Something to Prove Read online

  True. Though Brody didn’t want a comeback, not a full-fledged one, anyway. Harrison knew that. Of everyone on his business team, Harrison was the one guy who’d been with him since the beginning when Brody had been a pimply rebel teen fleeing a lousy home life to the ski slopes of a New England prep school.

  He lifted the weights again. There weren’t too many people he trusted and he surrounded himself with the few he did as coaches and equipment specialists. And Harrison, who was both agent and business manager. “Do we have any other options?”

  “No. And I would tell you if we did.”

  Brody breathed out and set down his weights. “Who’s the reporter?” he asked quietly.

  “A woman from Paradigm magazine.”

  “Paradigm? The monthly New York glossy?”

  “They have reporters who cover sports stars,” Harrison said defensively.

  “Great.” He felt like spitting. “A celebrity reporter. Even worse.”

  “It’s what Xerxes wants, and it’s a puff piece. It’s tailor-made for our purposes.” Harrison shifted. “I’ve been thinking about it, Brody, and here’s how we’ll handle it. I’ll write up some quotes and put them on index cards for you. When the reporter turns on her tape recorder, you read from the cards. Better yet, memorize them. That’ll satisfy her, and get us what we want.”

  Brody just stared at his agent. If Harrison wasn’t such a miracle worker with the sponsors—which unfortunately he really couldn’t afford to give up—then he would’ve told him to forget it. The same way he’d cut himself loose from his former coaches, trainers and the whole national ski-team organization in favor of forming his own team.

  “So, are we on board?” Harrison adjusted his cuff links, and Brody couldn’t help smiling. Yes, his agent was a slick suit inside a sweaty gym. But he’d never turned his back on Brody after the accident, unlike almost everybody else in his life.

  He curled a clean towel around his neck and headed over for his cool-down stretch. As a young hotshot, he hadn’t believed in stretching. But at thirty-two, with two debilitating crashes and rehabs behind him, he’d learned that wisdom was better than bravado.

  Not always, but usually.

  “Brody? Are you even listening to me?”

  He gave Harrison a look. “Freaking journalists.” They mangled quotes. They chopped up quotes. They quoted out of context. They took old quotes and applied them to new situations. “Why don’t we just tell her to write what she wants, because that’s what those guys do anyway.”

  “Yeah, I know. Everybody’s a lying jerk.” Harrison sighed.

  But Brody grinned at him. “Everybody except you, Harrison. You’re the real deal.”

  “That’s why you love me, Brody.”

  “Don’t make light of it, or I’ll drop you, too,” he joked.

  “Whatever.” Harrison wasn’t in a joking mood. “You just make sure the reporter doesn’t find out what we have to hide, not unless you want your reputation to go down in flames. Because sometimes I wonder.”

  Brody’s knuckles went white as he gripped the water bottle. He suddenly couldn’t breathe.

  “Yeah, something you care about,” Harrison said. “That’s good. You remember that, Brody.”

  And then Harrison was gone. But his threat hung in the air—poisoning the rest of Brody’s cool-down.

  AMANDA STOOD AT THE SINK in her hotel bathroom and sucked in deep, cleansing breaths. It wasn’t like her to be nervous. Then again, maybe it was finally sinking in that she could be facing her career Waterloo, and before her career had ever gotten off the ground. Because, knowingly or not, Chelsea had given her the one assignment that hit too close to home.

  He’s a skier, she thought. And he’s just like Dad.

  Therein lay her problem.

  According to Jeannie, Brody Jones had a reputation for walking out on reporters without saying a word. He was aloof and disrespectful of anyone with a pen and microphone.

  From long experience, Amanda knew what a losing proposition it was to deal with arrogant competitors like that. Her father—case in point. The last time she’d met with him, in his office in Colorado Springs near the Olympic training center, had been a disaster. She’d completely failed. She’d received nothing she’d needed from him, and their mom had been the one to suffer for it.

  Grabbing Jeannie’s hairbrush from their mixed jumble of toiletries on the countertop, Amanda vigorously brushed her hair until it crackled with static electricity.

