“We’ll wait for the trail to be cleared,” he cut in, his brow pulled into a dark scowl that dared her to argue.
Not that she would.
Taking an off-piste route around the avalanche was too risky to attempt for anyone who wasn’t a top skier. Her skills were higher than most, but nothing to compare to him. Or at least to the skier he’d been. Now? If he couldn’t attempt the run with full confidence, then they were right in staying here until the trail was safe to travel.
“Okay,” she said, content to follow him down the wide hallway until she noticed that he favored his right leg. The same limb where her fingers had skimmed a ridge of skin before he’d pulled her hand away. “Your right side took the brunt of the injury when you fell that day on the Hahnenkamm. That’s why you don’t ski.”
He came to a dead stop and looked back at her, eyes glacial hard again. “I wondered how long it would take you to notice.”
“It’s not that obvious,” she said, and when he raised a questioning eyebrow, she shrugged. “I’m trained to catch things the average person wouldn’t see.”
“As I said before, you are extremely astute. But you’re wrong about one thing. My injuries are not why I quit skiing.” He continued down the hall without explaining more, leaving her to wonder the real reason.
She entered a large kitchen that boasted an array of copper pots and skillets, their shiny surfaces gleaming from the sun streaming through the bank of windows. “But your abilities were diminished by the accident?”
He nodded. “My injuries were severe. As soon as I was able, I began rebuilding muscle tone. But the right side didn’t fully return, leaving me with one-sided strength. I can ski. Do pretty much anything I want,” he said, his gaze skimming over her body once, twice, as if reminding her of the pleasure they’d just shared, before settling on her eyes again. “But I would be a fool to attempt competition again.”
“You could ski for pleasure,” she said.
“I skied to win. Now it’s over.” He spread his arms and turned in the center of the large kitchen. “Let’s see how good you are at concocting a meal out of thin provisions.”
And just like that, he had swiftly changed topic again. Normally she’d never have given up this easily with a client, but then, as he’d reminded her, he wasn’t her patient.
“Your chef has excellent taste in cookware.”
He laughed as he rummaged through a massive twin-door refrigerator that looked rather stark. “The cookware is my preference.”
“Seriously? You cook?” she asked, and bit back adding, more than a box meal.
“Of course I can. I love good food and have always known how most can be best prepared,” he said, kissing the pinched tips of his forefinger and thumb in such an exaggerated, theatrical way she laughed, thoroughly enjoying this freedom with a man. “It seemed logical that I learned how to prepare these dishes as well. One lesson from a chef in Tuscany and I was hooked on cooking.”
She shook her head and smiled, liking this playful, relaxed side of Luciano. Liking it a bit too much perhaps. But she’d come this far. She might as well enjoy this companionship with a man while it lasted.
“I had no idea you possessed such hidden talents,” she teased.
He laughed, a rich contralto that hummed within her. “Are you hungry, bella?”