Royal Scandals: The Royal Bastard Part 10

"Unfortunately, no go on the private jet," he said, interrupting her fantasy. "I plan to send the pilots back to Rome as soon as they're ready to fly. We can go commercial on our return."

Another slash of bright lightning rent the sky outside the window, drawing a quick glance from Justine before she turned her attention back to Rocco. "The pilots have to fly back with or without us. That means doing the necessary paperwork, refueling...all of it. It's no skin off their noses to have us on board."

"I'm sure it's not, but I'd still prefer commercial. First cla.s.s seats to Europe are almost as luxurious as these, and we won't have to serve as our own flight attendants." He unbuckled and strode through the cabin to a large closet near the c.o.c.kpit where the pilot had indicated bedding and pillows could be found. "We can go on our schedule without worrying about inconveniencing anyone."

He handed her an expensive-looking white blanket and a pillow contoured to fit the aircraft's s.p.a.cious seats. "Push the b.u.t.ton on the side of your chair and it'll lie flat. We should be able to get a full night's sleep before we land in Baltimore. Real sleep, where we know we're not in danger." He raised a brow. "Take advantage, because it'll be the last night we sleep this far apart for a long, long time."

She bit back an argument and did as Rocco suggested while he dimmed the cabin lights. He settled himself in the chair beside hers, rather than the one across from her where he'd spent the first portion of the flight, and reclined it all the way. Once Justine had covered herself with the blanket and adjusted the pillow, she turned on her side to study him.

Rocco started to close his eyes, but intuition drove her to speak before he drifted off. "I know you didn't want to accept this flight from King Carlo. It's a big step that you did."

He lifted onto his elbow and gave the pillow a light punch, making a groove for his head. "Don't misunderstand it. I did it because it was the logical course of action to protect you and to protect what's in that bag." His eyes flicked to the backpack, which rested in the s.p.a.ce between the two chairs, before he settled on his side and met her gaze. "My feelings for you are bigger than my disregard for that pampered egomaniac. And frankly, the" -he paused, searching for the right word- "the vitriol I feel for him doesn't extend to Queen Fabrizia. She's not my favorite person-she certainly wasn't my mother's-but she did warn me about the Russians. Without her taking the risk to come see me after my mother's funeral and then calling in the Italian authorities tonight, I might not have you now. If you want to view accepting the flight as a peace offering of sorts on my part, it was for her. Not him."

Before Justine could respond, he closed his eyes. She opened her mouth to argue, thought better of it, then rolled to her back to stare at the ceiling.

"Oh, my gosh," she muttered a breath later. "There are tiny stars over our heads." Embedded in the fabric covering the ceiling were hundreds of minuscule, pinpoint lights. Not so bright they'd keep her awake, but enough to provide the sensation she was floating through s.p.a.ce.

Rocco flipped over to take a look. "Of course there are."

They glanced at each other, grinned, then lost themselves in laughter at the over-the-top ridiculousness of it.

Rocco had never seen Justine look more beautiful than when the two of them stepped out of the taxi that met them at the private airport just outside Baltimore. Hair disheveled, no makeup, and wearing the same clothes she'd donned before they disembarked the ferry in Ancona-it seemed like an eternity ago-and still, simply looking at her made his heart swell.

The world looked at Justine and saw an Olympic athlete. He saw the strength of her soul.

She was wrong about Carlo. He'd known the instant he mentioned flying commercial that she wanted him to reconsider, and not because the private jet was so lush. She wanted him to make peace with his biological father. Rocco disagreed, but appreciated that Justine kept that precise sentiment to herself. Her heart was in the right place. It was natural to want a reconciliation between father and son. If it weren't for the father in this case being such an a.s.s, it'd be the stuff of Oscar-winning movies. But the father was an a.s.s. And the father-if that's what one could even call Carlo-didn't want the son in his life. He had his own sons. Five legitimate sons and one daughter, to be exact.

Rocco had Justine. He had his brother and sister. It was all the family he needed.

He smiled at her as he fished his wallet from his back pocket.

Once he returned to Croatia, he'd find a way to repay the Barralis for use of their jet. It wouldn't be cheap, but he could afford it. He'd made plenty when, in his twenties, he'd been part of a team that developed an improved dialysis machine and sold it to a large j.a.panese company. A combination of good investments and improvements he'd designed for current diabetes pumps had earned him more than he ever needed by the time he was thirty-five and cemented his reputation in the medical community. It'd been enough for him to strike out on his own, to rent lab s.p.a.ce, and to find investors willing to support his future projects.