  Slow down. Breathe.

  I’ve learned since then.

  She held on to the edges of the countertop and stared at herself in the mirror, struggling to find calm. This would be different. She’d done her homework and had thought through all the angles for her interview approach. She’d even dressed in full body armor for the event. Today she wore one of Jeannie’s feminine silk-and-Spandex shells over her thinnest lace bra. That was a new tool in her repertoire and one that wasn’t entirely comfortable, but she’d seen how the celebrity reporters in her office dressed, and she would do what she must.

  By rote, she ticked through her habitual, pre-interview routine. She dabbed on her lip balm. Pulled her hair back from her face. Tested the batteries in her never-fail, top-of-the-line digital voice recorder.

  The tiny gadget was inconspicuous and quiet; she would place it on the table beside her oversize purse and hope that Brody Jones would forget it was there and would open his mouth, just once. One good quote, that was all she needed from him, and then she could return to her sister and the safe, non-skiing man her sister had lined up for her to meet.

  She glanced at her phone. Three more minutes. And she’d better set it to silent mode, because the fewer distractions to spook Brody, the better. That was why she’d memorized what she needed to ask him, because she’d figured it was best not to face him with a notepad. Or a pencil. Or anything that screamed Interview with a capital I.

  No, with any luck, Brody would forget she was a reporter and would instead consider the twenty minutes as coffee with a friendly person he could chat with.

  Taking a short, careful swig from her ever-present water bottle, she considered the major flaw in her plan. Her father, per usual. Under no circumstances could she let Brody discover she was MacArthur Jensen’s daughter. Jeannie had implied that would send Brody fleeing faster than the roadrunner on skis. Amanda had no problem with that aspect of his personality. Anyone who distrusted her father was wise in her book.

  She shook off the last of her nerves and strode down the corridor, the air cool against her bare legs because she was wearing one of Jeannie’s pre-injury outfits—a short, trendy skirt and a pair of her formerly favorite heels. Despite Jeannie’s admonition “to be herself,” whatever that was, Amanda was a celebrity profiler today, so she’d better act like one. Which gave her two choices for an approach strategy, as far as she could see.

  Plan A was to keep the celebrity-reporter persona she’d prepared for. Disarm the recalcitrant skier with a nonthreatening approach. Plan B was her regular, hard-hitting interviewing style. Grill ’em and stick ’em and then serve up the painful truths.

  Depending on how Brody reacted, she would adopt one tactic or the other. There was more than one way to open up a closemouthed celebrity.

  Please, just give me one decent quote…

  She stood outside the conference room and wished there was a window she could see through, but since there wasn’t, she pasted what she hoped was a vacant smile on her face and swung open the door like someone who meant business. Plan A and plan B, in combination. Once she met Brody, she would choose her final course.

  Immediately, she needed to shield her eyes from the blinding afternoon sun slanting through the window. For a moment, she couldn’t see.

  “Um, are you Amanda? From Paradigm magazine?”

  She blinked to see a short man in a rumpled suit standing behind a conference table, his hand extended. He must be Harrison Rice, the agent. And next to him…


  Amanda swallowed. Like a warrior prepared for battle, she thought.

  Jeannie had showed her a photo of Brody Jones, downloaded from her phone’s internet connection. In it, he was dressed in a black helmet and tight racer’s uniform, his body bent so he was impossibly close to the slope, his powerful thighs straining while his biceps bulged, gripping a ski pole as he surged past a giant slalom gate.

  Amanda hadn’t been able to see his face, but she’d seen his power and his sex appeal. She’d understood his charisma.

  And now here he was in the flesh. Six feet one, two hundred pounds—she could recite his stats in her head. He was built. Hard. Powerful. And recklessly daring.

  But he wasn’t behaving recklessly now. Like her, he wore body armor—in his case, a hat with a brim so low she couldn’t see his eyes clearly. Several days of stubble obscured his facial expression. He wore a tight black T-shirt that showed off his powerful neck, and over that, a team sweat jacket that read Italia—great. Did he know about her connection with her sister?

