“But Rocco, what about” —she shot a glance at the clerk, who was busy with paperwork but still within earshot— “your background?”
Following her dreams could put her in the public eye again, and that brought risks to him. To the Barrali family.
“One step at a time. We’ll find a way to handle it.”
She hesitated. Studied his face, as if assessing his sincerity. Finally, her eyes brightened. “All right. I’ll do it.”
He leaned forward to brush her luscious mouth with his own. It occurred to him that he was going to spend every morning this way for the rest of his life, kissing his wife first thing. It made him smile even as he kissed her.
“For the second time in the last twenty-four hours, you look teary,” he whispered after he pulled back. “You welled up on the plane, too. That’s not the response I want when I’m with you.”
“As long as you’re this wonderful, it’s the response you’re likely to get.”
“Mmm. Maybe I should stop.” He gave her one more kiss, lingering with his lips a breath from hers in spite of the presence of the front desk clerk. “Or maybe you just need to get used to wonderful.”
Chapter Fourteen
“This is crazy.”
Justine stared at the words on her computer screen in disbelief. Within seconds, Rocco abandoned his terminal and was at her side.
“What? Something wrong?”
“It’s the producer I was scheduled to meet in Croatia. She says she’s sorry she missed me, but hopes we can reschedule. If I’m willing to come to the States” —she drew out the last word and shot a look at Rocco— “she’d love to meet with me. She’s at the satellite office in Washington, D.C., this week, then will be back at the network’s New York office next week. She says that they remain very interested in the possibility of having me join their broadcast team and hope I’ll come.”
“That’s great!” He leaned over her shoulder and scanned the e-mail. “Looks like she sent it last night.”
“I’m just…I’m flabbergasted.” She didn’t think she’d get a second chance. Definitely not a second chance like this, where the producer sounded enthusiastic about the meeting.
Now that it was right in front of her, she hesitated to take it.
“Tell her you can meet her either place. That you’re in the Washington area now, or you can come to New York. If she’d rather see you in New York, we can go up there when we’re finished at Johns Hopkins and take the opportunity to tour around or see a few shows. Then we’ll fly back to Rome following the interview.”
Justine leaned back in the springy desk chair and took a deep breath to process everything before she composed her response. “I told her I had a family emergency. If I’m available here for an interview here only three days later, she’s going to wonder.”
“Then tell her the truth.” Justine’s surprise must’ve registered on her face, because Rocco argued, “Why not? If she wants to verify it, all she needs to do is look at the Dubrovnik newspapers to see that there was a police investigation near your apartment. Or she could call Johns Hopkins. My partners there can verify your story…at least they’ll be able to by this afternoon. You can explain that you traveled with your husband to the States in order to avert a security threat to his work and that measures have been taken to prevent any future issues.”
She scowled at his formal-sounding explanation. “First, like she’d believe a story about Russian mobsters, and second, have measures been taken?”
He answered her with a look of confidence similar to the one that enticed her when they’d talked into the wee hours their first night in Garmisch. “I think having Radich, Karpovsky, and their accomplices held by the Italians qualifies. They’ll be interrogated thoroughly about who hired them and who else might want the technology.” One of Rocco’s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “In a few hours, it’ll be secure at Johns Hopkins. Go ahead. Tell her you’re here. If she asks for details, keep the explanation of what happened as simple as possible.”
Justine scooted forward, hit reply, then wavered. “I thought we could talk about this. That I’d have more time.” That they’d discuss a plan for their future together. Where they’d live. What they each wanted.
Being with Rocco again after over a year apart would take some adjustment, no matter how she felt about him, and he’d need to adjust to her, too. Too much had happened in the last few days. Hell, life in the last few months they’d been together hadn’t been a picnic with Teresa living under the same roof. Justine needed to settle into her new reality. To decide what she really wanted, to reconsider her goals and aspirations.
“You were set to do it before and we hadn’t talked.”
“Things were different then.” Setting up the interview had signified a new beginning for her, a life without Rocco or Teresa.
“Look, Justine, I know you well enough to know you need a challenge. This position would provide that, if it’s what you want.” His hands came down on her shoulders and his thumbs kneaded her tired muscles. The man knew exactly what to do to calm her busy mind.
“An interview isn’t a commitment.” His tone was soft and reassuring. “See how it goes. Then we can talk.”
Leaning back in the chair, she lifted her chin and gave Rocco a kiss of thanks before she typed a reply and hit send. He was right. An interview didn’t mean she was signing away her life.
The producer’s response hit Justine’s inbox just before she signed off to walk across the street for breakfast, asking if she could possibly make it this afternoon. After a moment’s panic and at Rocco’s urging, she agreed.
“Nothing to lose,” he’d assured her.
Two hours later, though, when Rocco had departed for Johns Hopkins and Justine waited at the hotel entrance for the car service that would take her first to a shop to find a suit and appropriate shoes, then to D.C. for the meeting, she couldn’t shake the queasy feeling that’d settled in the pit of her stomach. It was the exact sensation that plagued her the morning of her crash, when she’d stood at the top of the run in Altenmarkt waiting for the go-ahead to move into the starting gate and told her coach the course felt wrong. She’d flat-out told him that, for the first time in her career, her gut was telling her not to ski.
