Something to Prove Read online

  He joined her, picking up a dish towel and drying the plate she’d left in the wooden rack. For long minutes they worked together, saying nothing. She felt bruised inside, exposed and hurt. She didn’t know what to think, so she focused on sponging the plates with soapy water and then rinsing them. The silverware. One movement at a time.

  She put the last knife in the drying rack, but he moved to block her from walking away. “I’ve never put myself in this position before,” he said in a broken voice.

  The heat from his body swamped her. He did care about her, too, and this was the closest she’d get to him saying so.

  Intimacy is dangerous for him. He doesn’t know who to trust. “You’ve been betrayed before, haven’t you?”

  He stepped back. “No. I’m careful to avoid it, and you should be, too.”

  She nodded, turning to leave, but to do so she needed to squeeze past him in the narrow passage. Her hips brushed his. Their longing for each other was almost tangible, like the air after a dark rain.

  “I think,” she said, her voice shaking, “that we need to take one evening. Just one evening and dedicate it to this interview we need to do.” She swallowed and dared to look at him. “Because we both need it, Brody. And if we find we can’t be…friends afterward, then we’ll stay away from each other. I’ll find a quiet corner and write my assignment. You can…ski. God knows there’s enough snow here.” She laughed shortly. “Beyond that, we’ll share meals and chores. We don’t need to talk again if you don’t want to.”

  “That’s it? That’s your guarantee?” He stalked to the table, agitated, and unscrewed the bottles he’d taken from the duffel bag. His gaze rose to meet hers, and she saw the fury on his face. “You know,” he said, pointing at her, “it would help if you showed any awareness of the power you have to ruin people’s lives.”

  “What are you talking about? I’ve never ruined anybody’s life!”

  “Let me tell you what these bottles are, and you can guess again.”

  “The supplements?” Blinking, she scanned the labels on his bottles: A multi-vitamin. Extra vitamin C. Magnesium. Omega 3 capsules. Probiotics. Something called MSM. “Why are you showing me your vitamin pills?”

  “Because athletes need them for their jobs.” He stared at her, his blue eyes bright. “Because what we do is a job, no different from yours, and we need to stay healthy for it.”

  “I know that. Don’t you take other stuff, too?” She remembered all the protein powders from her youth when she lived with her father.

  “Like what?” Brody asked flatly.

  “What do you call them…?” She snapped her fingers. “Performance-enhancing supplements. Powders and shakes.”

  “No.” He spread his hand over the table. “And this is important. What you see is what you get.”

  “Why are you being so touchy about this?”

  “Because we have to be. And you need to understand that. We’re poked and prodded and asked to piss in a cup at every turn. Back in the day, some of the over-the-counter stuff had banned substances in them, and guys were unfairly accused.”

  “Whoa, I never accused anybody of anything.”

  “You wrote about it.” He crossed his arms. “Did you ever consider your allegations from the athletes’ point of view?”

  Was he talking about her baseball article last year? About steroid use in major-league sports and the effect it had on kids who were emulating their heroes?

  “Of course. I covered every point of view in that story,” she said, picking up the box of eggs he’d used and setting it down again. The label read Certified Organic. She glanced at the maple syrup bottle. Certified Organic, too. And the coffee beans, nestled in the bag he’d brought from his motor home kitchen. Brody wasn’t taking any chances on illegal chemicals getting into his system. He even traveled with his own food and drink. “Isn’t this excessive?”

  “I can name good people in every sport affected,” he said, an edge to his voice. “All you have to do is use that word…” He seemed to choke on it. “…steroids, and everything they’ve worked for is over. It’s a modern-day witch hunt.”

  “Are you sure you’re not buying into the stereotype of the bastard reporter who just wants the scoop?” she asked, trying to stay calm.

  “Manda, those baseball players you wrote about only did what the fans demanded of them.” He leaned forward on the counter, passionate about the subject. “Have you ever seen a fan demand an autograph from an athlete? Have you ever seen how fast they turn on them when they’re in a slump? Or when they’re injured?”

