Bound by the Italian's Contract

by Janette Kenny

  Now that Caprice had reentered his life, the image of the bright-eyed young woman he clearly recalled was replaced by a determined businesswoman who sought to align with him for her own benefit. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Strictly business. He got that. Understood it. Respected her for her drive.

  He shouldn’t find her attractive in the least. But he did.

  It was her aloofness and passion for her program and her old lodge. That was the only plausible explanation for his fascination with her.

  The only difference between Caprice and the score of women hoping to snare him into marriage was the simple fact she could help his brother. That was why he’d agreed to meet with her. That’s the only reason why he didn’t stop this car now and call the whole thing off.

  He needed her to help Julian as much as she needed his money and the connections his name would lend to Tregore Lodge and her program. From a business standpoint, theirs was a win-win situation. As long as he kept her at arm’s length, everything would be fine.

  No problem, as she’d made it clear she wanted nothing personal to do with him. Their association 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 in
ch 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 in Italian, likely a curse aimed at her. “Not enough to waste my time trying. I have learned to accept my limitations, Caprice. There is a difference.”

  “So that’s it? You just give up?”

  “This isn’t about me. It’s about Julian, and his injuries are life altering. All of the reports and reviews I’ve read about your program are glowing, and the professional techniques you’ve implemented are revolutionary. Focus on helping him with them.” He motioned her inside, a muscle pulsing wildly in his jaw. “After you.”

  She looked away from his probing gaze and hurried through the doorway. Maybe he was right. Even with the best therapeutic programs out there, recovery from injuries hit a wall at some point. She knew that. Taught it often. So why was she pushing the issue with him? Why was she eager to discover his injuries?

  The answer eluded her as she moved past him into the spacious waiting area of the airport with its welcoming chairs and scattering of passengers. She hadn’t been here in fifteen years, but it hadn’t changed except for an upgrade in the interior design.

  She looked out the expanse of glass spanning the outer wall of the private concourse that lent a fabulous view of the private planes waiting to be boarded or disembarked by the rich or famous or a combination of both. The only time she’d been here was when she was twelve, and she was still haunted by the painful memory from her childhood leading up to that first trip to Denver.

  She’s of the age to be sent to boarding school, her mother’s latest lover for the past six months had said one day as they’d readied for a trip to Jamaica.

  Fine. Pay her tuition and I’ll sign the papers, her mother had shot back.

  She’s not my daughter, he’d said. Let her father assume her support or remain with her.

  And at that ultimatum, her mother had packed up Caprice and her possessions and flown to Colorado. She would never forget the shock twisting the reserved man’s face when her mother marched her into Tregore Lodge, announced that Caprice was his daughter and ceremoniously dumped her into his care. She would never forget the sense of abandonment that haunted her still, despite the fact her father had accepted his responsibility and raised her well.

  “This way,” Luciano said, her body jolting as he pressed his right palm to her back.

  For an insane moment, she wanted to lean into him. Wanted the heat radiating from his touch to melt the chill locked deep inside her. Wanted to feel needed and coddled just once in her life.

  Sanity prevailed and she stumbled forward, breaking the odd hold. Already, being with him felt too familiar, too personal.

  She moved to the aisle, walking slowly and purposefully when part of her screamed to run from the vortex of emotions swirling inside her. But there was no escape from memories, she knew as she continued toward the attendant standing by the door.

  The woman’s hungry gaze touched briefly on Caprice before devouring Luciano. The fact he always got that response from women didn’t surprise her. The sudden tension and annoyance bubbling up inside her did, catching her unaware.

  A denial screamed inside her brain. She wasn’t jealous. She couldn’t be. She wouldn’t let herself be.

  “Good evening, Mr. Duchelini,” the attendant said in a soft purr. “Your plane is ready. If there’s anything else I can do...”

  “Grazie,” he said, and pressed several bills in her hand.

  The woman loosed a throaty laugh that set Caprice’s teeth on edge. “If you ever need another assistant for your fleet, or anything else,” she added, stepping closer to him, “please let me know.”

  “I will bear that in mind,” he said.

  Caprice had no doubt that he would. There was never a shortage of willing, beautiful women in Luciano’s world.

  She took a step away from the pair only to be caught by a strong yet gentle hand on her arm. Her gaze lifted to his, questioning.

  “We must leave,” he said, his crushed-velvet voice warm against her ear.

  She shivered, her breath catching in her throat. “Sure. Fine,” she managed to get out.

  In moments he hustled her across the tarmac to the waiting jet. This gleaming plane dwarfed the local charter ones she’d taken with the ski team from one regional airport to another. The Duchelini jet was close in size to the spacious connection planes she’d taken on short jaunts between major terminals.

  “She was hot for you,” she said.

  “She was overtly forward and looking to feather her nest.”

  “I’m sure you’re used to that,” she said, well remembering that he’d always had a bevy of beauties at his beck and call, many literally hanging on his strong arms.

  “The falseness? Yes,” he said, his lip curling. “Women like that have their place, but I am done with them.”

  Which meant what exactly? She chose not to pry because she knew the type of woman he referred to, and because it was none of her business or concern.

  She followed him to the skirted ramp rising to a gleaming white jet, the belly and tail embellished with vibrant swaths of red and blue that faded into a muted spray of color. The la Duchi logo, the same one she’d seen brandished on the most elite skis and winter gear worldwide.

  Her stomach clenched as she gripped the rail and ran up the steps, palm gliding up the cool metal. A whisper of chilled air greeted her at the top.

  Fragmented memories of her childhood flickered before her like a black-and-white movie, faces and names of people long forgotten or barely known. Nannies, the score of men her mother had romanced and the array of beautiful people who had played with their set in that glamorous world.

  Caprice recalled few details, but remembered one thing perfectly clearly. She’d always felt alone in her mother’s elite world.

  Even now, there was loneliness deep in her.

  The old uncertainty and fear closed in around her, holding her in the past. For a moment, she paused to take a breath and push those unpleasant memories from her mind.

  She didn’t doubt going with Luciano was the right thing, nor did she hold any more qualms over their business deal. Still, a second’s hesitation needled over her skin, a last warning that the moment she stepped into the spacious Duchelini jet there would be no turning back.

  “What is the matter now?” he asked, his breath warm on her nape, the press of his palm to her back, firm and hot, and stirring feelings in her that made her want so much more. Dangerous yearnings that she still hadn’t been able to quell yet.

  She didn’t need the conflict of working closely with him. She was the professional here. She would find a way to cope.

  “Nothing more than the initial shock of stepping into air-conditioning,” she said, slamming the door on her past and childish longings.

  She’d expected the interior to reflect a masculine and sterile tone. But the rich burgundy and cream seating, glass-topped walnut tables and warm lighting gave the cabin a welcoming feel. Like coming home after a long, tiring trip.

&n
bsp; “Then I’ll have Larissa bring you a wrap,” he said with a beckoning curl of his fingers, and a trim woman with a kind face appeared from behind a curved wooden divider midcabin with a gorgeous pale cream blanket draped over her arm. “The cabin gets quite cool when we reach cruising speed.”

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the offered wrap and moving to a plush swivel seat by the window.

  Luciano strode to the stocked bar, his movements noticeably stiffer. Ice clinked in a glass, the sound loud in the spacious cabin.

  “You should take something for the pain,” she said to his broad back.

  “I intend to. Bunnahabhain on the rocks.”

  “From Islay,” she said, remembering his preferred Scotch.

  He saluted her with a heavy goblet half filled with the amber liquor. “Do you still drink it or have you adopted a different taste?”

  The fact he remembered she’d drank it at all stunned her, but she hid it well, just like 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.