs twined around his calves, holding him a willing prisoner inside of her.

Hermione too cried out, bucking as he filled her. He was so big it felt as if she could feel him in every part of her. Slowly, he began to move, his thrusts deep and slow, and so unlike Draco's perfunctory and quick movements as to be in a different league. Together they felt every movement, savoured every nuance of touch, delighted I every quickening of rhythm. "Ron!" she cried out as first one orgasm, then another rocketed through her. She wasn't aware of her nails raking his back as their bodies bucked and thrashed in a passion that only love understood, and then he felt his own control begin to slip away from him, he too cried out her name.

It was a long time before they slowed parted and lay back, exhausted against the rug. Even then, their fingers were locked and their arms were pressed side by side as they looked up at the ceiling they had painted together only yesterday. "I've never made love before," Hermione said, and then wondered if he had understood, "I mean…"

"I know what you mean," Ron murmured softly and truthfully. "And I don't think I've ever made love before either. Not like that." For a moment they lay in silence, sharing contentment so perfect it was almost magical. Then, slowly, she turned on her side and looked at him, tracing his profile with one small finger.

"Don't ever leave me, please," she said, a sudden lance of fear making her shiver.

"I won't," he promised. "I couldn't even if I wanted to."

"And you won't love anybody else?"

"No. Nobody else."

Hermione nodded. She wasn't sure why she was asking all this of him, when she already knew, deep in her soul, that Ron would never hurt her. But something, far away but buried deep inside herself, was still afraid. It had something to do with that strange sad look that sometimes came to his eyes.

Ron thought of Ginevra, all alone and struggling with Harry Potter and her own demons. He thought of what he could do to help her, and all that he still owed her. And it scared him. For to help Ginevra he had to use Hermione. The thought made him shudder. Wordlessly, he reached across and cradled Hermione's small body against his own, and felt her nestle against him, sighing happily. It she'd looked up, she'd have seen that look was back in is eyes…

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Outside, Theo scribbled in his notebook. He knew the man's name now, and that he worked at Granger. And he knew all about the apartment he had just bought. After a few minutes, Theo stopped writing and looked up at the building, counting along until he found the Englishman's windows, ablaze with light. There was no doorman here. No state of the art security system. He'd have to mention it to Tom.

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In his study at his mansion, Leslie Granger was reading through a thick file with incredible speed. It was a copy of the one his daughter was working on. As he'd long since suspected, the file was not a take over plan of Potter Leisure, nor anything like it. It was a blueprint for a brand new hotel to add to his existing leisure company. Leslie sighed. The work was competent, the principle sound. Her research was thorough and her ideas were solid. But it wasn't what he had asked her to do.

He sighed deeply. He should have known that having a woman in charge of Granger Industries would simply never work. They lacked the killer's instinct. One dinner with Harry Potter and she'd folded. A man would have gone straight for the jugular. As he had. His agent had conformed that Coldstream Farm was indeed a sound proposition and he'd cabled Ginevra Raven an offer for it. He intended to advertise the place as a taste of the 'True Vermont'. The ranch horses could pull sleighs. The cattle could provide milk, if he could persuade the wholesalers to take his excess stock. The hens would provide fresh eggs. It was a city-bound executive's dream. Just the kind of thing he would add to Potter Leisure, once it was his.

Leslie sighed again. He'd have to take his project away from her. Give her a job more suitable for her talents. Head of PR perhaps? Poppy called down and asked him to come to bed.

"Coming," he called, his eyes resting briefly on the report. "I just had some business to see to, but it's all done now."