by Maisey Yates
“That sounds perfect,” Alex said, thinking it sounded anything but. A house party. Out in the country. It sounded like an awful costume drama. All they’d need was for the butler to murder somebody and for an elderly lady detective to show up and try to solve the crime.
“Excellent. We will discuss business over the next week. And until then we will just enjoy the dinner.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
STANDING IN A hotel room and looking down at the magnificent views of Isolo D’Oro had been a magical moment for Gabriella. But it hadn’t truly hit her until the limousine sent by Prime Minister Colletti rolled up to the grand estate that this was her home.
At least, in heritage. These magnificent, sprawling grounds should have belonged to her family. The beautifully appointed house with the magnificent stonework around the windows, the grand pillars and the arched doorway had been property of the royal family once. Until they had been driven out, banished from the nation that was in their blood.
For centuries, her ancestors had ruled. For centuries, they had inhabited these walls, walked through the gardens. Now, her grandmother couldn’t even return to fetch a painting that held value to her that went far beyond money. Far beyond the attached history.
That was what struck her so hard, so deeply, as she walked through the front door, as they were led through the halls to the quarters in which they would be staying. This wasn’t just history in the broad sense of the word. This was her history. Her family history. The blood of her ancestors might as well be in the stonework. Babies had been born here, the elderly had died here. Her people. Her ancestors.
It felt very personal. Almost painful.
And yet, at the same time, her heart felt swollen. She felt so connected to this place around her that it emboldened her. Filled her with a sense of confidence. Of belonging.
She had never felt so right before. As if this place was woven through her, a part of her she hadn’t known she’d been missing.
All of that lasted for a spare few moments before they were shown to a magnificent suite with a small room off to the left. The tiny quarters belonged to her, the proximity of her room to Alex’s of course intended to allow him easy access to her when he might need her to…assist him with whatever she was meant to be assisting him with.
Once the staff who had ushered them in was gone, Alex smiled. “It is comforting to know that if I have need of your services, you will be nearby,” he said, looming large in the small doorway of her humble living quarters.
Her cheeks flamed. She knew that he didn’t mean it in any kind of lecherous way, but for some reason her body insisted on interpreting it that way.
“After all,” he continued, “you are my assistant. And I may well be in need of some assistance in the middle of the night.”
She gritted her teeth, well aware that her cheeks were glowing an incandescent pink. He could not be in denial about her thoughts. And she had a feeling that now he was just trying to wind her up.
“In case you need a glass of milk?”
“Yes.” A wicked smile curved his lips. “I do often enjoy a glass of warm milk in the middle of the night. I find it helps me sleep.”
“I’ll be sure to give it to you early. The middle of the night for someone your age is what…eight o’clock?” She almost regretted taking that cheap shot. Almost. If only because it revealed the fact that she found him very disconcerting.
“Yes,” he said, arching a brow. “Do bring it to me along with my vitamins.”
Drat him. He wasn’t even perturbed by that.
“I will do so, as you have requested, sir.”
“I like that,” he said, his voice a low rumble that rolled through her like thunder.
He had the ability to touch her, all through her body, without ever getting near her, and she couldn’t quite understand how he managed it.
She wrenched her focus from him and looked around the modest room. Really, it wasn’t bad. Everything was clean, and elegant. The walls were a mint green with white molding adding texture to them. There was no art in this room, but there was a lovely view of the gardens. And that, in her estimation, counted as art.
Alex moved away from the door and she followed him through, not quite sure why. She only knew that he seemed to draw her to him, like he was pulling her on a string.
She was too fascinated by it to fight it.
In contrast to her room, Alex’s was sumptuously appointed. The walls had dark wood paneling and a great deal of classical art. There were floor-to-ceiling windows, but she couldn’t tell what the view might be because the rich, velvet drapes were drawn over them. Then, in the back corner, there was a large bed with lots of fabric hanging from the ceiling, promising to seclude the sleeper from any unwanted light or noise.
“I don’t think they’ve redecorated since the turn of the century. Last century,” Alex said.
“Yes, I suppose this is all original. But that’s part of the charm.”
“Do you think? I find your perspective on things quite fascinating. You are a romantic.”
She frowned. She had never thought of herself as a romantic before. She didn’t think he was right. “I’m rather more invested in fact than fancy.”
“So you say. But you are always delighted by the beauty around you. There is nothing terribly practical about beauty. And it isn’t absolute. One person can find something beautiful when someone else finds it wholly unremarkable. Similarly,” he said, speaking slowly, his dark eyes lingering on her in a manner that left her feeling hot, that left her feeling like he had touched her, “one can look at something every day for quite some time and never notice the beauty of it. Then suddenly, one day it might become beautiful to them. Beauty is strange that way. It hides in plain sight.”
She swallowed hard, not quite sure why she felt like she was on fire. “I suppose the reverse is also true. Beauty can be obvious. And as it proves itself to be nothing more than pale vanity it can lessen.”
