His clothes, she realised with a gasp as she unfolded them. Pants that were far too big, and a long-sleeved shirt, that, if he was anyone else, she’d have made do with as a nightgown of sorts. But the same spirit that made it impossible for her to ask him for food made her unwilling to accept his clothing. It was only one night – she’d be fine in what she was wearing. She paced to the window, staring out at the swirling snow, the vista different from here – fewer trees, and something dark and looming. It took her eyes a moment to adjust and realise it was the side of a mountain, a cliff face, just across from this side of the castle.
She retrieved her phone from her pocket; still no signal, and she knew asking for the wifi password fell into the same category as food and clothing – no go. A door across the room revealed a bathroom. She ran warm water and splashed her face and hands, finger-combing her hair over one shoulder until a knock sounded at the bedroom door. She hadn’t bolted it, despite what she’d said, but the door stayed shut. Curiously, she padded towards it, wondering at her shaking nerves as she drew the door inwards.
He was gone, but a tray sat on the floor, and the aroma of whatever was under the aluminium foil had her stomach clenching with hunger.
Looking down the corridor, there was no sign of him. She gripped the tray with both hands, kicking the door shut with her foot and carrying the food to the dressing table. Peeling off the foil, steam burst into the room. She frowned quizzically, wondering at the dish.
Tomatoes, bread, basil, cheese.
Her professional instincts took over, pushing everything else aside. She armed herself with the spoon, stirring the meal to release some of the heat before lifting a small amount to her lips. She groaned as she tasted it, the wholesome, heart warming flavour like something for the depths of her soul. She closed her eyes, savouring the delight, the unexpected deliciousness in that little bowl.
It didn’t occur to her to wonder who’d made it. Nor did it occur to Isabella to care. She was hungry and this was food – the kind of food she’d come to Italy to discover, to bring to her millions of YouTube followers around the world. She ate it quickly, scraping the bowl clean for every last little morsel of flavour.
Forgetting anything that had happened that evening, she scrambled to her backpack, pulling out her notebook and scrawling in quickly-written words, her impressions of the thick soup, the way it tasted and felt, the flavours she could notice, the fact it looked messy but was one of the most delicious things she’d ever had. A small glass of wine sat beside the bowl. She took a sip, then carried the glass to the bathroom, tipped it out and replaced it with water.
She didn’t believe the man next door represented any true danger, but she’d still prefer to have some wits about her, and the Cointreau had already made her a little more relaxed than she liked.
Isabella readied herself for bed, flicking the light off, crawling beneath the thick, warm covers, nestling into the soft pillow and closing her eyes. She faced the door – just in case – and assured herself that it was just this one night. In the morning he’d fly her somewhere, just as he’d said, or she’d call for help from the authorities. One way or another, she’d leave The Birds’ Nest in the morning, and be very glad not to see it – or him – ever again.
“I hate you. I’ll always hate you.” Her eyes were fiercely blue, just like her mother’s had been. Eyes that had glittered all the time, until the end, when they’d clouded over and closed for the last time, as Gabe had held her hand and promised she’d be okay. The last thing Carmen had heard was a lie.
She wasn’t okay.
He stood there, listening to Avery berate him, telling him she hated him, that it was all his fault, and he let her hatred rain down on him because he deserved it. Because after everything he’d taken from Carmen’s daughter, the least he could do was weather her insults, and bear the brunt of her anger.
He woke as he always did from these dreams, with a splitting headache and a sense of bile rising in his throat. He threw the covers off, sweat on his forehead, disorientated and with a brief sense of something in the back of his mind, something calling his attention. His heart was slamming into his ribs, his stomach in knots – a sensation two different doctors had diagnosed as an anxiety response. Gabe had dismissed them both.
Perhaps they were right.
He knew only that he deserved to feel that too, so had rejected their suggestions for help, anything they’d offered to alleviate his symptoms impossible to contemplate. A lifetime of gut-wrenching felt like a very small price to pay for having killed someone.
He stalked to the window, glancing at his wristwatch as he went. It was just after four. The snow was falling heavier now, so much so that he suspected the front door would be half-way to being covered.
Good. That would make it even harder for anyone to find him. He would be, as he wanted, alone.
Except – the thought in the back of his mind burst forward, forcing him to stand straighter and take notice.
He wasn’t alone.
In the room just next door to his, an Australian woman was sleeping, a guest in his house, albeit not at his invitation. That changed nothing.
She was here, and he had no godforsaken idea how he could get rid of her.
Perhaps by morning, the weather would have cleared sufficiently to take the helicopter out.
And pigs could very well fly, he conceded with a low groan. He was stuck with her, at least for the next day or so. Which was in many ways, Gabe’s idea of hell.
Isabella couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so comfortable! The mattress was softer than clouds, the pillows the perfect thickness to rest against. She lay on the brink of sleep for quite some time, enjoying that lovely, slow sense of satiation and comfort before memories of the night before dragged her fully into alertness.
She sat bolt upright, turning immediately towards the window. She’d forgotten to draw the blinds the night before, and the first thing she saw was white. Just white – everywhere. In the sky, the colour of the clouds, and on the ground. She pushed back the covers fully and moved to the window, her face instantly chilled by the glass.