  “Yes,” she said calmly again, “and if you’d read my article on steroids in baseball, then you’d see I did the players justice.”

  “Do the players think so?” he demanded.

  “Have you read my article, Brody?” she pressed. “Or are you just believing what Harrison told you to think about me?”

  He paused, obviously taken aback.

  Touché, she thought. “Give me your email address, and I’ll send you my article.”

  “Harrison sent it this morning,” he said in a low voice. “It’s on my phone.”

  So this is what the inquisition was about. “And have you read it yet?”

  He made a slow shake of his head.

  “Then go and read it. Before we discuss anything else, read it.”

  He nodded shortly. “You’re right. I need to think.” He sighed. “And since you’re staying, I need to get some wood cut and brought in from the shed before the light fades. The generator needs work, too.”

  Mr. Integrity. That was Brody. “In the meantime, I’ll find a quiet place to work.”

  “Then you’ll need this.” He crossed the kitchen and returned carrying her laptop bag.

  Her jaw dropped. “You brought in my laptop?”

  He shrugged, averting his gaze from hers. “I, uh, texted Sarah, and she said you could use her office.” His blue eyes met hers, and as they did, her throat tightened.

  “Thank you, Brody,” she whispered.

  “It should be set up for you.” He paused. “She’s a writer, too.”

  Amanda felt her eyes bug out. “Your skier friend is married to a writer?”

  He looked at her sharply. “To my knowledge, she’s never, ever written an article about him, either now or before they were dating.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “And believe me, I wouldn’t write an article about you, either, if I didn’t have to. Just like you wouldn’t give me an interview if you didn’t have to.”

  They stared at each other for a long time. And then, he simply nodded. “We’ll talk later.”

  She nodded, too. The important thing was, he had brought in her laptop. There were a dozen small actions he could have taken to sabotage her project, and he hadn’t taken any of them. Instead, he was staying with her in this hideaway chalet, and talking to her. Listening to her point of view.

  She swallowed. Maybe it was finally sinking in to him that she really was going to write this article. It certainly had sunk in to her that he was going to push back and protect his interests fiercely.

  But she would protect his interests, too. And in time, he would see that.

  “Thank you, Brody,” she whispered again.

  “I’m not a total bastard,” he said in a low voice.

  She didn’t think he was a bastard at all. She took the laptop bag from him, their fingers lightly brushing. All the wonder over being able to negotiate with a man, to show him her feelings and her values, however guardedly, and not having him dismiss her out of hand—it was new to her.

  Emotion welled within her. It seemed to build to one big font of hope that everything could work out okay between them. That they could figure this out somehow.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Amanda swiveled in the best writing chair she’d ever sat in. Sarah’s attic studio was a little piece of heaven.

  In a corner nook were shelves holding all kinds of books in several languages, but predominantly E
nglish. A bank of windows overlooked the back of the house and the most beautiful natural scenery outside her home state’s White Mountains: the majestic Italian Alps. A working fireplace made of mountain stone was set along the opposite wall, and a comfortable couch with cashmere throws beckoned.

  Amanda could envision herself perfectly, editing copy with pen in hand before a roaring fire. Maybe even a glass of brandy. What a far cry from her doorless and ceilingless cubicle in Paradigm’s Manhattan offices, noisy and without privacy—certainly without an inspirational view. With internet and telecommunications being what they were, why couldn’t she live and work like this always?

  She leaned her chin on her fists and gazed down at the yard. Brody was bringing in firewood he’d chopped, judging from an ax stuck in a block of wood. Then he rummaged inside a shed, emerging with a shovel. He paused to check his cell phone, that miracle of modern technology. Really, what stopped people from living the lives they wanted, wherever life may take them?

  She ran her hands over Sarah’s funky-cool writing desk, a door that had been painted orange. Out of respect for her host, she left Sarah’s computer dark and instead set up her own laptop.