He’d put a hand to her back and reminded her that she’d tackled the course dozens of times, had mastered the toughest of its tight turns, had managed to keep her skis under her on its icy bumps and through its notoriously dangerous shadowed sections. Not only that, she’d come within two tenths of a second of winning the downhill the previous year. Out of all the competitors, she’d had the fastest training run the previous day. This was going to be her race. Her World Cup win. Her moment of glory.
She’d nodded and gone through her mental warm-up routine, determined to knock out a killer run, but couldn’t shake the vibe.
She was the first racer on the course that morning. Therefore, she was the first to cross the unusual rough patch just above the third turn. The one whose ski caught, wobbled, and then finally popped off when she was forced to overcorrect, sending her flying sideways over the next jump and into the fencing at the course’s edge. The one whose boot and calf somehow caught in the bright orange mesh even as her body tried to obey the laws of physics that wanted her to continue downhill at over eighty miles an hour. The one whose leg snapped with such force she heard it over the violence of the crash, the one who bled through her torn racing suit to stain the bright white snow for the 75,000 fans watching along the course and on the jumbo screen at the bottom of the slope.
The one who was airlifted out even as crews traversed the course to investigate the area where she’d caught her ski. The one forced to listen as her coach phoned Rocco to tell him to get his tail to Austria because the course medical team said she’d need to undergo emergency surgery.
She hadn’t shared her coach’s fury that the treacherous conditions above the turn had been missed during numerous course inspections. Nor did she
share her coach’s anger that his favorite racer didn’t have her spouse present to cheer her on or to hold her hand in the final moments before she was wheeled into the operating room. Justine poured every ounce of her energy into enduring the surgery and the months of rehabilitation that followed so she could get back on her skis, conquer that damned course, and reign as queen of the World Cup circuit.
She’d been more sad than angry that Rocco wasn’t by her side in the immediate aftermath of the wreck. He moved heaven and earth to be there when she awakened from surgery, and she’d drawn strength from that. Her anger was reserved for herself, for failing to recognize the dangerous area and, more importantly, for failing to trust her intuition. Gut instinct had enabled her to move into the top echelon of her sport, tackling runs in ways that occasionally defied conventional thinking. She should’ve listened to it when it told her not to ski that morning.
In a matter of weeks, she lost her career, her coach, and then her marriage. Everything that mattered to her. Everything that defined her.
As she greeted the driver and climbed into the car that would carry her to the interview, she wished she knew what, exactly, her gut was trying to tell her now.
* * *
Rocco woke to the sound of a key card sliding into the hotel room’s lock. As he straightened in the chair, the draft of a research paper written by one of his partners at Johns Hopkins slid to the floor. Last thing he remembered he’d been halfway through it. His eyes must’ve drifted shut while waiting for Justine to return from the job interview.
The door closed behind her as she kicked off a pair of sleek black heels, then sagged against the door. A quick glance at the bedside clock told Rocco it was after eight p.m., a fact confirmed by his growling stomach, but he ignored it in favor of studying his wife. Despite what must’ve been a long day, she looked phenomenal. Her light brown hair was perfectly styled, she wore a close-fitting black suit and a sky blue blouse that highlighted her clear blue eyes, and best of all, despite her body language, there was a glow about her that gave him the sense the interview went well.
Her eyes widened when she got a good look at him. “You shaved!”
He grinned and ran a hand over his smooth jaw. “Figured it was time. You never did tell me what you thought of it.”
“You’re sexy with or without it. Different, but still sexy. What made you decide to get rid of it?”
“Wanted a fresh start.” He waved his hand to encompass her suit. “So, how’d it go?”
“Uh, uh. You first, Mr. Fresh Start.”
“Anti-climactic.” Especially after all they’d endured to keep the designs safe. “I met with the professors, had a lunch that would bore all but the hardest of hard-core biomedical engineering geeks, then made a copy of the designs for their files. They’re going over them tonight.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. It’s not like the movies, where Spiderman or Superman saves a piece of futuristic technology from falling into a villain’s hands and suddenly the world is a better, safer place.”
“The world is a better, safer place,” she argued.
“Perhaps, but without a sweeping musical score or special effects. Only lunch with a handful of scientists and engineers.”
She chuckled at that, then leaned against the entry wall and scrunched her toes into the carpet, an action he noticed she did unconsciously whenever her muscles stiffened. “So tell me the important part. What did your partners think after you talked?”
“On first glance, they think the design is brilliant.” He couldn’t keep the satisfaction from his voice. “They also think it’ll work. We’ll know more in the coming weeks and months.”
The delight on her face thrilled him. “Oh, Rocco, that’s wonderful. I’m so happy. And so proud of you. You should be ecstatic. It’s been years of work.”