It wasn’t all white. There was green too, in the trees she could see to the left, and to the right, grey – the grey of the cliff she’d suspected might be there. But even that was broken with lines of white, demarcating the ridges and shelves that were grooved into its side. She leaned further forward, until her forehead pressed into the glass. It was like ice. There was no sign beneath her of human habitation. No cars. And no footprints. Nothing to show that she’d approached this castle – birdnest – last night. Nothing to show anyone at all had ever lived here.
The thought chilled her for some reason and she jumped back from the window, fidgeting her fingers at her sides. As she looked around the room, more memories from the night before throbbed in her mind. The tray of food he’d left – the delicious soup, undoubtedly cooked by some servant or other.
Servants!
Yes, of course.
In a place like this there must surely be an army of staff.
The thought was instantly reassuring. Why hadn’t it occurred to her the night before?
Because the house had been deathly quiet. Besides the flickering of flames and his scowling disapproval, there hadn’t been a single noise in the ancient home. Not the flurry of footsteps that a silent army might invoke. Not the quiet mutterings of a housekeeper asking if there was anything she could do to help.
Nothing but the watchful, unwelcoming eyes of her reluctant, billionaire tycoon host.
Another shiver ran down her spine, apprehension and unease making her tummy flutter. She reached for her phone, well aware she wouldn’t have any cell service, but checking the time because she didn’t wear a watch. It was still early – not yet eight. Perhaps he’d be sleeping and she could explore a little on her own? The thought of a cup of steaming hot coffee was all the incentive she needed. Taking a quick minute to freshen up, she opened the door slowly,
then backtracked to the dressing table, lifting up the plate and bringing it with her.
Everything looked so different in the daytime!
She caught herself in the thought and smiled. This time, she hadn’t meant the observation as a reassuring platitude, but as a truism. The castle had taken on a distinctly gothic flavour the night before, all dark except for the eery light cast by the enormous fire. Now she saw it for its beauty – the ornately carved banister of the stairs, the stunning works of art, fittings that were, for the most part, quite original. Even the electric lamps on the walls looked as though they had at one time held candles.
Tiptoeing past his room, Isabella quickened her pace as she approached the stairs. They were marble, just as she’d guessed last night, and beneath her bare feet, they were icy cold. Yet the kitchen must surely be down on the first floor somewhere? She had to brave the cold to reach coffee. After coffee, she’d feel more human.
Moving quickly, she took a guess and turned left at the bottom of the steps, making her way across the enormous entranceway, ignoring the artwork she’d glimpsed the night before. She wanted to look at it properly, but she felt too exposed in the cavernous space. She wasn’t yet ready to deal with her grumpy billionaire benefactor.
She wracked her brain for everything she could think of about the Montebellos, but there wasn’t much. Theirs was simply a name that ensured global recognition; their publishing house printed some of her favourite culinary magazines, but beyond that, their business empire straddled many industries. She knew there were several children. Grandchildren? Many boys, all of whom had been in the tabloid press for one scandal or another, at some point, but that kind of thing had never really held much interest for Isabella so she hadn’t paid attention to the details – and those she had gleamed over time simply hadn’t stuck. She seemed to remember something about the family patriarch – John something? – dying a few years earlier, but beyond that, she had only a vague impression of the family.
Thoughts vaporised from her brain as she went room to room, the sheer beauty of the magnificent castle overtaking her thoughts completely. It was in close to original condition. The floors, the walls, the artwork, all appeared to be largely sixteenth or seventeenth century, though the electrics had clearly been overhauled at some point and everything had likely been very thoroughly restored, going by the exceptional state of the décor. She passed one room that was like a princess’s salon, all stunning floral wallpaper and gold furniture, with fairy tale windows overlooking the ravine. With a racing heart, and a sense she was intruding, she crept inside, quickly tiptoeing to the window and peering through it. The glass was all rippled, suggesting it was very old, but that only gave the Italian alps a dreamy look.
The snow was falling again now, swirling past the window in incredible whirls, like mini tornadoes just beyond her. She pressed her fingertips to the glass and shuddered at the remembered sense of cold from the night before. For a girl who was more used to the beaches of the Australian Gold Coast, she’d never known anything like that!
Remorseful to leave the beautiful space, she was more anxious to find the kitchen – always an anchor point for Isabella. Carrying the tray, she poked her head into several more rooms, regretting the fact she wouldn’t get a chance to explore the castle to her heart’s content. Still, that would mean staying here longer, and after the chilly reception she’d received, Isabella knew that to be impossible.
Finally, at the end of the long, wide corridor, there were three steps down and a double set of doors. She had a hunch they must lead to the kitchen – partly by a process of elimination – she’d tried everywhere else! – and partly because the doors looked more utilitarian and functional than the prettily carved doors marking entrances to the other rooms.
