That was a sign, if Brody had ever seen one. A sign to get on with it. He put down the espresso and reached for the bill because Harrison had left early to drive to Alto Baglio for a meeting with the Xerxes people. After Brody settled the charges, his guys were loading up the RVs, packing the Alfa, and they were all headed to Alto Baglio, as well.
Chapter closed on Amanda Jensen. It was for the best. Pack up and move on.
So why did he feel so lousy?
His phone buzzed. Harrison, was Brody’s first thought. He glanced at the phone to be sure.
Massimo Coletti, the caller ID said.
He picked it up, not knowing what to think. “Yeah, this is Brody.”
“Brody Jones?” A female voice murmured his name uncertainly. “This is Jeannie Coletti.”
He blanked for a minute, but then he remembered: Jeannie Jensen, the wedding, she’d married Massimo. “Congratulations,” he said carefully.
“Thank you.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m sorry if I’m out of line, but it’s about Amanda.”
In a second, he was on his feet. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s…crying in the bathroom.” Jeannie’s words came in a rush. Wherever she was, there was noise—conversation in Italian and faint music—so he had to cover his free ear to hear her. “We just got to the reception, and we’re lining up to take pictures. She doesn’t know I’m calling you. Massimo does though.”
He looked over at his guys. They had stopped joking and were staring at him, straining to hear.
“I know she was with you last night, Brody,” Jeannie said. “She told me before she left to meet you. And then when she didn’t come home…”
He turned to the window, but he wasn’t seeing anything. He spoke softly into the phone. “Did she tell you why she’s upset?”
“I…no. And it’s been a busy day for me, I’ve been occupied with wedding things. I just thought…well, we want to issue you an invitation to our reception. If you can come, that is.”
He heard an intake of breath on the line. “Never mind. He’s here. I shouldn’t have called you. This is a bad idea, for everyone. I need to go.”
“Jeannie, don’t—”
“Forget I called, Brody, okay?” The line clicked off.
He shoved his phone in his jacket. Jean-Claude, the driver who’d been tailing MacArthur, arched his brow and waited for an update.
Yeah, he was there. He meant MacArthur Jensen, the bride’s father. Who else could it be?
Brody looked around the table. Four pairs of eyes stared back at him, and all he could think was, What did Jeannie Coletti mean by “bad idea for everyone”? Did she think it was a bad idea for him to go to the reception? Or a bad idea for Amanda to see him?
It was the latter that ripped him apart more.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Brody, dressed in his suit and a white dress shirt, pulled open the door of the hotel ballroom and wondered if he’d ever been such an idiot.
Snowflakes dusted his sleeves, shoulders and hair. One to two inches were forecast to fall on the mountains tonight, and instead of getting the early start he needed, he was standing in the back of a reception hall where he clearly didn’t belong.
Find her and make sure she’s okay. Then wrestle her phone number from her, and leave.
That was his mission. He’d give himself twenty minutes, tops. And if he could do it in ten minutes, then he was a superstar.
He glanced around the crowded room but didn’t see Amanda. None of the wedding party had arrived—no bride in a big white dress, no groom in a tuxedo. Then again, he’d never been to an Italian wedding before, so he didn’t know what was supposed to be happening.
In the corner, a bar was open. Liquor flowed freely, and a group of guys he knew waved him over. Normally he’d join them, but his life was far from normal these days. He shook his head at them, and then looked to the rest of the room. Family groups of all ages and sizes were crowded at round dinner tables, staking their places. A plump grandmother poured her grandson a glass of red wine mixed with water, and the boy happily drank it.
He loved this culture. They were out in the open and honest; happy and loud and proud together. Someday he’d love to move to Europe permanently, settle in a mountain town like this one and start a family. He didn’t care how many kids he had—or even if he had any—his main requirement was familial closeness.
A commotion sounded from the front of the ballroom. Supported by attendants carrying her aloft in a chair, the bride made her grand entrance. All around him chairs scraped and people jumped to their feet, whistling and chanting in Italian.
