Bound by the Italian's Contract. Janette Kenny
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she hid the dark moments of her life. His accurate memory was nothing more than an attempt at polite conversation.
“I did once.” She couldn’t lie to him because games had never been her style, her one attempt having ended disastrously. “Actually, I haven’t tasted Scotch since Val d’Isère.”
He studied her, features tight and unreadable. “You enjoyed it.”
“At the time,” she said. But she’d enjoyed his company as well. Far too much.
The week before he’d swept the events, they’d talked of their future plans in life, sitting alone by a fire sharing a Scotch. He’d never spoken of his ex-wife and she’d never summoned up the courage to ask.
She hadn’t wished to sour his mood, immaturely sure they would finally cross the line between star athlete and volunteer. When he’d swept the events, she’d finally gotten the courage to kiss him with all the feelings bubbling in her heart.
And for a heartbeat he’d returned her affection. Then he’d cursed and pulled away from her, scowling, anger flaring like live embers in his eyes as he turned on a heel and stalked away from her.
Confusion and embarrassment had tumbled inside her like leaves caught in a wind. Rejection. Her first from a man, but far from the first time she’d been passed over.
Still, it had hurt and left her confused. When she’d finally gone after him, she’d found him lounging on a sofa in the bar with a beautiful woman in his arms, their lips locked together in a passionate kiss.
That’s when she’d run from him with one intention—finding a means to ease the heartbreak.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, the question jarring her from the past.
“Nothing,” she said.
“You’re lying.”
She met his intense gaze with a spark of hostility. “I was thinking about the last time we shared a Scotch and how wretchedly it ended.”
The muscle along his jaw snapped taut, which only fueled her own annoyance. Then, as now, she’d meant nothing to him, which was fine by her.
“What happened that made it such a bad memory?” he asked.
“You rebuffed my congratulatory kiss,” she said, because that’s what had started it.
What had happened after that would forever haunt her. Her dark secret.
He snorted. “That was not what your kiss implied.”
“You can’t know that.” He couldn’t have known she’d been wearing her heart on her sleeve. That she’d slowly fallen for him.
He nodded and splashed Scotch into two heavy glasses. “You were very young, Caprice. Nineteen?”
“Twenty.” Barely.
“I did you a favor by walking away from you instead of taking you straight to my bed.”
How different her life might have been if he only had. What was done was done. She couldn’t change things now, but she could remember the lesson well.
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said.
He nodded. Frowned. “Now that we’ve settled that, will you join me for a Scotch? Or would you prefer something else?”
“No. Scotch is fine,” she said as she took the heavy glass from him, the brush of their fingers jolting her again. This time she couldn’t hide her flush.
He lifted one eyebrow. “Something else is bothering you.”
“No. I’m just tired.” She took a sip and caught her breath as the slightly spiced heavy liquor warmed her tongue and throat. “I forgot how good this was.”
He smiled but kept his gaze on her, and the barely leashed energy pulsing between them had her tension strung high. “It will get better if you let it.”
She blinked, unsure if he meant the liquor, this tenuous rapport they struggled to hold on to, or something else, and chose to believe it was the former.
“Yes, I think it will, too,” she said, trying for a similar nonchalance.
“Count on it.” He finished his drink and poured another. Instead of taking himself off to a private location, he eased down into the chair across from her.
The rev of the jets increased and she felt the tiniest vibration just before the pilot’s voice filled the cabin, the sound far less tinny than in a commercial airliner. “Ready when you are, sir.”
“Get us home” was Luciano’s reply as he snapped his seat belt into place, the la Duchi logo on the custom gold buckle screaming of the quiet wealth that was spent on details.
The interior lights lowered to an intimate glow for take-off and the engines rumbled. She grabbed the burgundy strap and snapped her own belt into place, chancing another quick look at Luciano. His drawn features were more pronounced with his eyes pinched closed.
Concern welled inside her even stronger than before. He was obviously still in pain even after downing pain meds with two drinks that had likely packed a punch. At least the few mouthfuls she’d taken of her drink were making her head spin.
Even so, what he consumed hadn’t been enough to affect him in the least. He was hurting inside, and her training told her it wasn’t totally physical.
“What really happened that day on the mountain?” she asked, broaching the subject at last.
Silence roared over the monotone of the engines as the plane gained altitude, then leveled out, yet her stomach still felt suspended in midair. The details of that accident had been well hidden by the family. Why, she couldn’t guess, but it was obvious Luciano wasn’t eager to divulge anything.
“Luciano, I need to know everything in order to help Julian recover,” she said when she couldn’t stand the tense silence any longer. “There are psychological reasons as well as physical ones that impede recovery. If I can find a workaround for his internal obstacle, I stand a better chance of helping him.” And Luciano as well?
Two champion brothers on skis. One horrific accident that had changed both their lives. Only they knew what had happened.
A muscle, or maybe a nerve, pulled hard in his cheek, puckering his olive skin. “The media provided a plausible version of our rescue and injuries.”
She flinched, feeling the sting of his pain ricochet through her. Yes, she’d heard reports. Watched the news. Yet it was likely just what he’d said. A plausible version.
“Yes, I know where Julian and you were found, and I’m aware of the extent of his physical injures,” she said, having hung on every word of the reports with the hope that Julian and Luciano would have full recoveries. “Now I need to understand the scope of your brother’s psychological ones as well. The best place to start is knowing why two of the best skiers in the world chose to tackle one of the most hazardous runs in the Alps during less than hospitable conditions.”
Luc drove his fingers through his hair and swore. How the hell could he satisfy her curiosity about the accident without revealing too much of his own emotional wounds? “It is the way of brothers who have spent their lives competing with each other in everything.”
“There must be more to it than sibling rivalry.”
There was. Too much baggage. Too much guilt.
He tossed back his drink and grimaced, hesitant to bear his black soul to her. “Look, Julian is a Duchelini, second in line to a company that makes the best ski equipment in the world, youngest in a long line of Duchelini champions. It was a duty and privilege for him to compete in Alpine and win. Quitting was not an option.”
“It was his choice to make.”
“It was selfish, which is why Father froze his allowance,” he said. “He