Bound by the Italian's Contract(26)
“I realize that,” he said as he eased the car through the short tunnel to the arched portico where a valet waited. “We’ll tour the area set aside for the therapy pod and go from there, if you have no objections.”
She shook her head. “None at all.”
Even though he had expected it of her, again she surprised him by being ready to dive in at a moment’s notice. It was a trait that would suit her well in her business. A trait he admired.
He climbed out at the same time the valet jumped to open Caprice’s door. By the time he’d rounded the hood, she’d fetched her bag from the trunk.
“If you please.” He motioned for her to precede him though massive glass doors into the lobby.
“Thanks.” She took half a dozen steps inside and stopped. “Wow.”
He savored that moment, admiring her lovely backside before she turned, her eyes alight with pleasure, her gaze dancing over the native granite wall behind the bank of glass reception desks to the stand of trees that towered in the central rotunda.
“This is absolutely fabulous,” she said, her face capturing her awe. “Who designed this?”
His chest swelled as he, too, surveyed the fluid modernity style that had already garnered three prestigious awards for the designer. “Valvechete of France. I commissioned him because my architect was off exploring some island in South America and I was too inpatient for him to return. Valvechete immediately stepped in and developed a design that was elegant yet fluid. Something that incorporated the location yet was innovative. In my opinion, this is by far his most stunning work. If not for my loyalty to my friend, I would use him exclusively for all my projects.”
“Sometimes you just have to go with the better man,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything remotely like this before. It’s breathtaking.”
“That was the idea.” He made to press his hand to the inviting small of her back but stopped short. Touching her might ignite the need he’d so far managed to tamp down. Might suggest an intimacy to her that he definitely wasn’t about to explore, even though he was sorely tempted. “Come. Let me show you the space allocated for your therapy program.”
The short walk down the central corridor gave a commanding view of the valley, thanks to the walls of glass to their left. “It feels as if we are strolling along a mountain path,” she said, face wreathed in a smile that erased the weariness he’d noticed earlier.
He ran his palm over the massive log wall to his right, proud of the rich patina it had developed over the past year. “I thought that would be a benefit to those who came here exclusively for therapy.”
“Very clever,” she said.
His face warmed uncomfortably. “Far from that.”
She paused in the glass-walled rotunda to stare out on the ski village and the verdant valley below, the perfect picture to advertise the area. “I disagree. This view is riveting.”
Not as captivating as her, he admitted. “Very much so.”
He tore his gaze from her and focused on the mountain. When he built the lodge, he’d commissioned a top photographer to capture this vista from differing seasons, a job that had taken a year. But the end product had been worth the wait.
And yet for all its grandeur and appeal, owning this premier lodge failed to assuage the guilt that ate at him day and night. At times it actually made him feel worse.