Something to Prove Read online

  “Brody, interviewing guys like you isn’t my normal job. I don’t do celebrity promotional pieces. They only used me for this because I’m already on site for Jeannie’s wedding. It was cheaper for them that way.” The bastards.

  “What’s your normal job?” he asked coldly.

  “I work on corruption investigations back in New York.” Or at least she hoped to. She had so little experience in the business, and she needed more. She should be running from Brody Jones and all the complications he brought her.

  She looked down at the snowy ground. “Forget it. I need to get back to the wedding.”

  And all the sadness that stirred up in her heart. Missing her mother. And both hating her father and feeling hurt by him. Tears threatened again, and she shivered uncontrollably.

  “Hey,” he said softly. His arm was on hers, and he was escorting her up the stairs of his RV. Dimly she felt a soft fleece blanket encircle her bare skin. It smelled like the same kind of fabric softener her mom had used, and that made a sob escape, as though a faucet had burst open.

  Oh, God.

  He drew her within the circle of his arms. Her face pressed against his coat, cold from the snow, and then closer still, warm with his body heat. As if she could cuddle against him and be blanketed with comfort. She’d felt that for a split second this morning, but she’d pushed it away.

  Now…she clung to him.

  Outside, a horn tooted.

  Brody stepped back. “Sweetheart, wait here. I’m going to tell them to go on without me.”

  “But…”

  He shook his head. “I’ll catch up with them later.”

  Feeling empty without his embrace, she snapped out of the spell. She wiped her eyes, then took off the blanket and with shaking hands attempted to fold it. “You don’t have to do this.” But her wavering voice betrayed her.

  “Yeah, I do.” He gently placed the blanket back around her shoulders. Then he smiled wanly at her. “Maybe it will be good for us to compare notes. When I come back, you’re going to tell me everything.”

  WHILE AMANDA WAITED FOR BRODY, she walked the length of his personal motor home. It smelled comfortable inside, like ski wax and freshly laundered bedding. In the back was a bed, made up, with two pillows and a down comforter similar to the linens in the hotel bed they’d shared last night. She squeezed her eyes shut, blotting out the memory that was too painful to think of.

  She sat at the table instead, beside a large window that faced the hotel. On the table was a map printed from the internet, with a route traced in red marker and a handwritten date circled and labeled: Alto Baglio, Sunday.

  That was a week from today. Alto Baglio was a stop on the World Cup tour famous for its slalom race. Though still in Italy, the course was hours away on the other side of the Alps at a mountain resort in the Dolomites, closer to Austria.

  She propped her chin in her hands, studying the map. She’d been there once. She knew that place.

  A door slammed, and she heard the noise of a motor home driving off with a rattle, followed by the crunch of snow beneath the tires of a car.

  Brody came inside, bringing winter with him, and stomping the snow from his shoes. His suit jacket was open and he still wore his dark wedding pants and white shirt. His tie was loosened around his neck and the shirt unbuttoned a few inches, as if wearing a suit made him uncomfortable.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He unrolled a bag of coffee, dumping grounds into the bottom of a French press. He was plugging in an electric kettle, setting water to boil.

  “Why come back for the wedding?” she asked. “You have a race to prepare for.”

  His eyes, so electric blue, met hers. “I came back because Jeannie called me about you.”

  She gasped, feeling the shock to her heart. Her beautiful, injured sister was worried about her, and on her wedding day?

  Amanda had to stop this misery. Obviously, she needed to get it out of her system, talk with somebody before she went back into the ballroom and celebrated her sister’s wedding the way Jeannie deserved.

  But with Brody?

  Wrapped up in his blanket she watched him hunting down mugs, making them coffee to taste—his black, hers with milk—and then sitting across from her at the small table. The bed was in his line of vision, but either he didn’t notice, or it didn’t affect him the way it affected her.

  He curled his big hands around his mug of coffee and gave her that quiet look she couldn’t resist. “What happened to make your father angry at you?”