  Stop that. You’re psyching yourself out before you’ve even started.

  She gripped the agent’s fleshy paw, giving him both a friendly wink and a hardnosed MacArthur Jensen squeeze. “Hello there, I’m Amanda Jensen. I’m pleased to meet you, Harrison.”

  She still hadn’t decided yet which plan to choose, A or B, and so was fluctuating wildly between them. While Harrison winced, clutching his hand, she switched her gaze to Brody. What should she say to him? How would he react?

  Before she could decide, his chair slid leisurely back. As he moved, preparing to rise, his head slowly came up. The visor of the sponsor’s ball cap came off. And the most amazing pair of baby-blue eyes stared at her, sizing her up.

  Amanda felt the shock zing up and down her anatomy. This guy had It. The physical key to setting her hormones on fire.

  Because, oh, God, there was something about his eyes. They were probing eyes. Intelligent eyes.

  Eyes that sucked her in.

  He braced his hands on the table and fixed that quiet stare on her. He didn’t feel like a skier to her, not like any skier she’d ever known, anyway. Nothing Jeannie had told her could have prepared her for this. Without a trace of a smile on lips that were tense, yet still so full she could easily picture herself leaning over the table and kissing him, he said to her, “Amanda Jensen. Are you related to MacArthur Jensen?”

  Oh, she was definitely going for plan A. Hard wouldn’t work with him. Best to play soft and dumb with this powerful, guarded man.

  “Who’s MacArthur Jensen?” she asked.

  SHE WAS LYING. BRODY KNEW IT, but what he really wanted to know was why she was bothering.

  He shifted in his seat, purposely tuning out the words she was saying and concentrating on her actions. Her essence.

  She smelled amazing, like pine trees and winter. And…cooking? Rosemary, yeah, that was the herb he was catching. But that couldn’t be right. Her presence brought to mind good food and companionship. A hearty meal in the company of true friends. Wine and humor.

  He glanced at her mouth and watched her lips move as she spoke. He could easily kiss that mouth. She had the clearest porcelain skin he’d ever seen, and long, dark hair like Snow White. He imagined running his hands through it, feeling it drag across his chest. Every cell, every nerve in his body was straining toward her, and that wasn’t good.

  He pushed back his chair and jammed on his ball cap again. Pulled the visor down low. Crossed his arms against her.

  That was better. She stiffened, the Miss Airhead persona falling away. For a split second her gaze narrowed. She was a helluva lot sharper than she wanted him to see.

  “Brody, what do you think about Amanda’s question?” Harrison grinned madly and dug him in the arm. What do you know, he was completely snowed by Amanda’s phony routine.

  “What do I think about what?” Brody said.

  “Amanda has been asking about your record. Remember what we talked about?” Harrison coughed into his hand. Pull out the cards with the phony quotes, he was hinting. But Brody shook his head because he had already tossed the cards out.

  Instead he pinned his gaze on the reporter, which was a bad idea because his heart had already softened toward her. Trust her, his intuition said.

  His intuition had failed him before.

  “You said you’re no relation to MacArthur Jensen?” he asked.

  On the table, the voice recorder flashed its red light. She followed his glance and then looked back at him.

  “Yes,” she said calmly, “I have no relationship with that Jensen.”

  “What about Jeannie Jensen? Aren’t you here for the wedding?”

  “The wedding…” Amanda licked her lips. Beside him, Harrison inhaled sharply. Brody could relate. She was stunning. So stunning, he literally ached.

  She gave a small smile and stared full at him. Her eyes were the most amazing hazel-green. Playful, and yet as somber as he’d seen.

  She smiled again, sadly this time. “I have to admit, Jeannie and I go way back. We went to boarding school together. We were assigned to the same dorm room, probably because of our last names. We had a hard…”

  She faltered, and there it was, that accent. Her As were distinctive, from the north country. It came out when she was caught off guard, when she wasn’t concentrating on fooling him.

  “You’re from northern New England, aren’t you?” he asked.