  While she was searching for an outlet to plug in her adapter, she couldn’t help glancing at Sarah’s bulletin boards. From the photos and cards, Hans appeared to be a retired local skier, and Sarah an English-speaking writer who published a newsletter with skiing news. She also wrote novels, judging from a second bulletin board dedicated to the checkerboard placement of brightly colored index cards with jotted notes. A list of scenes on a storyboard, Amanda realized.

  There were all kinds of writers in the world. And one great thing about being a writer was that she wasn’t tied to one spot. Unlike skiing, where a person needed snow to practice, Amanda could write anywhere she wanted to.

  She turned on her laptop, then buckled down and cranked out the one piece of writing required for the day: a message to Jeannie letting her know she was okay. That she was snowbound with Brody and riding out the avalanche warning.

  While Amanda was online, she checked her email. True to form, Chelsea had come through. Amanda clicked open her short and sweet note: Enjoy the snowstorm hideaway with your hot skier. When your article hits my inbox, here’s what you can look forward to. Chelsea

  Attached was a contract. With everything Amanda had asked for: promotion, job security, status.

  She leaned back in the chair and imagined having it all. But no sooner had she closed her eyes than her videophone connection sounded. It was Jeannie.

  Amanda toggled the buttons, but she couldn’t get the video to work, just the sound. “Honey, I didn’t want to bother you on your honeymoon,” she chided into the computer speakers.

  “I was going to call you anyway,” Jeannie’s soft voice answered. “I want to thank you. Massimo’s sister came and boxed up my wedding bouquet for the dried flower arranger, and the ivy cuttings you put in water for me are making me very happy.”

  “Good,” Amanda said. “That’s exactly what I intended.”

  “Remember how Mom used to make clippings with her houseplants?” Jeannie sighed with nostalgia. “‘Giving them sisters’ is how she described it to me once. I think what you did for me is very appropriate.”

  Amanda’s eyes misted. She’d never known that about their mom. And until Jeannie had said so, she hadn’t made the connection that she was continuing one of her family traditions.

  Bittersweet warmth filled her chest. Their mother had touched them in many more positive ways than she’d realized. She was only beginning to see that.

  “So tell me,” Jeannie chattered on, making Amanda grateful the video connection on the monitor wasn’t working, “how is my big sister doing with Brody Jones?”

  “I’m…good.” She paused, fiddling with her laptop cord. Should she tell Jeannie she was having fantasies that she could write for her magazine and build a relationship with Brody at the same time?

  She felt her face heat.

  “Is he treating you well?” Jeannie demanded. “Because Massimo will go down there and rescue you if he isn’t.”

  “No need.” She laughed. “I definitely want to be here. And…I’m making headway with Brody. I’m just wondering if it’s a good idea to want to pursue anything with him. Practically, I mean.”

  Jeannie giggled. “Are you asking my matchmaking opinion?”

  “Strangely, it appears so.”

  “In that case, I think you should keep yourself open to him. It’s obvious he’s interested, or else he wouldn’t be risking any of this.”

  “You think so?”

  “He came back for you even after he knew about you being Dad’s daughter, didn’t he?”

  Yes. Yes, he had.

  “He’s stuck with you this far, Mandy, there has to be something there. Besides, Massimo gives him his stamp of approval, and that’s as strong an endorsement for his character there is, if you ask me.”

  Brody was proving himself a decent guy. Amanda curled the laptop cord around her fingers, thinking of their talk in the kitchen. “We’re negotiating a compromise. And he seems to respect me. He’s promised to read one of my old articles.”

  “He should respect you. You have a lot to offer, and I’m not talking about your job.”

  That’s where Jeannie was wrong. Without her position at Paradigm, she wasn’t anything special. Her job was what had first made Brody notice her—and was the only reason he kept noticing.

  Amanda glanced at Chelsea’s email. “I need to interview him again. You see, they want another story about him, a longer piece this time. Do you remember the rumor you told me about the trouble between him and Dad? I need to know what that was about, Jeannie.”