“Speaking of your mother and father?” he asked, the question bold and insensitive.
She supposed he was entitled, as she had been rather bold and insensitive herself when they had discussed his parents. “Yes. Does it remind you of yours, as well?”
“Very much.”
“All right, I will concede then that maybe you’re correct about me. I do like art. I do like frivolous things. Just not…the same kinds of frivolous things as some in my family.”
“There is nothing wrong with enjoying the frivolous. I’m not even sure I would call it frivolous. Many people would argue that it is the beauty around us that makes life rich, don’t you think?”
She nodded slowly. “I do agree. My life is very quiet compared to most people in my family. Really, it’s very quiet compared to most people in my age group, I know. I live with an old woman and I suppose my habits are more reflective of hers than the average twenty-three-year-old. But I like it. I like to read. I like to listen to the sound of the rain on the roof. I like to watch the drops roll down the windowpane. I enjoy the quiet. I enjoy art for all that it doesn’t tell us. For the fact that it makes us think and draw our own conclusions. I suppose I enjoy genealogy for the same reasons. We have to extract our own meaning from what we see before us and, from there, guess what the truth might be.”
“A very interesting way of looking at it,” he said, his tone different now.
“Is that how you see things?”
He shook his head. “I do not have much time for art. Or for books. Or for sitting and listening to the rain.”
Her heart sank. “Oh. I thought… By the way you were talking…”
“I’ve lost the ability to appreciate beauty in the way you seem to. But it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate your perspective.”
“I suppose you are too jaded.”
“Yes,” he said, his tone taking on a rather black quality. “I suppose I am a bit too jaded. But then, living the sort of life I have, opulence all around me, my every whim, my every
desire, so easily serviced, I don’t know how I could be anything but.”
“I’ve had a similar experience, don’t forget.”
“Yes, you seem to have practiced the art of self-denial a bit more successfully than I have.”
“I don’t consider it denial.”
“Another of your virtues, I’m certain.”
She frowned, walking slowly past him, pacing the length of the room, the marble floor clicking beneath her low-heeled shoes. She studied the paintings on the walls, depictions of the scenery around them. During another time. During other seasons. “My parents have indulged in everything imaginable, and yet, they still live life with a fair amount of excitement and passion. I want nothing to do with it. It looks exhausting. Dangerous. Selfish. But…for all their sins they aren’t jaded. I feel they enjoy their excess, or they wouldn’t continue in it. For you… You seem very bored. And I wonder why that might be.”
“I think perhaps the problem with my life, Princess, is that I have seen where the road ends. There is desperate poverty in this world. Tragedies. And I know that there are those who believe that if they simply had one more thing, a little bit more money, they would find happiness. But my parents had everything. They had wealth. They had family. They had beauty. Sex, drugs and alcohol in every combination. They had everything. And they were never satisfied. They never stopped searching. They were hungry, always. When they should have been full. It was that continued searching that took everything beautiful they had in their lives and twisted it beyond reason. They had marriage. They had children. And yet, they went out and had affairs. My father made a child with another woman. A child that he never acknowledged. A child whose existence only hurt everyone involved. When you have so much, and yet you have no satisfaction. When you have so much and yet you must continue going until you destroy it all, I can only conclude that there was no happiness to be found in any of it. Not really. And so, I suppose having seen the end my parents came to I have trouble putting much hope in any of the things around me.”
“You think it’s pointless.”
“I don’t think it’s pointless or I would have thrown myself off a building by now. I think there are aspects of life to enjoy. There is music I like. I enjoy my work. I certainly enjoy my money. I quite enjoy sex. But I’m not certain the satisfaction is to be found. I’m not certain that happiness is a thing that truly exists.”
“That all sounds quite…hopeless.”
“Maybe it is. Or maybe that’s why I choose to take things in life with a healthy dose of cynicism. There are worse things, I should think.”
“I think that there’s happiness. I don’t think that life is quite so meaningless as all that.”
He lifted a broad shoulder and she was drawn to the way he moved. He was like a big cat, a predator. Lying in wait for his prey to make the wrong move. The one that would trigger the attack.
She had to wonder if she was the prey in this scenario.
“We all have our coping mechanisms,” he said. “You have chosen to try and find satisfaction in the opposite things. While I have decided that I won’t find whatever magic cure my parents were looking for within life’s various debaucheries.”
She paused in her pacing, turned to face him. “Do you think you’ll find it anywhere?”
“I have my doubts.”
“Do you believe in anything? Do you believe in love?”
He only looked at her, his dark eyes a bottomless well. “No.”
“But you’re here for your grandfather. Surely—?”
“I believe in fairness. I believe in faithfulness. I believe in keeping my word. As I told you before, I am a man who believes in business.”
“Follow your head and not your heart, in other words.”
“My head is the only thing I trust.”
