Beautifully Broken
Clare Connelly
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About the Author
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Beautifully Broken
Other Books in THE MONTEBELLOS
The Sheikh’s Baby Bargain
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Books By Clare Connelly
About the Author
Clare Connelly grew up in a small country town in Australia. Surrounded by rainforests, and rickety old timber houses, magic was thick in the air, and stories and storytelling were a huge part of her childhood.
From early on in life, Clare realised her favourite books were romance stories, and read voraciously. Anything from Jane Austen to Georgette Heyer, to Mills & Boon and (more recently) 50 Shades, Clare is a romance devotee. She first turned her hand to penning a novel at fifteen (if memory serves, it was something about a glamorous fashion model who fell foul of a high-end designer. Sparks flew, clothes flew faster, and love was born.)
Clare has a small family and a bungalow near the sea. When she isn't chasing after energetic little toddlers, or wiping fingerprints off furniture, she's writing, thinking about writing, or wishing she were writing.
Clare loves connecting with her readers. Head to www.clareconnelly.co.uk to sign up to her newsletter, or join her official facebook page.
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All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention.
All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.
The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.
First published 2020
(c) Clare Connelly
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Beautifully Broken
Prologue
THE SNOW WAS FALLING hard and fast, swirling beyond the floor to ceiling windows, and Gabe was glad. Glad he was here, alone. Glad the snow was creating an impenetrable barrier to the outside world. Glad because it might mean he could remain here forever.
Forse, not forever.
But at least for Christmas.
Alone.
Away from the well-meaning questions his family always asked, the concern in their eyes, their kindness and understanding. Cristo, how he hated that. As though he deserved any of it after what he did.
Grinding his teeth together, he lifted the scotch glass to his lips, tasting a hint of the liquid before throwing it all back, his Adam’s apple shifting in his stubble-covered throat as the alcoholic heat burned him all the way down.
In the distance, he could just make out the pale yellow glow of car lights cutting into the whiteness of the landscape. It had to be I carabinieri or similar. No one else would be mad enough – or have the necessary equipment – to drive on these perilous roads on a night like this.
He turned his back on the sight – an unwelcome reminder that light has a way of finding a path through even the darkest of voids – striding across the room to the well-stocked bar in the corner.
When Gabe wasn’t at Il Nido, he had domestic staff move in and take care of it. But when he returned, the instructions were simple: leave food, alcohol, and get out.
The house had been immaculate when he’d walked through the doors two weeks earlier, but now it bore all the hallmarks of a man living on his own, who didn’t give a crap about what the state of his house was. It wasn’t as though he had any intention of being joined here in his sanctuary. Or hell-hole.
Here, on the edge of the earth, he could replay the incidents of that long-ago night over and over, reminding himself what he’d done, what he’d taken, what he’d destroyed.
Here, on the edge of the earth, he could remind himself that he had no right to happiness when he’d destroyed hers.
He poured another scotch, knowing it wouldn’t dull the pain, but that it would hasten sleep and oblivion.
1
“OH, NO, NO, NO!” Isabella gripped the steering wheel, avoiding the brake – she knew enough about hazardous driving to realise that if she slammed on the brakes she’d spin out on these icy roads. Already going at a snail’s pace, she lifted her foot off the accelerator, but it didn’t make much difference. The car was moving seemingly of its own free will toward a thick bank of snow to her right. She resisted the temptation to squeeze her eyes shut, doing her best to steer the car away from the snowbank while simultaneously realising that ‘away from the snowbank’ meant towards the god-knows-how-deep ravine just beyond the road’s edge.
She squealed into the confines of the rental car as it picked up speed, careening down a small hill. Suddenly the snowbank looked like the most appealing option. It all happened in a few quick seconds. Indecision, doubt, fear, and then she nudged back towards the side of the road, bracing as the car juddered against the wall of thick white snow, the noise impossibly loud. It dragged on as the car tried to move past the snow, before finally thudding to a stop. Silence, before a deafening thud as a heap of snow crashed down on the car.
Another curse dropped from her lips as survival instincts kicked into gear. She had to move quickly, or she’d risk being consumed by the snow completely. On a night like this, it wouldn’t take long for the car to be completely iced over and she’d have no hope of staving off hypothermia. She pushed the door open so a large chunk of snow dislodged and fell onto her head. She shook it off, moving around to the trunk of the car.
It was partly wedged in by snow, meaning her bags were stuck, held hostage by this incredible weather event.
With a grimace, she gave up on liberating her suitcase and made do with the bag in the backseat – a rucksack containing her laptop, camera, notes, a half-eaten piadina from a roadstop about twenty miles back, and a pair of fingerless gloves.
