Chapter Thirteen
Rocco appeared, finally, to be at peace. Justine decided it was a classic case of appearances being deceiving.
She pushed the lever to recline her chair, which was made of sumptuous leather and sported an ergonomic footrest. Across from her, Rocco dozed in his own leather chair. The lines of worry that etched his forehead from the moment he stepped foot in her Dubrovnik apartment had disappeared, replaced by the soft expression of sleep. But there was more. The cut across Rocco’s forehead, once again wiped clean of blood, showed the beginnings of a fresh bruise around its circumference. On Rocco’s throat, red circles the size of Karpovsky’s meaty fingers marked the location of bruises to come, and more than once since they’d boarded, he’d shifted uncomfortably in response to his aching back. She suspected his knuckles didn’t feel much better.
Karpovsky might be cooling his heels in an Italian jail, but he’d done plenty of damage.
Justine sighed, then stretched to nab the water bottle at her side. After muttering that Fabrizia must have spies everywhere, Rocco had been uncharacteristically quiet on the drive to the airport. He’d made small talk with the pilot after Kos dropped them off on the tarmac, but only enough for the sake of politeness until the pilot began his safety demonstration. Once the pilot showed Rocco and Justine the location of food, drinks, blankets, and pillows, and he went to the cockpit to join the copilot for the flight across the Atlantic, Rocco had lapsed into silence. There’d been a tired smile on Rocco’s face as he strapped into his seat, but he was ill at ease on the aircraft, despite the fact it was the height of luxury and the two of them had it to themselves.
It didn’t take the brains of a rocket scientist—or a top biomedical engineer—to figure out why. Not only did Rocco now feel indebted to a man and woman he detested, he was surrounded by the trappings of their wealth and fame. King Carlo and Queen Fabrizia had designed the interior of the jet to their personal specifications. They’d selected the carpeting, the seats, the plush towels in the larger-than-normal bathroom, perhaps even the toilet paper. The entire aircraft oozed a life lived at the height of comfort. A life Teresa had told Rocco should’ve been his birthright as a king’s firstborn son. A life from which he’d been rejected.
It wasn’t that Rocco had been raised in atrocious circumstances. On the contrary, in Teresa and in Jack Cornaro, Rocco had parents who’d taught him right from wrong, the importance of caring for his fellow man, and the value of hard work in the pursuit of his dreams. But Teresa had also driven her personal love/hate for King Carlo deep into Rocco’s psyche.
Justine wished she could wipe away the loathing as easily as she’d cleaned the blood from Rocco’s temple.
Straightening in her seat, Justine reached for her calf and adjusted the ice pack she’d made using a baggie and what she could gather from the airplane’s ice drawer. The swelling had gone down enough that she felt comfortable stretching and flexing her toes, loosening up the muscles that’d suffered over the last few days. Her rehab docs would be stunned at how much she’d run. It’d hurt, but she’d done it.
Softly, so as not to disturb Rocco, she took the melting bag of ice and dumped it in the bathroom sink. It’d be another eight hours before they landed in Baltimore. She’d find a way to write a thank you note to Queen Fabrizia and hand it off to the pilot while Rocco slept. It was the right thing to do, though she had no idea what Rocco would think.
She exited the bathroom to see Rocco sitting upright, staring out the window at the black night.
“You’re awake.” Dumb, obvious statement. She wished she could take it back. It only made the atmosphere in the jet more awkward.
Rocco didn’t seem to notice. After a long moment, he said, “There’s a lightning storm off in the distance. Fascinating to see from the air.”
Taking it as an invitation, she slid into the seat opposite his so she could watch. Spikes of electricity split the sky, illuminating the billowing clouds to their north. She sucked in a breath at the sight.
“Nature’s own fireworks display.”
“And thankfully far away. We’re perfectly safe here.” A note in his voice drew her gaze.
“Are you saying it for my benefit or yours?”
That teased a wry smile from him, and he ran a hand over the trim beard covering his cheeks and chin. She still hadn’t gotten used to seeing him with it. “You always did know how to read me better than I could read myself.”
“You were afraid back there.”
“Damn straight. You should’ve been, too. I don’t know if Radich had the spine to shoot us, but Karpovsky killed his wife. Probably killed his wife’s sister. He would’ve killed us if that’s what it took to get the designs.”
“But he didn’t.” She bridged the space between them to settle her hand above his knee. Through his jeans, she could feel his quad muscles strung tight as an archer’s bow. “That was brave of you back there, getting me out of the way so you could try to knock out Karpovsky and save the designs.”
“It wasn’t brave at all.” He gave an exasperated grunt. “I wouldn’t have done it if not for Kos. When he spoke, I recognized his voice and knew he was there to help.”