She let out a heavy sigh, looking back toward her bedroom. It was going to be strange, sharing such a close space with him. Last night in the hotel suite had been strange enough, but there had been a living area between their two bedrooms. This felt…rather more intimate. She should think nothing of it. It should be…nothing. That he was a man and she was a woman shouldn’t matter because they wouldn’t be engaging in any…man/woman things.
But it still felt strange.
“Then maybe you could use that very large head of yours to figure out how we’ll find the painting in this enormous palace?” Her uncertainty, the fluttering in her stomach, made her feel cross.
“I could, I suppose.” He tapped his chin as though he were thinking very hard. “The easiest thing to do would be to take a tour. It’s likely the hiding place would be revealed to us during it.”
“Sure. If only we could arrange that.”
“Well, there will be tours. The biggest thing is that we can’t turn the pockets of the place out, then leave with a valuable work of art. We have to appear to have come for reasons of business and pleasure. We have to stay. Anyway, I sincerely intend to work up some sort of trade agreement, so we will stay until the last evening party.”
“There are parties?”
“Every night. He emailed me a PDF of the itinerary. Very helpful,” he said, his tone dry. “But I think we should make sure to stay until the last party. Four days. Then we go. Easy.”
Nothing about it sounded easy to her, not at all. To exist in this fishbowl playing a part she didn’t know the lines for.
“Are you tired?” he asked. She had to wonder if he’d seen her sag beneath the weight of everything just as she felt it.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly feeling exhausted down to her bones. That surge of strength, of certainty that she had felt when she first walked in, was gone now. Now she just felt wrung out. It was strange that coming to this place was so emotional. But it was. Enduring it all with this man who was so…intense, so very present—it only added to it.
“Perhaps you should get some rest. There is going to be a gathering tonight with the guests at the party. Appetizers and the like.”
She frowned. “What am I supposed to do about that? I can’t very well fix myself up. Here people know that I’m Princess Gabriella. Or they’ll at least suspect.”
“Then you won’t fix up.”
She scowled. “I like very much how this farce isn’t damaging your vanity in any way.”
“All of this was your choice, Princess. I for one am happy to create a bit of scandal. What do I care if the world thinks I’ve taken you to my bed? I don’t care. Not at all.”
“Yes, that is a charming perk of being male. You don’t have to worry about rumors of your sexual promiscuity.”
He chuckled. “I would guess you’ve never had to much worry about rumors regarding yours, either.”
That goaded her pride. She didn’t like him being quite so certain about that. “Perhaps I’m just discreet.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that you are. You seem to me to be the very soul of discretion.”
She sniffed. “I am. For reasons you should well understand.”
“Go rest up. Then put on your armor of discretion and ready yourself for the party tonight.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
AT THE MOMENT, no one would suspect Gabriella was a princess, as she was doing an excellent impersonation of a potted plant. She was all but hugging the back wall, dressed in a rather understated pencil skirt and a cream-colored top, complete with a single-string pearl necklace. Her dark hair was partly down, the front pulled back by a clip, the large glasses still fixed on her face.
She looked exactly as an assistant should. And yet, Alex found himself irritated by it.
The other women in the room were dressed in bright colors, saucy cocktail dresses designed to aid in the flaunting of their figures. Their hair expertly styled. And they were certainly not hanging on to the wall. He found that he wanted to see Gabriella without her glasses. That he wondered what it might be like to get a good look at her large, brown eyes. That he might like to see her full lips painted red.
And he kne
w he would like to see her figure in something designed to flatter it.
He would never be a very great appreciator of art, but he was certainly an appreciator of the female form. And as such, he would simply like to see this one done up with a bit more finesse. That was all. All that discussion of beauty had been on his mind.
She wasn’t talking to anyone, rather she seemed to be closely regarding the paintings on the wall. More than that, she seemed to be examining the molding, the floor, the baseboards, the wallpaper… She seemed to be having an entire love affair with the house.
Though he imagined that was to be expected. This was her ancestral home. She had never been here.
He imagined that must bring up all sorts of thoughts.
His family was originally from Italy, and he lived in America. But he had never felt displaced. Giovanni had often told him stories of how he had come to the US, how he had worked his way up from nothing to become one of the most successful men in the nation. Alex enjoyed going to Italy, but he supposed the point of it all was that he could. Yet, while in a technical sense Gabriella could have come to Isolo D’Oro, there would have always been a block of some kind. Her family hadn’t left of their own accord. They had been banished. It was an entirely different circumstance. One that was quite heavy. And it seemed to be hitting her with its full impact.
“Alessandro Di Sione, right?”
Alex turned to his left and saw a shimmering blonde regarding him with her bright blue eyes. Now this was a woman who had taken great pains to flaunt every aspect of her beauty to its greatest advantage. The entirety of her potential was on display before him. There was nothing to wonder about. Nothing at all.
Except perhaps how she would look naked.
Though he had seen enough women naked to be able to guess. He studied her for a moment. He was so confident with his estimation of the size of her breasts without the cleavage-enhancing bra, of the color of her nipples based on her coloring in general, that he found he ultimately wasn’t even curious.