Rocco didn't need King Carlo and his billions. Not when he was a child, not now, and especially not once this new pump went to market. He'd have more money than he and Justine could ever spend. And unlike Carlo, he'd be improving the lives of children and their mothers. Not abandoning them.

He paid the taxi driver, then ushered Justine into the hotel. He'd asked the driver for recommendations near Johns Hopkins and the man not only provided a wealth of information, he was kind enough to call ahead to ensure Rocco and Justine could check in despite the early hour. It would allow them time to pull themselves together and have breakfast before heading to the university.

"My body clock is off," Justine said in a low voice as the front desk clerk went to his printer to retrieve a sheet for Rocco to sign. "I got plenty of sleep on the plane, but I feel like I need another four or five hours."

"If you want, we can take a quick nap before breakfast."

"No, don't let me nap. Protein and a cup of coffee will help me adjust." Given all the travel she'd done while competing, she knew how to move across time zones with the least disruption to her system. Rocco asked the clerk for suggestions for eateries nearby and he pointed them toward the diner across the street.

"It opens in half an hour and the food's outstanding. You're welcome to have a cup of coffee here while you wait." He indicated the coffee and tea station on the opposite side of the lobby. "Our business center is also open if you'd like to use the computers. The log-in instructions are in the packet with your room key."

Rocco thanked the clerk, then urged Justine to follow him across the lobby.

"I'd rather wait on the coffee until I can get food," she protested.

"Not what I intended." He paused outside the gla.s.s door to the hotel's business center. A conference table took up the center of the room while a series of desks, each with its own computer, lined the far wall. "I'm going to check my messages. Why don't you follow up on that missed job interview?"

A divot appeared between her brows. "Now? Are you sure?"

"At this point, I'm not worried about Radich or anyone else tracking us. Get online and send a note to whomever it is you need to contact. Reschedule." He couldn't help but reach for her. Skimming his fingers around the sh.e.l.l of her ear to tuck her hair back, he said, "You deserve to follow your dreams. If it can't be a gold medal or that fat crystal World Cup globe, then find something else. A sportscasting job. Coaching. h.e.l.l, design a ski-in, ski-out house for us in Tahoe if you want. Whatever makes you happy and fulfilled, I'm in."

"But Rocco, what about" -she shot a glance at the clerk, who was busy with paperwork but still within earshot- "your background?"

Following her dreams could put her in the public eye again, and that brought risks to him. To the Barrali family.

"One step at a time. We'll find a way to handle it."

She hesitated. Studied his face, as if a.s.sessing his sincerity. Finally, her eyes brightened. "All right. I'll do it."

He leaned forward to brush her luscious mouth with his own. It occurred to him that he was going to spend every morning this way for the rest of his life, kissing his wife first thing. It made him smile even as he kissed her.

"For the second time in the last twenty-four hours, you look teary," he whispered after he pulled back. "You welled up on the plane, too. That's not the response I want when I'm with you."

"As long as you're this wonderful, it's the response you're likely to get."

"Mmm. Maybe I should stop." He gave her one more kiss, lingering with his lips a breath from hers in spite of the presence of the front desk clerk. "Or maybe you just need to get used to wonderful."

Chapter Fourteen.

"This is crazy."

Justine stared at the words on her computer screen in disbelief. Within seconds, Rocco abandoned his terminal and was at her side.

"What? Something wrong?"

"It's the producer I was scheduled to meet in Croatia. She says she's sorry she missed me, but hopes we can reschedule. If I'm willing to come to the States" -she drew out the last word and shot a look at Rocco- "she'd love to meet with me. She's at the satellite office in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., this week, then will be back at the network's New York office next week. She says that they remain very interested in the possibility of having me join their broadcast team and hope I'll come."

"That's great!" He leaned over her shoulder and scanned the e-mail. "Looks like she sent it last night."

"I'm just...I'm flabbergasted." She didn't think she'd get a second chance. Definitely not a second chance like this, where the producer sounded enthusiastic about the meeting.

Now that it was right in front of her, she hesitated to take it.

"Tell her you can meet her either place. That you're in the Was.h.i.+ngton area now, or you can come to New York. If she'd rather see you in New York, we can go up there when we're finished at Johns Hopkins and take the opportunity to tour around or see a few shows. Then we'll fly back to Rome following the interview."

Justine leaned back in the springy desk chair and took a deep breath to process everything before she composed her response. "I told her I had a family emergency. If I'm available here for an interview here only three days later, she's going to wonder."

"Then tell her the truth." Justine's surprise must've registered on her face, because Rocco argued, "Why not? If she wants to verify it, all she needs to do is look at the Dubrovnik newspapers to see that there was a police investigation near your apartment. Or she could call Johns Hopkins. My partners there can verify your story...at least they'll be able to by this afternoon. You can explain that you traveled with your husband to the States in order to avert a security threat to his work and that measures have been taken to prevent any future issues."

