Something to Prove Page 13

  Swallowing, she clung onto him as he trudged through snowbanks higher than his knees. Because he stepped carefully, he never once jostled her. She felt his even breathing against her hair, and he barely seemed bothered with her weight.

  The benefits of an athlete, she thought, grateful for his strength. It was flattering to know he was worried for her, and reassuring, too. Maybe he hadn’t followed her back to the wedding just because of the sex, or left with her in his RV because of it either. But still, she needed to remember it wouldn’t help either of them to sleep together, ever again. Not when their lives and their goals were so permanently at odds.

  She stepped back as he set her down before the front door, the stoop bare because of an overhead awning and a wind tunnel whistling past them. “Who lives here?” she asked.

  “A friend of mine and his wife.”

  “Do you think they’re home?”

  He shone his flashlight inside a small window, then shook his head. “Hans’s Audi is gone, so it looks like they’ve already left for Alto Baglio.” He knelt, scooping and clearing snow from a partially hidden rock with his bare hands.

  They really would be alone together tonight? “Won’t your friends mind us staying here without them?”

  “Why? It’s the skier’s code, and I’d do the same for them. Come to think of it, I already have.” He stood, triumphantly holding a small house key. “Here it is, the key to the castle.”

  Amanda couldn’t help smiling. He looked so adorable—tall and strong and wearing his baseball cap covered with snowflakes. “Remind me never to put my apartment key under my front doormat.”

  “You don’t like house-crashers?” He shoved open the door with a grunt, glancing at her sideways. “Then you must really dislike skiers.”

  Funny how she’d been adjusting her opinion, and in just twenty-four hours. “I think they might be growing on me.”

  He darted a look at her. “This is only for one night, Amanda.”

  She bit her tongue. If she could help it, their stay would last as long as she needed to get him to talk to her. As far as she was concerned, he had an interview to give, and she could never let that go.

  But this time, she didn’t push it with him. She simply smiled. She’d learned that much from the accident. He frowned, then bent and picked her up again—his hands on her jeans cold from the snow—to carry her over the stoop.

  “What is this, a honeymoon?” she quipped.

  “Don’t make light of it.” But his voice wavered, betraying him. “I told you I’m taking care of your head wound tonight. Get used to it.”

  “I don’t have a head wound, just a slight cut. And I’m not shaken. See?” She flashed him a grin.

  “Stop thinking about your interview,” he growled, carrying her into the house. “Because it isn’t going to happen.”

  He knew her too well, and it was going to happen. She shifted to help him grope for the light switch, though the electricity was obviously out. Then he fumbled with the wall phone, but from his look, that didn’t work either.

  She gave him an innocent smile. “Tough luck, Brody?”

  Grunting, he pulled the flashlight from his back pocket, the beam splaying across the homey, peach-painted walls as he carried her upstairs and around the corner of an upper-level hallway that smelled inviting, like dried herbs from the alpine countryside.

  “This is the guest bedroom where you’ll be staying tonight,” he said gruffly, setting her down on a quilt-covered twin bed that squeaked uncomfortably under her weight. “No argument, you need your sleep.”

  “Sorry, but that’s impossible right now. It’s too cold to sleep here alone. You’ll need to stay and talk with me.”

  He pressed his hand to her forehead. “Damn it, we need to get you warm.”

  With the help of the flashlight he explored the room, fiddling with the thermostat and inspecting the heater. Then he straightened and sighed. “Wait here, all right? I’d leave you with the flashlight, but I need to check out the water heater. I’m pretty sure it runs on propane.”

  “Why, are you planning on dunking me in a hot shower?” She laughed.

  When he didn’t smile, she sat up.

  IT WAS A STEAMING HOT BATH. Amanda climbed into an oversize soaking tub set into a tiled platform, and big enough for two adults.

  Not that Brody made a move to join her. On the contrary, he’d turned his back as she’d stripped off her panties and her T-shirt. She slumped inside, watching him, the flickering light from four pillar candles on the platform’s ledge illuminating the pull of the fabric across his shoulders. She coughed, then stretched out her legs in the water, but neither noise made Brody budge.

  She leaned back, unsettled. Hadn’t he felt anything making love to her last night? Because she certainly had. Didn’t he…miss her?

  She sighed heavily into the Epsom-salt-and-lavender-oil-scented room.

  Cautiously, he turned his neck. Too late, it dawned on her that beneath the clear water she was completely naked, and that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to bait him.

  His stare burned as he drank in the outline of her breasts and bare legs, then blinked hard and dragged his gaze to her face. A vein throbbed in his neck and a tortured look heated his intense blue eyes.

  She had her answer; he did miss her.

  “Damn it, Amanda,” he growled. “I’ll wait outside.”

  “You don’t have to leave.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Brody…” She wanted him to stay, but she couldn’t admit that when it was so one-sided. “Don’t you want to…?”

  Don’t you want to come in with me, she almost said. But that was impossible. And from the pained look on his face, he knew it too.

  Grinding his jaw, he faced the wall again—white tile, shadows bouncing across it from the flickering candlelight.