Fingerless gloves, she thought with a shake of her head, a smile finding her lips despite the tenuous situation she was in. Leave it to an Australian to bring such unsuitable winter garb as fingerless gloves to weather that could well have blown in from the north pole.
Thankfully, her far more appropriate jacket was also discarded on the backseat. She pulled it on first, cinching the belt around her waist and burrowing into the faux fur collar, before lifting the rucksack onto her back.
“And now what, genius?” She muttered, looking around in the thickness of the snow. The woman working at the roadhouse had said the village was ‘just a few miles up the road’, but after an hour’s driving in conditions that had taken all of Isabella’s concentration, she’d begun to realise they’d been talking at cross purposes. There was no village in sight. In fact, there was nothing in sight except the thick blanket of just-fallen snow, and the dark, rigid trunks of thick, pine trees.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she loaded a browser, wondering if she could google a map – something, anything – to work
out where the hell she was. Except the browser just displayed an unhelpful little exclamation mark, and bore the words that even she with her somewhat limited Italian could interpret: no internet access.
The moon was almost completely covered by clouds. With a quick assessment of the car, Isabella risked one more incursion, flicking open the glove box to find little more than the operating manual and rental agreement. She checked between the seats; nothing. Nada. Then, beneath the passenger seat, her hands curved around a box. Hopefully, she lifted it out. A basic first aid kit. Nothing more. No flashlight.
Of course.
Most people driving on nights like this probably brought their own.
She couldn’t stay in the car. And standing here prevaricating wasn’t the answer either! She needed to move. At least by moving she’d stay warm, and have some chance of seeing someone who could help her. Refusing to give in to the apprehension that was threatening to grip her, Isabella began to walk, choosing a direction on impulse at first, she had only trudged along for about five minutes before she began to doubt the wisdom of this plan.
Letting out an uncharacteristic cry of frustration, and stomping one foot into the thick, snowy ground Isabella turned around in a circle, her long auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail that whipped her cheek as she went. Everything had started off so well, until around sunset when the stunning dusting of snow had turned into more of an onslaught. By then, it had made sense to Isabella to cut short her evening’s plans and head straight to the Airbnb she’d reserved.
On her second rotation, something caught her eye. She stopped spinning immediately and narrowed her emerald green eyes, looking more closely. She was practically frozen to the spot, but yes, it was there – a light! Another noise passed her cupid’s bow lips, this one of joyous relief as she immediately changed course, veering off the road to carefully make her way towards the source of the light. A thick pine forest stood between her and it, so every now and again the trunks would grow too thick for her to see the light and her confidence would wain – was it some kind of mid-winter’s illusion? An alpine mirage?
But then she’d sweep sideways and think, ‘ah ha!’ as the light re-appeared. Step by step, she drew closer, telling herself she was at far greater risk of turning into an icicle than she was of happening to appear at the house of a villain – a rapist or murderer. It was a tenuous risk assessment at best, but she had to believe that safety – and warmth – lay somewhere near the glowing lights.
Closer and closer, until a silhouette appeared. The light wasn’t coming from a simple cottage, as she’d originally thought. This was the front porch light of some kind of magnificent, enormous castle. She stared at the turrets with a sense of awe, and for a moment a sinking feeling of disappointment, because the castle was enormous yet there was only the front light. And even if that were the case? She’d simply have to break in. She could find somewhere warm to shelter for the night and leave a note for the owner in the morning. Everything would look better in the morning, she repeated her well-worn mantra – words that had served her well throughout her life, words that she’d uttered silently when she was scared or alone, words that steadied her nerves now.
She scanned the castle again, with a frown at first, and then a flutter ignited in her chest. More lights! They were just too dim to easily see through the wildly tumbling snow. With renewed purpose, she moved forward as quickly as her legs could carry her, her whole body shaking from the cold when she approached the porch light. It stood as a silent sentinel to a large, carved timber door, set back in a stone entranceway. There were no signs here of occupation, no indication of who might be in this fairy tale castle.
Had she been less cold, she might have hesitated longer, but she was frozen almost all the way to her core. But she had known enough of life’s disappointments, and felt true fear on more than one occasion, to know that she had to employ at least some rational thought. With fingers that were shaking courtesy of the frigid temperature, she pulled her phone from her pocket once more, almost dropping it so she had to move quickly to save it from crashing to the ground. “That’s all I need,” she muttered, shaking her head as she caught it about an inch off the stones at her feet, bringing it closer to her face and trying an internet browser. There was still no reception here, but a wifi signal showed as available – and password protected.
