still hurt, she thought.
Funny, if she hadn’t seen the actual burns on his thighs, she wouldn’t have known he’d been injured. He compensated well, but now she could see things she hadn’t seen before, the adaptations he’d made to compensate for loss of agility, probably even muscle weakness. Like his slower walk. She’d thought it was arrogance, confidence. Instead it was practicality. And when he sat, he nearly always chose a chair with arms, sitting down by leaning on the chair’s right arm, and then dropping into the seat.
As he returned to the living room she studied his walk more closely, saw for the first time the slight hitch in his step, how he put a little more weight on one leg than the other.
Probably playing with Gabby in the snow hadn’t helped, she thought. He didn’t have boots and in his leather dress shoes he wouldn’t have had much traction.
He casually took a seat in one of the old leather chairs facing the fire. And he did just what she remembered: he leaned on the chair’s right arm, dropped his right hip onto the leather cushion and then the left. His thick hair, now nearly dry, looked glossy in the firelight and the dark beard shadowing his jaw emphasized his straight nose and his firm expressive mouth.
And Sam, who’d felt such conflicting, ambivalent things for Cristiano, felt something new. Tenderness. Admiration.
Despite everything, she liked him. But she had no desire to complicate an already complicated situation, so any attraction she felt would have to be suppressed. Gabriela came first. Gabriela’s stability was everything.
“I’m sorry I walked in on you,” Sam said, taking a seat on the couch. “I should have at least knocked.”
“It’s fine. I’m sure it’s not the first time you saw a naked man.”
She nodded, blushing a little, thinking there was no point in telling him that she actually hadn’t seen that many naked men. He probably wouldn’t believe that she was still a virgin at twenty-eight.
She waited a moment, hoping he’d say something about the burns she’d seen, but he didn’t, and it really wasn’t any of her business.
If change was required, it was on Sam’s part. Sam knew she was too sensitive, too shut-down, too controlling. She’d thought it was her nanny training, but it wasn’t the two years spent at nanny college that had made her so disciplined. It was fear.
Sam was afraid of life. Afraid of death. Afraid of everything in between.
“I don’t even know what you do,” she said breathlessly, trying to regain some sense of control. “Who are you?”
Grooves formed on either side of his mouth as he fought his smile. “Cristiano Bartolo—”
“Yes. I know your name. But who are you? Why do people know you? And people do know you—that night at dinner in Monte Carlo—people approached you. Gave you their blessings. Even Johann thought I should know you. What do you do?”
His head tipped, thick lashes dropping, before he looked up at her. “I’m a Formula 1 driver.”
He said it simply, no arrogance in his voice or answer. In fact, his voice was expressionless but he was watching her closely. “Do you know what that is?”
“You race cars.”
Sam suddenly wished she hadn’t asked the question. “Isn’t that terribly dangerous?”
She could have sworn he smiled but then the smile was gone and his features were so hard he looked like someone else altogether. “Can be,” he said coolly.
When he didn’t elaborate, Sam realized that was all he was going to say.
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