Bound by the Italian's Contract(87)

                “Do you need something?” she asked, not looking up.

                “Mr. Duchelini is here,” the secretary said, shooting him a scolding look. “Luciano Duchelini.”

                Caprice jerked upright and stared at him, and the pain and worry in her eyes tore at something buried inside him he hadn’t known existed. “Why are you here?”

                “Julian asked me to come,” he said. “He caught a head cold that quickly infected his lungs. His physician advised him not to attempt the trip. He sends his regrets along with me.”

                The lips he hungered for pursed. “Fine. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

                “I need to talk with you alone first.”

                She looked up again, and this time he saw a mounting sense of urgency spark in her eyes. “Sorry. We go live in five minutes.”

                And with that she ran out the door, leaving him standing there like a fool. A rejected fool. With good reason, he realized as he stalked to the door to take his leave.

                He stopped dead in his tracks, hand on the brass knob. He’d accused her of running away from him and her feelings, but he’d been guilty of doing the same thing.

                Luc shook his head, finding it ironic that it had taken losing Caprice for him to finally rip his blinders off. He wasn’t backing down or away again.

                He trailed her to the great room, followed her onto the dais and took up a stance at the side behind the curtain, but the sudden flash of cameras en route proved many in the audience recognized him. So be it if this moment was recorded forever. Whatever the outcome, it would certainly leave an indelible mark on his memory and his future.

                “Thank you all for coming,” Caprice began. “If I could direct your attention to the screen above the hearth, we’ll run a short video depicting my program.”

                She moved to the opposite side of the dais, where a chair had been positioned for her behind a small curtain. Her gaze flitted once to his before the lights dimmed and the same video that had played at his grand opening began.

                As soon as the ten-minute video ended, the lights came on and Caprice returned to the podium to give the same abbreviated speech. Lines of stress radiated from her eyes and mouth, and her stance was noticeably stiffer.

                Luc frowned, alert to the rising sense of urgency Caprice projected.

                “Any questions?” she asked.

                “Is Luciano Duchelini involved in the day-to-day running of Tregore Lodge or is he just your backer?” a reporter asked.

                She fidgeted with her notes. “My business association with la Duchi is not on the agenda for discussion. Next question,” she said, pointing to another person.

                The next twenty minutes she fielded random questions about the renovations and her program. “Any more?” she asked, allowing an overly long pause.

                She took a deep breath and heaved it out, and Luc did the same, feeling the tension roiling through her, fearful what had upset her so. “There’s one more thing I wish to touch on here. Take notes because I won’t be answering questions at this time.”

                Luc was on the dais and by her side in an instant, hearing the strain in her voice and fearing she was close to losing control. “What’s wrong?”

                “You’ll find out in a moment,” she whispered with a faint smile before sobering and facing the audience again. Luc stepped back out of the limelight, giving her the stage.