Il Nido
Her heart stammered. It was a word she’d heard only that morning, when she’d passed through the village of Inbasso, and paused to look in a quaint giftshop near the markets. There, on a shelf near the back, was the most beautiful thing Isabella had ever seen, and as a long-time Christmas tragic, something she absolutely couldn’t resist. Spun from glass and copper wire, tiny threads had been wound around and around to form a perfect little bird nest. In its centre, instead of a bird, there were three golden eggs, one with an infinitesimal crack down its side. A red velvet ribbon was looped from the centre, so that the ornament could be hung in a tree.
“What is it?” Isabella had asked the shopkeeper, already reaching for her credit card – of course she had to have the delicate, lovely ornament.
“Ah, il nido. The bird’s nest.”
She stared up at the castle now, nervousness briefly overriding everything else. But the snow was still falling, and survival instincts propelled her forward. There was no doorbell, and in the centre of the timber door, the wood had faded in the shape of a rounded diamond – Isabella guessed it was where a door knocker had, at one point, been hung and since removed, decades of sunlight caused the discolouration now.
She formed her hand into a fist and banged it against the wood, startling herself with how loud it sounded in the silence of the night. Having broken the seal though, she kept banging, desperate to be allowed inside, no longer able to tell herself she wouldn’t freeze to death – that the idea was melodramatic.
For at least a minute Isabella banged, before it occurred to her that her first appraisal might be correct. Perhaps the castle was uninhabited, the lights on a timer or similar. Biting down on her lower lip, she moved her hand to the doorknob, testing it with eyes that she squeezed shut, hoping, desperately, that the door would give.
And to her absolute shock – and relief – it did! The door pushed inwards, so Isabella expelled a soft cry as she stepped into the black and white tiled entranceway, shuddering from head to toe as she slammed the door shut behind herself. There was no relief though – this hallway was as arcticly cold, if not more so than the snowy forest she’d just come through.
And no wonder. Tiles stretched for miles, and beyond the entrance way, there was a grand hall with a sweeping staircase and a cavernous roof. The light was dim – only a single lamp glowed in the corner, but she could see the sheen of marble on the stairs.
A shiver that had little to do with the cold ran down her spine as she stepped deeper into the castle, shrugging out of a jacket that was now damp from snow.
Biting down on her lip, she looked left, then right, but could see no signs of occupancy anywhere. Ancient artwork hung in thick, gold frames along the walls, art that she’d like to look at better, in the daylight. If she survived until then.
The thought goaded her to act. Moving to the bottom of the stairs, she tilted her face upwards. “Hello?” Then, remembering where she was, she tried again. “Ciao? Buonasera?”
Nothing. But without too much exaggeration, Isabella truly believed that if she didn’t find somewhere to warm up properly, she would freeze to her death, and that she wasn’t ready for.
With a hand on the cold marble banister, she put one foot on the bottom step, peering up the staircase just as a man loomed into sight. Perhaps he didn’t really loom, but he was backlit, creating the impression of almost a beastly frame, broad shouldered, wide through the chest and then narrow at the waist, arms that were clearly muscled, even from this distance. He was tall, too, and not just because he had the advantage of being at the top of the staircase. Tall, like six and a half feet, cou
ld-touch-the-ceiling-without-a-ladder tall.
What had she been telling herself about this alleged safe-haven? Assuring herself that she’d be fine here? Steeling herself not to be timid, she forced a smile to her face, suspecting he could see her better than she could see him.
“Who the hell are you?” His English was tinted with a light Italian accent, and something else. Anger. Impatience.
So much so that she flinched, and took a step backwards, dropping her hand from the bannister.
He began to walk downwards, his size all the more impressive as he drew closer.
“What are you doing here?” He demanded, and she could see now that he was scowling at her. His face was beautiful. It was a strange word to fall upon in that moment, but it was true. Every feature seemed carved from granite with determination and precision. A square jaw framed his face, giving it strength. A divot in his chin lent character. Cheekbones were slashed high and spoke of determination and triumph, and his nose was long and straight, autocratic. His lips were wide, currently set in a flattened line, but she could imagine them in a smile, the way they’d curve at the corners. The idea made her stomach flip. His brows were thick and dark, adding more definition to his face, his forehead high, his hair brown and thick. Up close, despite the cold of the night, he wore only a tee shirt, so she could see the tattoos that crossed his upper-arms, detailed and elaborate. Her eyes strayed to the shapes and markings, but there wasn’t time to make sense of them.
“Do you speak English?” He swapped to another language then, one she didn’t fathom. Spanish? Greek?
Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6) Page 1