He didn’t know what they were saying, but he was tall enough that he could see over their heads. Every fiber in his body concentrated on finding Amanda. The bride was set down on a dais. Crouched behind the bride’s train, fixing and primping and spreading it over the floor, making sure the bride was the main attraction, he finally spotted Amanda. His heart made a small jump.
He cleared his throat and stepped forward just as she stood. The back of her dress was cut in a V, and from shoulders to waist, all he could see was skin. The same sweet, soft skin he’d kissed and stroked and tasted last night.
His mouth went dry. He wanted her again. He kept his gaze on her, following her movements as she turned. Her dress was made of a silky, clingy fabric that flowed when she walked, and he imagined her dropping it for him. Somewhere in private, smiling at him and wearing nothing but her dark hair up and studded with those tiny silver and white pearls he could pick out to make it all come cascading down again.
“Just what do you think you’re doing here?” The unmistakable voice sounded in Brody’s ear, and he felt the bottom slide out of his stomach.
MacArthur Jensen, his former coach—now the head director of the skiing federation—was giving Brody a withering look, the look he’d give gum scraped from the bottom of his shoe.
I’m screwed. Brody stared into the eyes of the man he’d told to “go shove it” as many different times and ways as he could over the years, and he knew he’d messed up.
Harrison would pitch a fit if he knew Brody was here. “Like teasing a cobra with a stick,” Harrison would say. “What’s that going to get you, Brody?”
Not a damn thing but trouble, he silently replied.
And now, he forced himself to breathe. To lower himself and make nice with the king of all snakes.
“I’m attending the wedding of a fellow skier,” he said evenly. His mouth tasted brackish and he hated himself for doing it, but he held out his hand in a gesture of conciliation.
“You have a lot of balls.” MacArthur’s dark eyes hooded to slits. “You cross me, and now you dare to show up at my daughter’s wedding?”
Brody dropped his hand. “I was invited.”
“And I’m uninviting you.”
So MacArthur wouldn’t make it easy for him. He probably wouldn’t accept Brody back on the circuit, either. The only thing Brody could do now was get the hell out of Dodge, and then hope it was enough to survive the one race he needed to ski.
He stepped back.
And MacArthur smiled. A gloating look, pleased at the reaction he’d received, at the control he still held over Brody.
“I’m feeling magnanimous because it’s my daughter’s wedding. Turn around and leave now, and I’ll pretend I didn’t see you.”
MacArthur was giving him a pass? Brody clenched his fists. More than anything he wanted to give him the two-fingered salute MacArthur so hated, but he sucked it up, even though he knew he was a coward for doing so.
“Yeah, I’ll be going,” Brody said.
MacArthur smirked. “Watch yourself.” And then he proceeded down the aisle of the ballroom. Brody should have left right then, but fury was coursing through him—at MacArthur and at himself. MacArthur’s entourage of followers surrounded him, one to carry his coat, another to hold his BlackBerry and still one more just to make him look more important—and Brody hadn’t done a damn th
ing to stand up to him.
There was nothing he could do to stop the man who had ruined his life because MacArthur would always hold all the power. One word, one move from MacArthur, and Brody’s name was dust.
He unclenched his fists. For some reason, his feet were rooted to the floor. He watched as MacArthur’s daughter paused—Massimo was hugging her around her crutches and “dancing” with her to slow music as the crowd sat, eerily silent. Even the bad-ass skiers he knew had frozen in their tracks. They were a superstitious group, and nobody liked to view the aftereffects of a horrific alpine crash.
Brody exhaled. MacArthur himself wavered, and his entourage stopped. For a moment the guests held their collective breath, but then the bride beckoned to her father, a huge smile spreading over her face, which MacArthur didn’t deserve. But Brody had to give him credit; MacArthur squared his shoulders and walked onto the dance floor.
Massimo released Jeannie’s arms. A flicker of something—physical pain?—crossed her face, but it was quickly replaced by a look of joy as she balanced herself over her crutches again, one hand on her father’s shoulder. Then she kissed him on his cheek.