  She looked down at her own hands. She had willingly pursued this line of questioning by following him in here.

  “Manda?” he asked softly.

  That made her smile. His personal nickname for her, a reminder of their intimacy last night.

  “He’s not just angry at me, Brody,” she said slowly, “he disowned me.” She inhaled the familiar, welcoming smell of coffee beans. “He told me I’m no longer his daughter, and since last spring he’s been true to his word. He looks through me like I don’t exist. Like I’m invisible.”

  Brody swore under his breath.

  She looked up from the coffee’s curl of steam into Brody’s blue eyes. “Why is he mad at you?”

  Brody shook his head. “I chafed against his training instructions. It doesn’t matter.” He stared at her. “Because I’m not related to him. He dotes on Jeannie—why doesn’t he dote on you? I trained with that man for a year, and he only ever mentioned one daughter.”

  Once again, Brody had struck the heart of the matter. Her face heated.

  “Manda?” he said in a low voice that made her want to curl up on his lap. “Is it because you didn’t win ski races?” he asked gently.

  “It…started out that way,” she admitted. “When I was young. It got worse in college, when I switched my major from business.”

  “Is that why you chose journalism? Because he hates journalists?”

  “I…no.”

  Not completely anyway.

  Brody was studying her. His brow was creased with the concern of a guy who wanted to help her, but didn’t yet know that it was futile. Some conflicts were just too big to solve. All you did was survive them.

  “He never really…approved of me, Brody. He just…tolerated me. I could live with that. But the end came when I started advocating for my mother. She was…diagnosed with cancer. She was so sick. They said there wasn’t any hope for her, but I found this one doctor who had an experimental treatment he wanted to try. But insurance wouldn’t pay for it and she didn’t have any money and he—”

  Her throat had shuttered and she couldn’t go on. Brody’s hand closed over hers. “You stood up for her, didn’t you?” he asked quietly.

  “Y-yes.” But she’d failed. Horribly. “I confronted MacArthur and gave him an ultimatum, which only made him angrier.”

  Brody’s breath expelled. “You gave him an ultimatum?”

  “I did.”

  “And this was during his divorce?”

  He knew. He understood. She felt so relieved she didn’t have to explain the embarrassment of her father to him. Most men…well, who could understand a person like her father? “I’ll never know how anyone could be so big a bastard as to divorce their spouse right after a cancer diagnosis,” she said bitterly.

  He took a drink of coffee, glancing at her over the cup. “You were aware he had a girlfriend he was chasing at the time?”

  No. Yes. But her mom had told Amanda not to believe the rumors. That she didn’t believe they were true.

  Brody would know. “You think that had something to do with it?” she asked in a small voice, sipping her coffee. It was heartening, warm and strong and milky.

  He shrugged carefully. “He never talks about his personal life, so who could be sure? But MacArthur is like a chess player. He keeps everything close to the vest. His actions seem inexplicable, until you remember he’s always playing ten moves ahead. Only then does he
start to make sense.”

  She was getting a clearer picture. Her father could have lost his money and his assets in the divorce, with nothing to start again. She didn’t know the divorce laws in her state, but maybe this had something to do with his motivation and his timing and why he’d seemed particularly, needlessly cruel.

  But she’d never know for sure. She and her father would never talk, not the way she and Brody were talking now.

  Her eyes watered.

  “It’s for the best, Amanda.” He leaned forward and gave her an intense stare. “Because now you’re off his radar screen. He’s not hurting you anymore.”

  “Just by refusing to talk to me, he’s hurting me.”

  “You want a relationship with him?”

  “No. I’ll never trust him enough for that. I just want…”

  What? What did she want?

  Brody waited, too.

  “I want…to stop feeling like a failure when he looks past me.” She glanced up at him. He wasn’t smiling.

  She faked a smile. “Never mind,” she said lightly. “I’ll bet you had the most understanding, supportive father in the universe. One who stood behind you and applauded you no matter what you showed a talent for.”

  He stared dully at her.