  Now what? She dug her fingernails into her palms. The small room was heating with steam, and in response, he pushed up his sleeves past his elbows. From her position in the tub, she could see the deep red scar marring the muscular beauty of his right forearm. Last night she’d kissed him there, but he hadn’t told her what it meant. She knew only the bare-bones particulars about his past, really.

  “Is that scar left from your injury two years ago?” she asked.

  “I said no questions,” he snapped.

  Sadness enveloped her. Ever since the call from Chelsea, he’d put up such a wall around himself. And that was a mistake, because she and Brody had shared something this weekend that went far beyond sex.

  From the sunset on the mountain, to the aftermath of lovemaking in the lodge. The comfort he’d given her in the RV when she’d followed him out of the wedding, and then, returning inside so he could dance with her in private.

  She missed that emotional closeness. She lifted her hand, letting the water run through her fingers. Yes, on a practical level she could cobble together an article without Brody’s cooperation, but it wouldn’t be a good one, and it certainly wouldn’t be enough to earn her promotion. Regardless of the promotion though, shouldn’t she and Brody at least be able to talk out their differences?

  “You don’t want me to write about you,” she said sadly, “and yet I have to. How do you propose we fix this?”

  “Fix this?” He turned to stare at her. “You don’t have a clue what’s going on, do you?”

  “Then give me one, Brody.”

  His lips clenched, conveying his seriousness. “What if you’re a tool he’s using to destroy me? Have you considered that scenario?”

  She gasped. “I would never destroy you!”

  “No?” he said between his teeth. “Think about the facts. You filed your profile yesterday, a puff piece—and for the sake of this discussion I’ll believe you when you say that’s all it was.”

  “That is all it was!” Why was he being so suspicious?

  “Then why,” he asked, “after I have a confrontation with your father, do your bosses suddenly want the fu
ll, in-depth, investigative-reporter-treatment sicced on me?”

  She gaped at him. “You think there’s a connection?”

  He snorted. “Can’t you smell the setup? Because I can. Can’t you see your father’s fingers all over this?”

  “Maybe I could, if you’d been honest with me at the wedding and told me what it was he said to you!”

  Brody crossed his arms and faced the wall again.

  “Talk to me,” she said, her voice shaking, “because I want to be honest with you. And I am honest. I told you everything that went down between my father and me, and why. I told you exactly who I am and what I do. I have no more secrets from you.”

  “This is different,” he said in a guttural whisper.

  “How is it different?” She sat up, the water sloshing in the tub. “Brody, do you know what my boss said to me? She thinks you’re hiding something. You have to be—you try too hard to keep yourself under wraps.”

  “Why would she think that?” He turned, his nostrils flaring. “Is there anyone on that magazine staff who has a connection to your father, besides you?”

  “What? No! Chelsea has never met him and she doesn’t want to either. She hates sports. Same with her boss who runs Paradigm.” Amanda leaned her head back and stared into the flames. “Though in full disclosure, my father does sit on a golfing charity with Vernon Trowel, the industrialist who owns the holding company that owns the media corporation, about twenty levels above me. Trust me, though, that’s not how I got the job. My father doesn’t even know or care that I work there.”

  “Damn it, Amanda!”

  “You don’t believe me?” she asked.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of a long con?”

  “A…what?”

  “A long con. A scam that uses a long setup designed to get your trust and then abuse it so the perpetrator can get what they want out of you. It’s what con men do.”

  What was he talking about? Her father was many things, but he wasn’t a con man. He was straight and aboveboard when he ruthlessly manipulated a person or stabbed them in the chest. There was nothing charming or sneaky about her father. So why would Brody think that way?

  Of course. Brody’s father was a con man. That was the key to his psyche. The answer to how she could solve this interview problem for both of them, equally.

  She lifted her foot to the rim of the tub, watching the warm water trickle down her calf. What if she focused her article on Brody’s father? He was Brody’s deeper secret, after all, the core vulnerability she’d sensed in him from the beginning. The best-kept secret on the tour, he’d joked to her.

  But it wasn’t a joke. Not to Brody. He didn’t want anybody to know about his father being in prison, just as she didn’t want anybody to know about her father disowning her.

  But she had to approach the idea carefully with him. “Brody, you need to give this interview so your sponsor will fund you for the season, am I right? So, what if we were to spotlight your charity? The paradox of the tough, competitive skier putting as much into a charitable foundation as he does into his training.” Because why else would a guy who had issues with his father start a program to help kids? “This can only help you,” she said. “You can’t object to that.”

  He gave a dry laugh. “Nice try. But you and I both know your readers don’t give a rat’s ass about my foundation.”

  “Maybe not specifically,” she said calmly, “but like everyone, they love a good story. And what else is conflict but fuel for a satisfying ending?” Yes, that was the answer. “Think about it, if we bring out the ‘why’ of your foundation, some background about life with your father when you were a kid, then that could go a long way toward bringing interest and maybe even funding to your work.”

  He stared at her. “Don’t try to con a conner’s kid.”