  There was a slight hesitation on Jeannie’s end. “I don’t know if it’s true, really. It’s just a hint Dad made. A feeling I got.”

  “What did he say, exactly?”

  Jeannie sighed. “Mandy, you’ve got to understand where Dad is coming from. Brody is a guy who’s had effortless success in the sport. And Dad, not at all. You know how he wanted to be a great skier when he was young, don’t you? I swear, sometimes I can see the envy pouring from him in waves. Massimo says you should have seen him when Brody got injured and they weren’t telling anybody—I think Dad secretly loved it when journalists started trash-talking Brody. Dad couldn’t help rubbing it in to him. Just the snarky things he said about it, you know?”

  “Brody would hate that.”

  “He and Dad are like oil and water.”

  “I thought you said Dad and I are like oil and water?”

  Jeannie laughed. “This is the first I’ve heard you make light of it. Brody is good for you, isn’t he?”

  “I…wouldn’t say that just yet.” Whether he gave her the interview would be the true test.

  “He is good for you. I’ve always known when you were happy, and I can feel it now. Don’t fight it, Mandy.”

  If only it were that easy. She thought of what he’d said about never putting himself in this position before. “Has…Brody ever had relationships when he was on the circuit before, and he had to dump the women, say?”

  “Never,” Jeannie said firmly. “Brody is all business about his skiing. He doesn’t get sidetracked.”

  “Even with one-night stands?”

  “Lately?” Jeannie laughed again. “Ah, you’re the exception, Amanda.”

  How embarrassing. She couldn’t help smiling.

  “So where is Romeo now?” Jeannie asked.

  “He’s, um, downstairs in Hans somebody’s gym.”

  “Are you at Hans Zimmerman’s house?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Of course! He’s only one of skiing’s biggest legends, even though he’s retired. His wife Sarah is Canadian—she’s really funny. They’re both good people, Amanda. You absolutely should get to know them.”

  “When I come back this summer, maybe you can introduce us and I’ll take them out to dinner or some
thing as a thank-you?”

  “Awesome! I can’t wait to tell Massimo. He’s a good friend of Hans’s.” Jeannie sighed again, happily this time. “Do you know you’ve given me the best possible wedding present?”

  Another verification of how much Jeannie wanted to bring her into her world. The longer Amanda stayed in it, the more she saw the attraction.

  “Well, I should let you get back to your love nest, Mandy.”

  “Jeannie, it’s not like that!”

  “Why not? Use your time wisely! What are you and I doing talking to each other?”

  “I can’t sleep with him. Not as long as I have to treat him like an interview subject.”

  “You work too hard,” Jeannie said.

  Not hard enough. Brody hadn’t agreed to talk to her yet. “I’ll let you get back to your honeymoon.”

  “Tell Brody I said hi.”

  “And give Massimo my continued regards.”

  Jeannie’s laugh was contagious. “I will.”

  BRODY PAUSED IN THE THIRD SET of reps in his squats routine. Music pulsed from his iPod and his muscles hummed. He should have felt better than he did.

  In the mirror he caught a glimpse of Hans’s sweet workout room, designed for storm days like these. If he wasn’t so messed up over what to do about Amanda, he might enjoy the day, because this was his kind of life: relaxing in the downtime and enjoying a break from the World Cup tour in a house containing everything a guy could desire.

  He peeled off his shirt and wiped down his chest with a dry towel. The woman twisted him inside-out. How often had he vowed never to let himself get distracted? But Amanda was different. He couldn’t help trusting her, and he’d already trusted her way more than he should have. She’d uttered the word steroids, careless of what that could do to an athlete’s record. But how could he expect her to understand when he could never tell her his story?

  He picked up a set of Hans’s dumbbells. Say he did agree to the interview as she’d outlined it. Problem solved, right? No, because with Amanda, anything could happen. Where she was concerned, he needed to more objectively think through her motivations and how they affected him. Going with his heart would be like skiing toward an inviting section of a course—until he came too close and realized how the mountain shadows hid the treachery.