She didn’t believe that for a minute. “You know that pump is going to make a world of difference for thousands of people. Imagine if you had a two- or three-year old child with Type I diabetes. If the pump works the way you think it will, it could keep that child’s hormone levels stabilized and keep them out of the hospital. It could prevent damage to their internal organs, maybe even save that child’s life. If it were your child, it’d be worth any risk. You’ve spent your life doing this. Kos or not, you would’ve found a way out—”
“Sometimes there isn’t a way out.” At long last, he dragged his focus away from the window and faced her. The intense emotion in his dark gaze tore at Justine’s soul. “Justine, I could have lost you. If it was a choice between saving you and saving the pump design, I’d have saved you. But I doubt I’d have even had a choice.”
“Don’t say that. You don’t know—”
“I do know.” His hand came down on hers, his strong fingers lacing through hers. “I can create another pump. It’d take time, but I could do it. If we’d been alone in that alley another minute, I’d have handed it over without blinking. I can’t create another you. I wasn’t being brave. I was being selfish.”
She heard the truth in his voice, saw the sincerity in his gaze. He believed he would’ve saved her, despite the steep price. He believed wrong. If it’d come down to it, she knew he’d have done the logical thing and tried to save thousands rather than one, even if he hated it. “You call it what you want and I’ll call it what I want.”
His eyes flashed at that. “If anything, you were the brave one to try to save the designs, diving across the alley while Radich held a gun and Karpovsky was choking the living daylights out of me. Stupid, but brave.” When she opened her mouth to argue, a flirtatious grin spread across his face. “You call it what you want and I’ll call it what I want.”
She felt herself returning his smile. Maybe it was stupid to have believed she could grab the backpack, help Rocco, and somehow escape that alley, but it warmed her to know Rocco appreciated her determination. Better still was the heated way he looked at her now, as if he imagined kissing her. And more.
Acutely aware that the pilots could step into the passenger cabin at any time, Justine closed the distance between them and gave Rocco a quick, sweet kiss, one that promised more to come when they were alone. “None of it matters now, does it? We’re safe. Your work is safe. And soon, there will be a group at Johns Hopkins working to develop that pump and get it through testing and on the market.”
“I’ll feel better when we’re finished in Baltimore and on our way back home.”
“Or to Rome.”
“Now you’re talking.” He gave her hand a squeeze, then leaned back in his chair. “It’ll be the honeymoon we never had. Think of what it’ll be like
to enjoy each other’s company without the demands of your career or mine.” Optimism punctuated his response. “We’ll go first class all the way. Hotel, dinners, custom tours, whatever you want. You deserve some pampering after being driven from your home, shot at, and chased by those two goons. Not to mention the fact your husband fell down on the job.” His tone turned serious. “I’m sorry for that, Justine. I’m sorry we lost the last year together because of my stubbornness.”
She ran her thumb along the outside of his hand. “I thought you weren’t apologizing.”
“I am and I’m not.” She saw the abrupt shift within him as he said it, the regret in the set of his shoulders and the solemnity clouding his expression. “I know you said I was forgiven without an apology, but you’re owed one…at least for the way I treated you. It still believe it was right to keep my word to my mother—it was her secret, not mine—but how I handled it wasn’t fair to you. I should’ve found another way.” Deep lines formed across his brow as he spoke. “For that, and for all you went through because of me, I’m sorry. It just took me a while to realize it.”
Tears burned at the back of her eyes. She’d never been a crier, but the sincerity in his words touched her heart, even if she still thought he was wrong about keeping his mother’s secret.
She swallowed against the lump rising in her throat. “A day or two after your mother’s funeral isn’t ‘a while,’ especially given the nature of your relationship. But thank you.” It hadn’t been easy for her to forgive Rocco, but she’d known it was the best course for both of them. She suspected it was equally difficult for Rocco to ask her for forgiveness now, even partial forgiveness. In a tone meant to lighten the mood, she said, “So…Rome and a private jet to take us there. I can’t wait.”
They’d use the time in Rome to rediscover each other. To hold hands as they strolled the ancient streets in the moonlight, to sit side-by-side on the grass in the Villa Borghese gardens, stealing kisses while they people-watched. To browse the antique stores and the museums, to enjoy the lively nightlife of Trastevere. To spend the wee hours in each other’s arms. Then, when she and Rocco returned to Croatia, they could talk over her employment options and what his next project might be. How they could chase their dreams together, support each other through good times and bad. To pursue everything they both wanted from their marriage in the first place.
“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 class 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 cockpit 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 spacious seats. “Push the button 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 space 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 space.
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 ass, it’d be the stuff of Oscar-winning movies. But the father was an ass. 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 Japanese 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 space, 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 J
ustine 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 glass 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 shell 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. Hell, design a ski-in, ski-out house for us in Tahoe if you want. Whatever makes you happy and fulfilled, I’m in.”
The Royal Bastard Page 12