Shouldering one inward, she smiled at the first glimpse of stainless steel, immediately recognising her familiar environs. It was a caterer’s kitchen, with huge benches, industrial equipment, and yet the stunning windows that framed endless views of the dramatic snow-covered landscape gave the kitchen an awe-inspiring beauty. How she would have loved to prepare meals in this space! Her video views would go through the roof! A whole series on northern Italian food, she posited, starting with that delicious bread soup she’d had for supper.
But the thoughts were scuppered as she rounded the door fully and realised she wasn’t the only one in the kitchen. A small gasp escaped her lips without her consent and she fumbled the tray, very nearly dropping it. Her ears felt hot.
Gabrielle ‘everyone calls me Gabe’ Montebello was about six feet away from her, shirt off, and just a pair of running shorts hanging low on his hips. His hair was damp, his brow covered in a hint of perspiration, his muscled chest a canvas of artwork, ink covering his flesh. He had an iPad loaded up with a newspaper – the New York Times – and a glass of juice to his left. At her gasp, he looked up, his eyes locking to hers with that same sense of coldness that had been tunnelling into her all night.
Out of nowhere, a bundle of nerves tightened in her stomach. She crossed to the bench and placed the tray down, rubbing her hands over her hips in a gesture of anxiety.
“Hi.” Her voice was croaky.
“Good morning.” He returned his attention to the paper, his face a study in concentration. He flicked to the next page, then sipped his juice.
“I take it you don’t feel the cold,” she murmured.
He continued to read. “I’ve just been for a run.”
Isabella looked towards the windows, frowning. “Outside? How, in all that snow? And without a shirt?”
He fixed her with a mocking gaze. “On a treadmill. Inside. And si, without a shirt.”
Her mouth was inexplicably dry, and for some reason she found it almost impossible not to let her eyes drop to his broad chest. There were tattoos there too, the ink that covered his biceps stretching across taut pectoral muscles, so that curiosity inspired her temptation. That was all – she was a reader, and always had been. If there were words printed on a surface, Isabella liked to understand them. His body was a tapestry of information she wanted to decode, but it would be highly weird – and inappropriate – to start gawking at his chest.
She kept her gaze trained on his face, though it required a gargantuan effort.
“I don’t have any mobile reception here,” she said quietly, lifting her phone from her pocket. “But if you log me into the wifi, I’ll email my accommodation and let them know what happened.”
His eyes scanned her face, his expression analytical.
“So that I can tell them to expect me later today,” she tacked on, in case he didn’t understand her meaning.
He continued to stare for another second or two then returned his attention to the iPad. “You won’t be leaving today.”
“I thought you said you’d fly me out this morning?”
“This is not safe flying weather,” he gestured towards the windows.
Isabella’s lips parted on an exhalation. She hadn’t even thought of that. “But surely – we can fly above it?”
“In a jet, yes, but not a helicopter. It’s too dangerous; I won’t risk it.” He looked back at the iPad, as though that were the end of it.
Impatience zipped through Isabella. “Hold on a second.” She moved to the other side of the bench in an attempt to draw his attention. “I can’t stay here.”
His nostrils flared as he sighed, making a pointed display of putting the iPad aside and looking at her with the full force of his attention. It was what she’d thought, a moment ago, that she wanted, but now that he was probing her eyes with his own silvery grey pair, she felt like a bug under a microscope.
“Then what will you do?”
She gaped, floundering as she sought for an alternative. “I – guess I’ll go – somewhere else.”
“There is nowhere else, for many miles. The nearest town is an hour’s drive away – in good weather. The roads are – as you’ve discovered, quite unpassable at present.”
&nbs
p; “So you’re saying I’m stuck here?”
He nodded slowly. “Believe me, if there was any alternative, I would take it.”
She quelled the familiar feeling of being unwanted. It wasn’t like she wanted to be here either. “There must be somewhere…”
“There isn’t. But don’t worry. It’s a big house. We don’t need to have anything to do with one another. In fact, it would be for the best if you keep out of my way.”
“Charming,” she muttered under her breath. Even though she knew she should be grateful he was allowing her to shelter here at all, she still bristled at his tone and manner. It wasn’t as though she’d intentionally got herself stranded in the shadow of his castle, for goodness sake.
“I am not charming,” he responded with a gruff tone to his voice. “I am not nice. I am not kind. And I have no interest in playing the genial host just because you were careless enough to go for a leisurely drive during a once-in-a-century blizzard. Eat, drink, sleep, but stay the hell away from me.”
3
IT DIDN’T MATTER THAT the woman was doing precisely as he’d suggested. He still knew she was around, in his house, invading his privacy, an intruder he didn’t want and didn’t welcome. He came to Il Nido to be alone. Completely alone. Not left alone, but actually, truly, absolutely on his own, right here at the edge of the earth.
He ground his teeth, focussing on the spreadsheet in front of him, running the back tip of the pen over the screen to help him keep track of the numbers. He’d been reading the same spreadsheet for an hour. It was useless. He stood up, restless and annoyed, and prowled to the windows. There was no sign of the storm clearing. Ordinarily, he would have welcomed this. Being snowed in at Il Nido would have been all his dreams come true, but with another occupant of the house, he was impatient for the weather to clear so he could get rid of her.
Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6) Page 3