  “What is he?” she asked. “A teacher? A doctor?”

  “A con man,” he said coldly. “He’s in prison. Fraud, five years.”

  “I…oh.”

  “It’s the best-kept secret on the tour. And now you know.”

  HE DIDN’T REGRET TELLING HER. Amanda had been so forlorn and upset, thinking she was the only person in the world who had a rotten father, and feeling ashamed for it, as if it was her fault. Brody knew how that felt, but unlike her he’d gotten over it years ago. He knew there was no sense trying to change someone, no sense trying to get someone to act in a way that was contrary to their nature. His father compulsively lied. Hers compulsively lorded over people.

  He accepted that. He stood then and collected the empty coffee cups, dumped out the electric kettle, while she dried out her shoes and wiggled her toes back into them.

  So she was returning to the wedding like a trouper. He was willing to bet not too many people in her life accepted her as she was. Maybe her sister, from the way Amanda spoke of her, but that was about it. Amanda probably would never realize it, but she’d shown him a thing or two about hanging tough and standing up for one’s self.

  While he watched her, she squinted at the small mirror on the wall. She was pulling at her cheek with an expression of “I don’t look good enough.” But she did. God, she did. And that silky dress was covering her curves, so warm and perfect.

  And then the blood was heating through him. He went up behind her and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. She sighed, arching against him, and it was easy, too easy to reach down and bunch her long skirt, draw the material up, over her bottom and to her waist. He pulled her to him and slid his hand inside the elastic of her panties.

  “Don’t go.” The words seemed hoarse, his breath hot against the snow of her skin.

  From somewhere, a phone trilled.

  “It’s Jeannie,” she whispered. “I have to take it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WITH REGRET PULLING THROUGH his heart, Brody dropped the skirt of her dress, and it fell over her panties with a swish.

  Her cheeks flushed, she stepped away from him and answered the phone. “Hi, Jeannie, I’m coming.”

  Now? He ran his hands through his hair and sat on the bed. He didn’t want to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t help overhearing Jeannie’s voice emanating from the phone.

  “Mandy, where are you? It’s so crowded in here I can’t see you. Can you stand on a chair and wave or something? We’re getting ready for the bouquet-tossing and, um, Marco’s been asking for you. Should I tell him to forget it?”

  Brody stilled. Marco? Who the hell was that?

  Amanda’s blush deepened. “I, um, I’ll be right there,” she said into her phone. “Wait for me before you do anything.” She disconnected the call and gave Brody an apologetic look.

  “Who’s Marco?” he asked.

  “Nobody.” But she was already pinning up her hair. “Look, I really have to go. She’s my only sister and I’ll regret it forever if I miss any more of her wedding.”

  He didn’t know what to say. Which bothered him most, that another man was intent on meeting her, or that Amanda wasn’t turning him down?

  She looked sidelong at him and reached for her purse. “I’d like you to stay for the reception, but if you can’t, I understand.”

  “Hell, Amanda, you know that I can’t.”

  She nodded, lifting her chin. “You’re right. Have a safe drive then.” Swallowing, she stuck out her hand. “Goodbye, Brody Jones. Good luck at Alto Baglio.”

  SHE HATED TO LEAVE HIM, but it was for the best. He had his training, and she had a flight to catch first thing in the morning. Their schedules didn’t match and neither did their lives.

  Right, Amanda. Way to rationalize. She huddled against the cold, hurrying across the parking lot and trying not to sniffle. Her chest felt tight but no, she wouldn’t let herself break down. This was Jeannie’s day. She’d been wrong to leave her sister’s wedding in the first place. Now, she needed to make it up to her. She’d miss Brody later, that was for sure, but not here, not until she’d done what she needed to do.

  Inside the hotel, she quickly made her way to the ballroom. The noise was deafening, with the band playing an Italian pop song and the strobe lights flashing as if they were in a Milan disco. A group of wedding guests threaded through the wildly dancing crowd and sang the lyrics to something Amanda couldn’t catch. The “Chicken Song” in Italian, maybe? The “Electric Slide”? She’d never been to a wedding on this side of the Atlantic, so she wasn’t sure what the customs were.