“That it has.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Now your turn. How’d it go? It has to be more interesting than my day.”
He saw the triumph in her eyes a split second before he heard it in her voice. “Would you believe they offered me the job on the spot?”
“Of course I believe it. Who wouldn’t hire you?”
She waved off the compliment even as a blush crept across her cheeks. “The producer said she’d watched me give interviews numerous times over the years and likes the way I can describe a course in layman’s terms. One of her co-workers said there’s been talk around their office for years that I’d be a great analyst when I retired. They also liked that my reputation is clean—no drugs, no wild partying, nothing scandalous—but have, in their words, an edge that keeps younger viewers interested. They’re tired of hiring analysts and discovering ex-girlfriends with restraining orders, X-rated photos or videos, and gambling problems. I assured them I had no such issues, and voila, they made an offer.”
It took him less than two seconds to cross the room and sweep her into his arms. He was rewarded with a warm, joyous hug, then felt the press of her lips against his shoulder. “Congratulations,” he said into her hair. “You’re going to be amazing.”
“I haven’t accepted yet,” she said into his shirt with a laugh. “I haven’t decided what I want.”
Happiness flooded through him as he released her. There was a confidence and a surety about Justine he hadn’t seen in a long, long time. Whether she opted to take the job or not, it was a relief to see her back to her old self.
Definitely a day for fresh starts.
“How about we discuss it over dinner? Grab those sexy shoes and I’ll take you somewhere decadent.”
“Wearing those shoes or any others right now would constitute torture. Mind if we do room service?”
“Not at all.” They’d have as long as they wanted in Rome. While he placed an order, Justine pulled off her pantyhose and located the pajamas she’d purchased in Split. After changing, she sat on the bed, settling her back against the thick pillows. He moved to her side, then slowly ran his hand up her left calf.
“Your leg’s a little swollen.”
“Sexy shoes will do that.”
“So will all that running you did.” He lifted her leg into his lap, then slowly, gently began to massage her calf. Despite the severity of her injury, she’d regained a great deal of strength, more than he’d thought possible.
“That feels great,” she mumbled, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.
“So do you.” When she cracked an eyelid, he said, “I didn’t say that to get you into bed.”
“I’m already in bed.”
“Lucky me.” He ran his thumbs along the back of her calf, easing the knots from the tense muscles. “What I really meant is that your calf feels great. Almost back to normal.”
“From the outside, yes, if you can ignore the scars. The inside is a different matter. While the bones have healed, everything else feels tight. When I stretch, there’s a sensation of ripping apart from the inside out.”
“Have you asked the doc about it?”
The edge of her mouth twitched.
“Why not? You worried what he’ll tell you?”
“I actually haven’t been in a while. Rehab, yes. Doc, no.” She ran a hand over her hair, pushing a few rogue strands away from her face. “I haven’t been back since he told me my career was over. I didn’t see much point.”
“That was months ago. Longer.” He ran his palms around to her shin, then up to the outside of her knee and paused. Her quads were rock solid, just as they’d been when she was competing. “You’re in better shape now. Maybe you should see why you have that ripping feeling?”
“Rehab guys say it’s the muscles getting used to movement. Scar tissue breaking up as I exercise and gradually extend my range of motion. Apparently it’s a good thing. Painful as hell, but good.” Her chest rose and fell on a deep breath. “When you came to my apartment the other night, you asked if I’d quit taking my pain meds. The answer is yes. I don’t want to become reliant on them.”<
br />
“You seemed sore that night, even before we went running through the streets.”
“I’d had an intense session at rehab. Then I went to the cemetery and my Tuesday dinner when I probably should’ve gone home and rested.” She flexed her foot, stretching. “I’ve apparently made progress, since I was able to wear heels for several hours today.”
“Guess it hadn’t occurred to me that you haven’t worn them since before the accident.”
“Not the type of thing that enters a guy’s mind.”
“It should’ve. Seeing your legs in a pair of high heels gets me going every time.” He slid his hands down her calf, enjoying his rediscovery of Justine’s bare, silken skin and sculpted muscle as he kneaded each tight area. When he reached her ankle, he looked up to see her studying him. She’d been watching him explore, but there was more to her gaze, an emotion she attempted to hide with a smile that didn’t quite ring true.
“You want to ski again.” The realization hit him with the intensity of Karpovsky’s kidney punches. He stared at her in astonishment. “You think you can do it, but you’re avoiding the doctor until you can prove you’re strong enough for medical clearance.”
“What would make you think that?” Though her voice remained steady, he saw the truth in her eyes.
“Because that’s always been your dream. You wanted to finish a season with the top world ranking. You wanted an Olympic gold.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I should say that in present tense. You want to be number one. You want a gold medal. Multiple golds.”
“Not just one doctor, but several have told me it’s impossible. And these are docs who regularly see athletes at my level. They know what’s possible.”
“So do you.” And she wanted it. He knew it as surely as he knew Newton’s laws of motion. In her heart, she hadn’t quit. Not yet.
The Royal Bastard Page 13