She scowled at his formal-sounding explanation. "First, like she'd believe a story about Russian mobsters, and second, have measures been taken?"

He answered her with a look of confidence similar to the one that enticed her when they'd talked into the wee hours their first night in Garmisch. "I think having Radich, Karpovsky, and their accomplices held by the Italians qualifies. They'll be interrogated thoroughly about who hired them and who else might want the technology." One of Rocco's broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. "In a few hours, it'll be secure at Johns Hopkins. Go ahead. Tell her you're here. If she asks for details, keep the explanation of what happened as simple as possible."

Justine scooted forward, hit reply, then wavered. "I thought we could talk about this. That I'd have more time." That they'd discuss a plan for their future together. Where they'd live. What they each wanted.

Being with Rocco again after over a year apart would take some adjustment, no matter how she felt about him, and he'd need to adjust to her, too. Too much had happened in the last few days. h.e.l.l, life in the last few months they'd been together hadn't been a picnic with Teresa living under the same roof. Justine needed to settle into her new reality. To decide what she really wanted, to reconsider her goals and aspirations.

"You were set to do it before and we hadn't talked."

"Things were different then." Setting up the interview had signified a new beginning for her, a life without Rocco or Teresa.

"Look, Justine, I know you well enough to know you need a challenge. This position would provide that, if it's what you want." His hands came down on her shoulders and his thumbs kneaded her tired muscles. The man knew exactly what to do to calm her busy mind.

"An interview isn't a commitment." His tone was soft and rea.s.suring. "See how it goes. Then we can talk."

Leaning back in the chair, she lifted her chin and gave Rocco a kiss of thanks before she typed a reply and hit send. He was right. An interview didn't mean she was signing away her life.

The producer's response hit Justine's inbox just before she signed off to walk across the street for breakfast, asking if she could possibly make it this afternoon. After a moment's panic and at Rocco's urging, she agreed.

"Nothing to lose," he'd a.s.sured her.

Two hours later, though, when Rocco had departed for Johns Hopkins and Justine waited at the hotel entrance for the car service that would take her first to a shop to find a suit and appropriate shoes, then to D.C. for the meeting, she couldn't shake the queasy feeling that'd settled in the pit of her stomach. It was the exact sensation that plagued her the morning of her crash, when she'd stood at the top of the run in Altenmarkt waiting for the go-ahead to move into the starting gate and told her coach the course felt wrong. She'd flat-out told him that, for the first time in her career, her gut was telling her not to ski.

He'd put a hand to her back and reminded her that she'd tackled the course dozens of times, had mastered the toughest of its tight turns, had managed to keep her skis under her on its icy b.u.mps and through its notoriously dangerous shadowed sections. Not only that, she'd come within two tenths of a second of winning the downhill the previous year. Out of all the compet.i.tors, she'd had the fastest training run the previous day. This was going to be her race. Her World Cup win. Her moment of glory.

She'd nodded and gone through her mental warm-up routine, determined to knock out a killer run, but couldn't shake the vibe.

She was the first racer on the course that morning. Therefore, she was the first to cross the unusual rough patch just above the third turn. The one whose ski caught, wobbled, and then finally popped off when she was forced to overcorrect, sending her flying sideways over the next jump and into the fencing at the course's edge. The one whose boot and calf somehow caught in the bright orange mesh even as her body tried to obey the laws of physics that wanted her to continue downhill at over eighty miles an hour. The one whose leg snapped with such force she heard it over the violence of the crash, the one who bled through her torn racing suit to stain the bright white snow for the 75,000 fans watching along the course and on the jumbo screen at the bottom of the slope.

The one who was airlifted out even as crews traversed the course to investigate the area where she'd caught her ski. The one forced to listen as her coach phoned Rocco to tell him to get his tail to Austria because the course medical team said she'd need to undergo emergency surgery.

She hadn't shared her coach's fury that the treacherous conditions above the turn had been missed during numerous course inspections. Nor did she share her coach's anger that his favorite racer didn't have her spouse present to cheer her on or to hold her hand in the final moments before she was wheeled into the operating room. Justine poured every ounce of her energy into enduring the surgery and the months of rehabilitation that followed so she could get back on her skis, conquer that d.a.m.ned course, and reign as queen of the World Cup circuit.