Revulsion kicked Brody. How could she forgive the tyrant who had ruined her life?
Amanda, he noticed, shared his revulsion. But she was wise enough to disappear discreetly into the background during the father-of-the-bride’s entrance. Even Massimo stood back as if he was a nervous high-school kid taking out the principal’s daughter.
Brody switched his attention back to Amanda. She turned toward him, and then he saw the tears she was blinking away. She was obviously affected by the bride’s awkward dance in her metal crutches.
Her metal crutches. He felt as if he’d been smacked in the head by a slalom gate. This was why Amanda had been crying in the bathroom when Jeannie had called him. He could see the true reason, and Jeannie couldn’t.
He was striding forward before he’d thought anything through. All he could think was what an ass he’d been to so cavalierly make Amanda go skiing with him. Then the band struck into loud, festive Italian music while the band leader announced into the microphone—in both English and Italian—that the family of the bride “will say the words of greeting and then the dancing will begin!”
Obviously, he needed to wait until the “words of greeting” finished. But with any luck he’d have Amanda spirited out of here soon afterward, before MacArthur noticed he hadn’t exactly left the building yet.
Brody’s phone beeped, and he glanced at it. A text message from Harrison. Brody had already ignored dozens of them, so he might as well answer this one while he had a minute. Where are u? the message asked.
On my way, Brody typed.
Where r u now?
He thought of Amanda and couldn’t help the private joke. Free skiing.
A pause. Then, Good. Stay away from that wedding.
Brody glanced up at “that wedding” and his scalp started to itch. Amanda stood at the podium, staring at him, an expression of horror on her face.
Why was she so upset? And what was she doing standing at the microphone?
“And here I present to you Miss Amanda Jensen,” the band leader hollered. “The maid of honor and sister of the bride!”
Sister of the bride? The hand holding his phone dropped to his side. That couldn’t be right. Amanda wasn’t Jeannie Jensen’s sister, because she wasn’t MacArthur Jensen’s daughter. She had sworn that to him, and on her own voice recorder.
He stuffed his phone in his jacket, his hand shaking. He was getting the bad feeling that he’d been lied to in a way he’d sworn would never happen again, not while he drew breath.
He gritted his jaw and met Amanda’s gaze with a burning look. Tell me the band leader made a mistake.
But she blinked at him and shook her head, sadness spreading over her face. “I’m sorry, Brody,” she mouthed.
She was sorry? She’d been lying to him from the moment she’d met him, and she was sorry?
Yeah, well, I am, too, sweetheart, he thought.
He turned on his heel and stalked from the room. Then he pulled out his phone and ordered the caravan to gather. Before his shoes hit the pavement, his team would be mobilized with engines started.
Out of here.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE SOLES OF HER DYED-TO-MATCH shoes made outlines in the snowy parking lot as Amanda raced down the rows of flake-dusted automobiles, searching for Brody.
She’d been so happy to see him at Jeannie’s reception. But just as quickly she’d realized what the master of ceremonies would say, and her joy had been swallowed by a horrible, sinking pit of despair.
And why? For a guy she could never be with after the weekend?
Now, she didn’t know what she was doing. Chasing after a one-night stand? It had to be the emotions brought on by her little sister getting married. That had to be the reason—she’d officially gone insane.
The below-freezing temperature chilled her to the bone. She’d run out without a coat; she still wore her bridesmaid’s dress with nothing to cover her bare arms and back. Though it was late afternoon, the sky was dark with falling snow, a flurry the weather forecasters had predicted would amount to little accumulation. But above the cover of dark clouds, where she couldn’t see or feel it, the sun would be present, low and beautiful on the horizon, just as it had been when Brody had kissed her on the mountain yesterday.
How could so much have happened in twenty-four hours? Her emotions would swamp her if she stopped to think about it.
But then she found what she was looking for: over the slope in the lower parking lot, a group of men in ski parkas milled around two motor homes, their engines already running.
