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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.
“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.
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 thought when the money stopped, Julian would abandon his reckless bent and focus on the team.”
“But that wasn’t the case,” she said, voice rising in question as she likely remembered how tensions had run high between the Duchelini brothers throughout the games.
“No. It was just the opposite, so Father charged me to intervene and get him back on track,” he said, feeling removed from himself now, as if he were talking about a stranger instead of himself. “Julian was the reckless one without ties or obligations while I accepted my duty and became a champion skier and suitably married man with a day-to-day hand in the family business.”
And perhaps he would have remained content in that role if his marriage hadn’t crumbled in his hands.
“Did you resent your role?” she asked calmly reminding him of counselors he’d seen to no avail.
If she only knew the details, Luc thought sourly. But she couldn’t and it wasn’t a subject he wished to go into great detail.
“I did after my ex-wife died,” he admitted, hungry for the punishment a free, grueling lifestyle promised.
She swallowed, going still. “You loved her.”
“Very much so.” He pressed his head against the seat, eyes closed as he allowed old memories and their pain to intrude. “With a bit of pressure, I was able to secure Julian a spot on the Italian ski team. But he didn’t care about Alpine. Extreme ski drove him. Challenged him.”
“Then why did he agree to participate in Alpine?”
“Father exerted his muscle,” Luc said. “Adding to the pressure, the sports world jumped on Julian’s natural ability, touting him as the faster and more daring Duchelini. It was a challenge few men could walk away from.”
“Was he really that good?” she asked.
“Better than good. Off the record, he beat me most of the time.” He fisted his hands on the chair, remembering how jealous he’d been of his brother’s bravado and skill. His freedom. “All champions know it is a matter of time before their records will be broken. I shattered my father’s records and Julian had the potential to best mine, but his heart remained in extreme ski, which is why he turned in such a poor performance at the World Cup.”
“Is that why Julian seemed so upset the day I left?”
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his knuckles along his jawline, glaring at the ceiling as the jet leveled off at cruising altitude. “No. I realized he got a tremendous high from extreme skiing and told him I, too, was going to compete against him there. He threw a fit. Said I wasn’t prepared. That I hadn’t practiced the quicksilver moves needed to attempt the extreme ski.”
She wet her lips, eyes narrowed and breathing shallow, looking vulnerable, pensive, concerned. That last one got him in the gut like a blow.
“Why? You were a four-time Alpine champion, skilled in tackling the toughest slopes in ungodly conditions. At the World Cup I remember you attacking the slopes with reckless abandon, earning gold in everything you entered.”
He loosed a bitter laugh at his carnal failings then and now, recalling that dark period in his life. If only he could alter time and go back, he might have been able to prevent the tragedy.
“Why doesn’t matter,” he said bitterly. “Alpine no longer thrilled me. But Julian refused to let up. So I challenged him to a race to decide my future. If he won, I would bow out of extreme ski.”
“And if you won, you would compete against your brother in the sport he excelled in.”
“Exactly. So I arranged the meet,” he said, regretting the fool’s bet every day.
“Wow.” She blew out a breath, then another, and he only just stopped himself from reaching over to her, touching her, holding her. “Why did you pick the most treacherous slope in Austria for your challenge?”
“The Hahnenkamm was the best test of our abilities,” he bit out. “I dreaded that mountain as most do and was grateful that winning my yearly race there was behind me. But it tests the best and that’s what this challenge was about. Julian readily agreed, knowing it was beyond reckless to attempt it at the same time. But he lived to test himself and saw this as his means to best me.”
“But he failed,” she said softly.
He closed his eyes and watched that moment unfold in his memory, feeling the amazing rush, the choking fear and the crippling pain that never ended, that rolled on and on like a monster avalanche, clearing everything in its path. “He could have won.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
“It was my fault.” He took a deep breath and huffed it out, gaze trained on the opaque wall but seeing nothing but blinding snow. Hearing nothing but the howl of the wind as he shot over the edge behind his brother and realized he was too low, that he hadn’t launched off as Julian had. “I was behind him by a good twenty seconds when we took a dangerous jump. I miscalculated the distance and lost a ski and the race. And my brother—” He hung his head and broke off, swallowing hard, face carved in anguish.
“Don’t go there,” she said softly, reaching over to lay a hand on his clenched one.
He turned his arm and grabbed her hand, squeezing it like it was a lifeline. “He shouldn’t have looked back. He should have kept flying down the mountain toward the next jump and proved he was the best. But he didn’t. He ignored the most basic rule and glanced back at me sprawled in the snow. I looked up just as he skidded out of control and shot over the precipice.”
“My God,” she whispered as she laid her hand atop his arm. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”
“I can do anything I want.”
“Let me help you—”
For one fleeting moment he wanted to accept her help. But that opened another avenue he wasn’t about to travel with a good woman.
“Helping Julian will help me,” he said, gruffly.
“There are other treatments—”
“No! What is done is done.” He shook his head, accepting his penance, his guilt. “I have had surgeries, followed by long sessions with top physical therapists around the world. My rehabilitation dragged on for two years before I put an end to it. They can do no more.”
“Are you always this intractable?”
“Stop being so optimistic,” he said, and without giving her time to reply, he barked out, “I brought you to Italy to give Julian a chance at a fuller life. You’re under contract do that and no more. In exchange, I will make sure you have an updated, state-of-the-art lodge for your therapy program in your quaint Colorado Rocky Mountains. Remember that.”
“How could I ever forget?”
He hoped to hell she didn’t. Hoped he could find that sweet spot that blinded him to the errors he’d made in the past. But then, in truth, he didn’t want to ease the misery.
It was the penance he lived every day. His due.
Nothing would change that. Nothing.
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