  Jeannie, however, seemed happy. Thank goodness. The Colettis had embraced her sister as one of their own, and Amanda was relieved she’d found the big-family harmony she’d always wanted.

  Jeannie spotted her in the crowd and waved her over. “Come up here, Mandy!” She sat on a chair on the dais, clutching the master of ceremony’s microphone in both hands to her chest. “Excuse me,” Jeannie’s hoarse-from-celebrating voice rasped into the microphone. “All the single ladies please come to the front of the room. It’s time for the bouquet toss!”

  But nobody in the crowd came forward. Most of the guests kept dancing until Massimo borrowed the microphone and translated Jeannie’s words into a string of ultra-fast Italian from which Amanda, with only one semester of night-school Italian under her belt, couldn’t pick out a familiar word. Why did Italian always take more words and sound so much more romantic than English did?

  And then a middle-aged lady and a teen joined Amanda on the dais. Just two women in this whole wedding reception were single? It figured. The teen grinned at Amanda and the middle-aged lady smiled and patted her hand.

  My lonely-hearts support crew, Amanda thought.

  “Ready, set, and…go!” Jeannie turned around and tossed her bridal bouquet of daisies and English ivy high overhead. Personally, Amanda was rooting for the middle-aged lady to catch it. The teen looked far too young for settling down, and Amanda, well, she had her job to set her heart on, didn’t she?

  Plop. The bouquet landed on the parquet before them. None of the three of them had made a move to reach for it.

  Now this was embarrassing. Jeannie’s face looked flushed and distraught. Her beautiful bouquet lay on the dusty floor like a lonely wilted memory.

  Amanda stood before it. Wouldn’t she be a good sister if she dried the daisies for Jeannie and made an arrangement for her? Maybe she could trim some of the ivy and grow a plant for her, too. Then Jeannie would have something to remember her wedding forever. She’d looked so happy standing there with her new husband.

  “Mandy?” Jeannie pleaded. “Will you pick it up, honey, please?”

  “Okay.” So f
or sisterly reasons, and for sisterly reasons only, Amanda picked up the bouquet.

  BRODY SPENT EXACTLY FIVE minutes behind the wheel of his RV, engine idling, before he turned it off and pocketed the key. Damn it.

  He had to be out of his mind. He had appointments tomorrow morning he couldn’t afford to miss, and a half inch of snow already covered the pavement. With more falling every minute, the driving would be slower than usual.

  But he couldn’t leave yet. Not after the way he’d felt holding Amanda just now, and not after the visions he was having of her lithe body pressed against a horny Marco dancing with her—which he’d never had the chance to do, by the way—sending daggers of jealousy stabbing through him.

  Besides, he thought, slamming the RV’s door behind him, there was an even bigger issue niggling at him that he needed to stand up and face: the fact that Amanda had confronted and stared down MacArthur, and MacArthur had left her alone for it.

  That was the classic reaction of a bully. Brody hadn’t realized it until she’d shown him.

  Having MacArthur leave him alone was all Brody needed in order to solve his problems. It was that simple.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and purposely turned it off. He wasn’t running with his tail between his legs any longer; he was going back to have his say with his old coach. Locking the RV, he trotted across the parking lot, the snow falling gently, and then marched inside the hotel. As luck would have it, MacArthur stood in the lobby, not ten feet away.

  Brody stopped, assessing. MacArthur’s back was to him, and he held his black cashmere overcoat slung over his arm. A man and a woman Brody recognized as being from the wedding party—Massimo’s parents?—were conversing with him in low tones.

  Brody jiggled his keys in his pocket as he slowly let out his breath. Now was a bad time for a confrontation. And worse, down the hall, European pop music poured from the ballroom. Massimo was on the microphone, shouting over the synthesizers in rapid Italian. Brody caught the words Amanda Jensen.