She'd been more sad than angry that Rocco wasn't by her side in the immediate aftermath of the wreck. He moved heaven and earth to be there when she awakened from surgery, and she'd drawn strength from that. Her anger was reserved for herself, for failing to recognize the dangerous area and, more importantly, for failing to trust her intuition. Gut instinct had enabled her to move into the top echelon of her sport, tackling runs in ways that occasionally defied conventional thinking. She should've listened to it when it told her not to ski that morning.

In a matter of weeks, she lost her career, her coach, and then her marriage. Everything that mattered to her. Everything that defined her.

As she greeted the driver and climbed into the car that would carry her to the interview, she wished she knew what, exactly, her gut was trying to tell her now.

Rocco woke to the sound of a key card sliding into the hotel room's lock. As he straightened in the chair, the draft of a research paper written by one of his partners at Johns Hopkins slid to the floor. Last thing he remembered he'd been halfway through it. His eyes must've drifted shut while waiting for Justine to return from the job interview.

The door closed behind her as she kicked off a pair of sleek black heels, then sagged against the door. A quick glance at the bedside clock told Rocco it was after eight p.m., a fact confirmed by his growling stomach, but he ignored it in favor of studying his wife. Despite what must've been a long day, she looked phenomenal. Her light brown hair was perfectly styled, she wore a close-fitting black suit and a sky blue blouse that highlighted her clear blue eyes, and best of all, despite her body language, there was a glow about her that gave him the sense the interview went well.

Her eyes widened when she got a good look at him. "You shaved!"

He grinned and ran a hand over his smooth jaw. "Figured it was time. You never did tell me what you thought of it."

"You're s.e.xy with or without it. Different, but still s.e.xy. What made you decide to get rid of it?"

"Wanted a fresh start." He waved his hand to encompa.s.s her suit. "So, how'd it go?"

"Uh, uh. You first, Mr. Fresh Start."

"Anti-climactic." Especially after all they'd endured to keep the designs safe. "I met with the professors, had a lunch that would bore all but the hardest of hard-core biomedical engineering geeks, then made a copy of the designs for their files. They're going over them tonight."

"That's it?"

"That's it. It's not like the movies, where Spiderman or Superman saves a piece of futuristic technology from falling into a villain's hands and suddenly the world is a better, safer place."

"The world is a better, safer place," she argued.

"Perhaps, but without a sweeping musical score or special effects. Only lunch with a handful of scientists and engineers."

She chuckled at that, then leaned against the entry wall and scrunched her toes into the carpet, an action he noticed she did unconsciously whenever her muscles stiffened. "So tell me the important part. What did your partners think after you talked?"

"On first glance, they think the design is brilliant." He couldn't keep the satisfaction from his voice. "They also think it'll work. We'll know more in the coming weeks and months."

The delight on her face thrilled him. "Oh, Rocco, that's wonderful. I'm so happy. And so proud of you. You should be ecstatic. It's been years of work."

"That it has." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. "Now your turn. How'd it go? It has to be more interesting than my day."

He saw the triumph in her eyes a split second before he heard it in her voice. "Would you believe they offered me the job on the spot?"

"Of course I believe it. Who wouldn't hire you?"

She waved off the compliment even as a blush crept across her cheeks. "The producer said she'd watched me give interviews numerous times over the years and likes the way I can describe a course in layman's terms. One of her co-workers said there's been talk around their office for years that I'd be a great a.n.a.lyst when I retired. They also liked that my reputation is clean-no drugs, no wild partying, nothing scandalous-but have, in their words, an edge that keeps younger viewers interested. They're tired of hiring a.n.a.lysts and discovering ex-girlfriends with restraining orders, X-rated photos or videos, and gambling problems. I a.s.sured them I had no such issues, and voila, they made an offer."

It took him less than two seconds to cross the room and sweep her into his arms. He was rewarded with a warm, joyous hug, then felt the press of her lips against his shoulder. "Congratulations," he said into her hair. "You're going to be amazing."

"I haven't accepted yet," she said into his s.h.i.+rt with a laugh. "I haven't decided what I want."

Happiness flooded through him as he released her. There was a confidence and a surety about Justine he hadn't seen in a long, long time. Whether she opted to take the job or not, it was a relief to see her back to her old self.

Definitely a day for fresh starts.

"How about we discuss it over dinner? Grab those s.e.xy shoes and I'll take you somewhere decadent."

"Wearing those shoes or any others right now would const.i.tute torture. Mind if we do room service?"

"Not at all." They'd have as long as they wanted in Rome. While he placed an order, Justine pulled off her pantyhose and located the pajamas she'd purchased in Split. After changing, she sat on the bed, settling her back against the thick pillows. He moved to her side, then slowly ran his hand up her left calf.

"Your leg's a little swollen."

"s.e.xy shoes will do that."