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.”