Bound by the Italian's Contract. Janette Kenny
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was all business. Good. That’s all he wanted from her as well.
As they headed toward the airport and Italy, she appeared content to immerse herself in her miniature laptop before the flurry of their combined work began. Unlike his previous traveling companions, she showed no interest in making small talk during the past three hours as they prepared to leave Colorado.
Not that he was complaining.
He just wanted to get home to Italy and back to business while she delved into doing what he’d hired her to do. With space between them, he could find peace of mind.
That was what he wanted. It remained to be seen if he would achieve it after putting himself through so much personal hell.
* * *
Caprice stared out the window, more frazzled over being secluded with Luciano than she was unnerved by the Denver traffic they whipped past. Seven years had passed since she’d spent this much time alone with a man.
She’d vowed never to leave herself vulnerable again. Yet here she was, traveling for over an hour with him. So close she could reach over and touch him.
Not that she would. Even if she had the desire to do so, there was absolutely nothing welcoming about his stern expression.
Which was just as well. Too much was riding on the success of their mutual deal for her to relax.
She wanted this job done as soon as possible. Only then could she return home.
If Tregore Lodge was still under construction, she would cope with the inconvenience. Heavens knew she had a lot of details to see to before the launch of her renovated facility and a return to total independence.
No matter what faced her in Italy, she would see it through. And really would her being in Luciano’s company again be that bad?
Difficult to guess, she decided as she stole a glance at him behind the wheel of the gleaming silver Mercedes he’d rented. As they reached the brighter lights leading to the airport, his deceptively relaxed pose was at odds with his hard-as-nails expression.
He’d always been demanding, a fact she attributed to his aggressive personality and his station. But he’d changed as well and she couldn’t tell if it was for the better.
One thing was for sure, she would be right back in the thick of the elite world. Just like she was now, arriving at the private airport terminal in a rental car worth well over what she made in a year, scheduled to fly out on a private jet that cost at least a billion dollars.
He swerved to pass a slower car, and she noticed the imperceptible way he favored his right shoulder. Had he always done that?
At the lodge, she’d blamed his obvious discomfort on the hurried way he’d loaded her baggage into the car. Now it was obvious his shoulder was bothering him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, noticing his chiseled features were more haggard under the flash of streetlights as he whizzed around the curved interior airport roads with the ease of a racing car driver.
“Nothing,” was his clipped reply.
A lie, she was certain, if she’d read correctly that terse tone and body language that screamed pain. “Something is bothering you.”
He wheeled into a parking space and cut her a scowl. “I have had very little sleep in nearly two days.”
And lack of sleep had never bothered him before. But it clearly did now.
Luciano looked physically drained. Given his wicked reputation, she assumed it was from a combination of overindulgence and mental exertion while he was touring the U.S.
“How long have you been in Denver?” she asked.
“My plane landed at seven-thirty this morning, your time,” he said.
She blinked. That only gave him four hours before their meeting, and he’d admitted to having an appointment before hers. “You flew here from Italy and went straight to a meeting?”
“I did not wish to waste time in the States.”
That wasn’t the Luciano she remembered. He was a party animal. The playboy who had the stamina to keep late hours and still perform with championship precision.
“Let me signal a skycap,” she said as she followed him to the opened trunk of the Mercedes.
“Don’t bother, I’ve got it.” Yet, as he removed her bags, his movements seemed stiffer and his olive skin paled considerably.
She doubted his condition had anything to do with him loading her two suitcases into the rental and driving them to the Denver airport tonight. Nor was it the result of anything recent.
Under the brilliant glow cast by the private parking lot, she studied the lines of strain marring his handsome face, etching deep grooves around his piercing eyes and sensual mouth. Toss his terse attitude into the mix and it equaled a man who’d grown used to living with pain and hating it. Lingering pain. Reoccurring pain. Phantom pain.
She saw enough of it in her profession to be able to recognize it after a few minutes of observation. Luciano was gripped with the first two. Considering he’d been a world-class champion with a reputation for taking daring jumps and going at lightning speed down the slopes, it wasn’t unusual it had left him with tangible scars from his years of fierce competition.
All of that abuse had come before the accident that had ended his career.
“I can read the signs, Luciano,” she said, slinging her carry-on over her shoulder before he could add it to the wheeled cases he seemed intent on maneuvering alone. “The muscle in your left shoulder is cramped and the fingers of your right hand have gone numb, or at least they are in some sort of tingling paralysis. Right?”
He threw her a frown—no, a scowl befitting a warrior. “Again, my error is forgetting how perceptive you are.”
She took the backhanded compliment with a smile. “It’s my profession to recognize these problems with my patients.”
“Which I am not,” he said with a good deal of heat. “You’ve agreed to lend your professional services to my brother. He’s the only Duchelini you will be attending.”
“I wasn’t offering to take you on as a client,” she snapped back, which wasn’t true because if she could help him...oh, what did it matter? “I understand athletes detest showing weakness. The majority of them I’ve encountered consider pain from an injury a weakness to overcome. Am I right?”
“Yes,” he hissed out. His long legs carried him across the drive toward the terminal with her two cases in tow. Then he stopped and cast her another impatient look. “Come on. The plane is waiting.”
No surprise he wanted the subject dropped now, she thought as she beat him to the door and opened it for him, determined to have her say. “For one thing, you’re wrong. Pain is not a weakness. Second thing—I believe you could benefit from therapy.”
“I don’t,” he spat, every viral inch of him rigid with anger. “There is nothing that can be done to help me. Nothing.”
The words plummeted like granite slabs on the concrete, shattering her tenuous confidence. She hadn’t just touched the surface of a major sore spot with him. She’d raked over it with claws and flung salt into the wounds.
Crawling back into her protective shell and keeping her thoughts to herself would be smart. But she knew how the body reacted to pain, both physically and mentally. To a degree, she knew Luciano Duchelini—at least she knew the fiercely competitive athlete he had been.
“Okay. You’ve explored all avenues to alleviate your pain and nothing worked,” she went on doggedly, just like she would with her patients. “But you’ve said it yourself. My program is different from the standard. If you utilized it to the fullest, there could be a chance for you to see physical improvement.”
He bit off something