  She looked up, genuine pleasure in her eyes for the first time. “You’re talking to me, I like that.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  Her gaze never left his. “New Hampshire.”

  His pulse picked up. Few people knew it, but he’d lived there as a kid for a while. It was where he’d first tried skiing, where he’d first found his escape. “Where in New Hampshire?”

  She nibbled the inside of her lip, as if debating whether to tell him. “Deanfield,” she finally said. “It’s a really beautiful place in the mountains.”

  He stared at her. She’d grown up right down the road from him. What had she looked like as a child?

  Haunting. With inquisitive eyes that saw through a person, and luminous skin. The two of them created some kind of magnetic vacuum that sucked all the air from the room. Under the table, her bare legs crossed and uncrossed. He could practically feel her heat.

  In the old days, if Harrison hadn’t been present, Brody knew exactly what he’d have done next. He would have already been across the table, settling her into his lap, kissing her…

  He shook off the vision. This wasn’t what he needed in his life anymore. He’d been through hell these past few years, and as a result, he’d changed every concept of what was meaningful and real to him. Meeting a woman and hooking up with her before he knew anything about her was the last thing he could afford to do.

  But, he noticed, despite her former reticence toward him, she was leaning forward, not fighting the connection. Obviously she felt the pull, too.

  He doubted she was lying to him, at least not about that. No, she seemed to have dropped her mask altogether and was being herself.

  The way she really was.

  The way he was glad she was.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AMANDA FELT A HUMMING INSIDE her and willed herself to stop looking at Brody’s mouth.

  Instead, she gazed out the window at the mountainside punctuated with tall pines. And skiers. But none of them were solid and haunting, with lips that were flat on the bottom and bow-shaped on top. The kind she could feel herself kissing…

  What was she doing? Fantasizing about an interview subject was wrong, and completely unlike her. She needed to get a grip.

  “So…” Shifting in her seat, she aimed the voice recorder at him. Time to get to work. “I understand you have an amazing record, Brody, ten years and fifty World Cup podiums. You’re the most accomplished skier from North America in quite a while. You’ve won everything there is to win. Nobody is even close to your record. I�
��d like to know why you’ve come back after being gone from the circuit for two years, and what you hope to accomplish this season.”

  He eyed her. He eyed the recorder.

  Please, Brody. Talk to me.

  “I’m here to win my next race,” he said.

  Good, that was good. She nodded. Please keep talking.

  “I’m here to win it my way.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked softly. “I really would like to know.”

  His agent grew nervous, fidgeting with his pockets. “Brody means he feels privileged to be back, and he’s looking forward to having a great season.”

  Brody met her gaze and held it. Her insides heated. She felt that invisible line again, tugging her to him.

  No. She couldn’t give in. Obviously, something was going on, something he and his agent were hiding. She wasn’t an investigative reporter for nothing. She had intuition. Gold-plated hunches, the editors called them in the newsroom of her first reporting job, back when she’d been still in high school.

  She leaned forward on her elbows. “Brody,” she said, purposely ignoring the agent’s coughing fit on the other side of the table, “what makes you different from the other competitors in the circuit? In the way you ski, I mean? What makes caravans of people follow you from race to race just to catch a glimpse of you in action?”

  As if you don’t get it, Amanda. It’s called world-class sex appeal, and you can’t buy that in Walmart.

  “Have you ever been on skis?” he asked intently, his smile slowly forming again, his hands inches from hers.

  She held her breath, not wanting to go there. But his eyes were insistent. And if she wanted to get her story, she needed to keep him talking. “Yes,” she admitted, “but not since I was little.”

  “Do you remember how it felt?” His voice was low. “To go fast? To feel the wind in your hair? To feel like nothing could stop you and you were part of heaven and earth?”

  Her gaze felt tied to his. She couldn’t help swallowing, because those visual cues—the intensity of his facial expression, his strong athlete’s neck, the proud affiliation of his ski-team jacket—brought back the bad parts of skiing, the things she’d always hated and felt terrorized by, growing up. For too long, skiing had been about failure, humiliation and shame. And now, her sister’s broken, ruined body.