Bound by the Italian's Contract(13)

                “I don’t,” he spat, every viral inch 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.