Brody! It had to be him and his team leaving for the next race on the circuit. Panic spurred her on, and she sprinted toward them, panting. “Wait!” She windmilled her arms as the last man stepped inside the idling motor home. “Hold up a minute!”
But no one answered. Desperate, she gasped as she ran harder. Her upswept wedding hair came out of its pins, the ends whipped by the wind and blowing into her eyes. She stopped paces away, shivering, aware of how ridiculous she must look.
Please, Brody. Don’t leave yet. Not like this.
Beside her, his sexy, languid body unfolded from the driver’s seat of a black Italian sports car, parked next to the motor home where she stood.
“Brody?” she asked.
His penetrating eyes focused on her. They were dark now, not heart-stopping baby blue, but cloudy. Angry, hurt, maybe even resigned.
She shivered. His brow rose at her dress, her hair, her presence. “Here.” He unzipped his parka and handed it to her. “Put this on and go back inside.”
“No.” She wasn’t leaving until she’d explained herself. She caught the coat in her hand and then held it, waiting for him to face her, not letting him see how cold she was. “I need to talk with you. It’s important.”
“There’s no point.”
“Please.” She put all her heart into that word.
He seemed to waver, the muscles in his jaw clenching and then releasing. He gave a curt nod, then leaned inside the motor home to speak to the team member. “Do you mind waiting? I’ll be ready in a minute.”
So he would hear her out, then. She rubbed at her goose-pimpled arms as a big guy, blond, probably German or Scandinavian, lumbered down the RV steps and joined the group in the second, smaller motor home.
“Are those the guys on your personal team?” she asked Brody. Of course they were. Coaches and ski tuners and trainers. Jeannie had told her he’d split from the main team because he couldn’t get along with her father. “That’s quite an entourage.”
Brody crossed his arms and leaned against the motor home his men had left him. “It’s expensive fielding my own team, which is the only reason I gave you that interview yesterday.”
Okay, so she’d expected him to be angry with her. But there had been more between them than just business, and she
needed him to acknowledge that. She licked her lips and stared at her toes, picturing the messed-up pedicure inside her shoes. “You asked me to go skiing with you afterward.”
He laughed dryly. “I’m a seat-of-the-pants kind of guy. I follow my intuition. But my intuition hasn’t done me any good where you’re concerned, has it?”
Humor. That was it; they needed a bit of humor.
She smiled sadly at him. “Brody, your intuition is working just fine. It’s my sense of self-preservation that isn’t.”
He shook his head. “Don’t try to charm me, Amanda. This is serious, you lied to me.”
“No,” she said slowly. “I told you the truth. I don’t have a relationship with that man.”
“That man is your father.”
“Not in his mind he isn’t.”
He shook his head again. “I know him. He doesn’t let anyone go, ever, not for any reason.”
“He did with me. He walked away,” she insisted.
Brody stared dully at her. “I don’t believe you.”
“I didn’t lie to you yesterday. I said I have no relationship to that man, and I don’t.” Her chest was heaving from all the running she’d done, and she felt cold from the tips of her fingers to her toes.
But Brody wasn’t listening. He’d turned his back to her, and she wanted to make him pay attention.
“Didn’t you see him in there?” she shouted, pointing to the hotel. “He hates me! He’d as soon cut off his arm as look at me. I don’t exist to him, Brody, don’t you get that?”
“How would I get that?” Brody turned furiously. “From where I’m sitting, you conned me. You deliberately conned me.” His voice broke.
“I didn’t!” Tears burned her eyelids, and she swiped them away. “Jeannie told me there’s bad blood between you two, but she didn’t tell me why and I didn’t ask any questions. Growing up, pretty much everybody in my town thought my father was a pompous jerk, so I’m used to that reaction to him. I get it.” Bitter laughter shotgunned from her mouth. “More than anyone, I get it.”
“For a journalist, not asking questions about the guy you’re interviewing doesn’t seem likely.”
Something to Prove Page 7
