Bound by the Italian's Contract(15)
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.