His head dropped and she felt his breath against her face. For a split second she thought he was going to kiss her and then the kettle whistled and he abruptly pulled back.
Sam felt his hand fall away. She took a step in the opposite direction even as she felt a shiver race through her, awareness, tension, desire.
"Your water's boiling," he said.
She turned, searched for a towel or hot pad, something to grab the kettle's handle with and when she turned around again, Cristiano was gone.
Outside Cristiano returned to chopping wood. He'd been pouring his anger and aggression into splitting logs before he en*tered the cottage- He should have never stopped splitting logs. Shouldn't have carried an armful into the kitchen, not when Sam was there, not when she looked so completely and utterly alone.
He wished he hadn't seen that, that he could go back and erase her expression from his memory, the one he saw as she stood at the sink staring out the window. She'd looked so lost.
Goddamn it. She reminded him of Gabriela,
He lifted the ax, swung it high overhead and let it slam down. The impact of metal against wood shuddered through him, rip*pling from his arms to his shoulders and through his torso.
She wasn't alone, he told himself, yanking the blade out and turning the log, repositioning it for another swing. She was young. She was an adult. She had friends. She didn't need Gabriela, Gabriela was her job, not her life.
But, maledizione! The look in her eyes. The grief.
He swung the ax over his head again, a huge powerful arc be*fore he brought it down, crashing into the wood. He felt a jolt through his shoulders even as the wood split and cracked. She wasn't his responsibility, he told himself, tossing the split pieces into a pile at his feet as he grabbed another large log and placed it on the chopping block. She's not my problem.
But later, as Cristiano waded through the dense snowdrifts back to the cottage, arms loaded high with freshly cut firewood, he knew she was his problem.
He'd destroyed her world, taken what little security she had away from her. At first she'd simply been a tool to get what he really wanted. But he couldn't very well leave her alone in the world—no money, no protection, no stability. If he was going to provide for Gabriela, the least he could do was provide for the one person who'd given Gabby love and affection.
Whether he liked it or not, Samantha was his responsibility, too.
He dumped the logs by the hearth in the main room, and re*turned outside to get one last load so they'd have enough wood for the night.
But wading back through the snow, he gritted his teeth at the shooting pain in his right leg. His legs had been aching all day. At first this morning he'd thought it was the lack of sleep, but now knew it was the change of weather. Whenever there was a pressure change, his legs became hypersensitive—both skin and muscle full of stabbing pain, but he never complained, never told anyone that he hurt. He knew the dangers of his profession when he started out. He could blame no one but himself.
He swore as he hit an unanticipated patch of black ice beneath the snow. His right leg caved, nearly giving out.
Cristiano stopped, took a breath, steadied himself blocking out the searing pain. He made sure he'd found his footing be*fore continuing on again. His rehab had covered numerous sit*uations but walking on slick surfaces hadn't been one. But then, Monaco and the Cote d'Azur were famous for sun, not ice, so learning to cope with ice and snow had not been a priority.
Loaded down with more firewood, he turned, started back to the house and then was forced to slow, even rest, as he hit the same damn patch of ice. He had no traction in his shoes, and be*fore his accident, ice wouldn't have been a problem, but his legs weren't the same. Nothing about his legs was the same.
The doctors had said he should always use a cane, that his weaker right leg needed the support but Cristiano was damned if he'd advertise his weakness to others. He'd never let another man know he wasn't as strong. His business was so competi*tive, so cutthroat, that one had to be tough—always.
Not just physically, but mentally. So instead of leaning on a cane to support his weight, Cristiano had learned to compensate by walking more slowly, more deliberately. And usually it worked.
Usually.
06-12-07, 02:53 PM
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