  “You see, you look at everything through that lens. You can’t help it. Who could, in your shoes?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Following that train of thought, you look at life as an ego contest to win.”

  Her breath sucked in. “That wasn’t nice.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d want to make that comparison.”

  She swallowed, determined to go on. “I have to write something. And I will write something. Sleep on it, Brody. Because you know it’s a good idea for both of us. Your father is the revelation that readers will care to know about.”

  “It’s none of their business.”

  She looked him in the eye. “Have you ever talked about it? To your siblings, say?”

  He stared blankly at her.

  “You don’t have any siblings? How about your mother?”

  “She’s dead,” he said flatly.

  “Oh, Brody.”

  “I was a toddler,” he mumbled. “I don’t even remember her.”

  That was awful. She couldn’t imagine growing up without her sister or her mother. Despite all his success, his followers and his tour buddies, Brody must live a lonely life.

  She drew her knees to her chin and hugged herself. “Have you told any friends about him?”

  “No.” His voice was softer now. She hadn’t been wrong—he was a very private person.

  “Have you ever told…a girlfriend?” she asked.

  Brody shook his head and looked at her bleakly. “Just you, Manda.”

  Her heart clutched. She felt dizzy, and maybe she was a little jolted from the accident. But she needed to keep him with her, now, before he walked away for good.

  “Brody, if you tell me more about him, I promise I’ll keep your confidence. I’ll write your story in a way that serves your dignity. And I’ll make sure people see the true nature of your charity and why it’s important to you.”

  He swallowed and his jaw went tight. “I don’t want those kids interviewed,” he said in a raw voice.

  Did she dare hope? She kept her tone calm. “Okay.”

  “And I sure as hell don’t want you to see him or even say where he is.”

  Was he talking about his father? If he was, she couldn’t promise that. “Brody…”

  “And don’t assume the guys on my team know anything about this,” he said harshly. “I don’t talk to them about it and they don’t want to know, so don’t be thinking it would be productive to call them. I’m telling you up front, that’s a no-go with me. Leave them out of this or I won’t do it. I’m serious, Amanda.”

  She slowly let out her breath. The important thing was, he was considering giving her the interview. This was their first step, talking about the conditions. Later, they could negotiate the details, because she would have to fact-check him at some point. For now, though, it was smartest to keep the deal as simple as possible.

  “Okay,” she said, sitting up in the tub. “I understand completely.”

  He looked down at the floor and nodded shortly. “Good.”

  “We’re agreed, then?”

  “No. Like you said, I need to sleep on it.” He glanced at her. “And if I were to agree to a sit-down, I’d want this done in one day. I’d give you an hour tomorrow morning, and only if your head is okay, but then we’re leaving. I’ll drop you wherever you need to go. Then I have training to get to, and an on-site meeting with my ski manufacturers.”

  “May I attend?”

  “No.” He looked her in the eye. “And I’d need to see your copy before you file it.”

  “That is not copacetic, Brody!”

  “No?” He was shouting back at her. “Amanda, I don’t think about my childhood. I don’t go there. I’ve locked it away and I want it kept locked away. How would you like to spill your guts about your father to a national tabloid? How would you take it?”

  “I’m not a tabloid writer,” she said coolly, “and if the only way you’ll believe me is to see my copy before I file it, then fine, I will make a journalistic exception. But only because I was stupid enough to sleep with an interview subject, so maybe I deserve it.”

  That vein pulsed in his neck. “We won’t
be sleeping together again. I can’t have sex with you during this thing.”

  “No kidding!” She was shouting again.

  But he was just as angry. “I’m the one who has more to lose,” he said, his voice barely controlled. “You could change your mind about showing me the copy, and you could still write whatever you want and I’d have no recourse. The words would be out there, the skis out of the gate so to speak, and it would be too late for me to take back anything I said.”

  He was right. The stakes were high for him. But, like it or not, he was the public figure, and that was the price a public figure paid—the entry fee for all the fame and glory and sponsor money.

  “I won’t betray you,” she said softly. “I swear to you I won’t.”

  And then she looked at him, pale and shivering—he was visibly shaking even in the steaming room. He looked as if he’d been the one hit on the head, not her.

  She held out her hand to him. “Brody, will you come into the tub with me? I want you to be warm again.”

  HE WAS IN HELL.

  Brody stood at the end of the tub, and despite everything Amanda threatened him with, he couldn’t tear his gaze from her.

  Her hair was pinned up and the water sluiced over her breasts, the nipples just edging the surface. She’d drawn up her knee, and there was nothing he wanted more than to strip off his clothes and join her, kissing her deeply as she wrapped her legs around him.

  He groaned, curling his hands into fists. He had an erection under his boxer shorts and the last thing he needed was to want her and remember the feeling of being buried inside her. When they’d made love, he’d thought it had been the most intense sex he’d ever experienced, but nothing topped the raw emotions he faced now.

  He’d never felt his own scars more. He’d never felt anyone else’s scars more. He was too protective of her, and it terrified him. All he wanted was to stop thinking about the decision at hand and lose himself in her body again, as if that would make the agony disappear.