“No,” she agreed. “But I usually get a pretty good read of people. You definitely don’t give off any culinary vibes.”
“Cooking is not seen as an optional extra in my family. It’s the same as breathing, something we all must do. Yaya made sure of that.”
It was the second reference he’d made to ‘yaya’, the Greek word for grandmother. But she didn’t push or pry for information. It was enough that he was sitting opposite her, reaching for a second biscuit, not looking as though he wanted to forcibly shove her from a window.
“I do not have an apron though,” he gestured to the one she wore, so Isabella looked down spontaneously, a smile tugging at her lips.
“It’s mine.”
“You travel with it?”
“Not only do I travel with it, I keep it in my backpack with all my other most essential stuff. Lucky, because the trunk of the car has my suitcase in it and I don’t know if I’ll ever see that again.”
He frowned, his eyes probing hers, his expression thoughtful. “Why?”
“Because of the snow,” she murmured, gesturing to the window. “I feel like the car must be well-buried by now.”
He shook his head once, dismissing her response. “Why do you travel with your apron?”
“Oh.” She reached for a biscuit, lifting it between her forefinger and thumb, brushing a crumb from the edge before bringing it to her lips. “For work. I have a cooking show. Well, more of a YouTube channel, but I guess it’s the same thing. I’m not technically recording while I’m over here though – this is a research trip – but I feel kind of naked without my apron, you know?”
Heat assailed her from all sides, the casual remark intended innocently, except hearing it and delivering it to this man sent tingles through her veins. She looked away, chewing on the biscuit in the hope it would drive thoughts of being naked anywhere near Gabe Montebello from her mind.
The sound of his chair scraping back drew her attention to his face.
“Grazie for the cuccidati.” His voice was throaty, the tone deep.
She frowned a little, blinking up at him, oddly disappointed that he was leaving when they were in the midst of a mostly-pleasant conversation.
“Grazie for the WiFi. And the loan of your kitchen. And for letting me stay, come to think of it.”
He was leaving because he was tempted to linger. He was leaving because she was sweet and vivacious and talkative and her lips moved like some kind of beautiful ballet as she spoke, and he was enjoying watching them way too much. He was leaving because when she said she’d feel naked without her apron an image of her naked except for her apron seared his eyelids without his invitation, so that he felt himself grow hard beneath the table. He wanted to reach out and touch her hand, to see if her skin was as soft as he imagined. He wanted to do more than touch her hand; he’d wanted to use it to pull her towards him, to crush her breasts to his chest and kiss her, to hold her against a wall while he kept kissing her, until her breath was just little pants in the cool afternoon air.
He was leaving because he’d never give into that temptation and so it was better to avoid her. At the door, her voice beckoned him, so he turned to face her.
“Why don’t you let me make dinner tonight, by way of thanks?”
Her eyes fluttered closed and her cheekbones lifted with that distracting hint of pink. His chest tightened, his body turning cold.
“That’s not necessary.”
Those fascinating lips curved upwards in the ghost of a smile. “Eating is, actually, kind of necessary. And as for me cooking for you, I’d like to.”
He stood like stone, unmoving, rigid, cold. “No.” The rejection was automatic. He searched for a way to soften it, but was out of practice. “Damn it, Isabella. I’d prefer to forget you’re even here, remember?”
4
SHE TRIED NOT TO think about him, but it was impossible. She put on her favourite Taylor Swift album and cleaned the kitchen, then poured herself a glass of wine from his impressive collection. Hey, she was already, apparently, the worst house guest, so why not compound her sins and help herself to alcohol?
She did take a photo of the label though, and told herself she’d replenish it once she’d left her temporary sanctuary.
Internet Order: one expensive bottle of wine.
Send to: Reclusive, grumpy billionaire in stunning Italian bird nest castle.
Watch out for: His temper.
That wasn’t strictly accurate. He didn’t have a temper – or if he did, it was ice cold. He didn’t lash out. He didn’t yell or snap. He simply spoke calmly, telling her in no uncertain terms at every opportunity that she wasn’t welcome.
The wine was delicious – a buttery chardonnay, that would have been perfect with a good white fish like Barramundi, or a walnut and fennel risotto. Both sounded infinitely appealing; for dinner, Isabella made garlic cheese toast and ate it alone, staring out at the crisp white blanket the snow had made. The moon was clearer tonight, shining like a blade across the mountainside. After a full day of snowing, the sky was clear for the moment, and she wondered if it stayed this way, she might be able to leave the next morning?
Except she’d emailed the owners of the Airbnb she’d booked to stay in and they hadn’t sounded overly optimistic.
We’ve made provisions to be indoors until after Christmas. Weather like this means business! Sorry we missed you this time. Enjoy your travels!
As though she wasn’t going to get to the accommodation at all? As though she might be stranded here for Christmas? The thought brought tears to her eyes, and she gulped down the glass of wine in an effort to abate them.
But Christmas. Here? With this grinch of a man? When she’d planned the perfect Christmas feast in a quaint little village that held a renowned puppet display every Christmas eve? Christmas alone in this stunning castle with a guy who wanted her gone, who wouldn’t sing carols with her or partake in the pudding she made every year or even sit and share a damned meal with her? Surely the weather would clear by then? It was almost a week away…
At that precise moment, the snow began to fall more heavily, whirling down once more, so she stomped her foot then reached for the bottle of wine, glugging some more into her glass.
There was nothing for it, she’d just have to take each day as it came. If she was here for Christmas, then so be it. It sure as heck wouldn’t be the first disappointment in Isabella’s life, and she’d still have her New Years plans. And the American trip to look forward to. She would focus beyond Christmas, just in case.
She rinsed her plate then scooped up her laptop, phone and glass of wine, shivering as she moved through the enormous house. Who would choose to live in a place like this? Sure, it was stunningly beautiful. A lovely place to visit one afternoon and do an historical tour, but to live here?
Who would choose to live here? Someone who desperately wanted to be alone, her mind supplied the answer reproachfully, so guilt tingled in her fingertips.
It wasn’t like she’d intended to crash his solo time. Still, she had, and it wasn’t his fault. She couldn’t be cross with him because he lacked personality and charm, all she needed from him was a roof over her head.
Even as she ascended the stairs, she knew she was lying to herself. He didn’t lack personality and charm. She suspected he had both in spades, just buried way, way down beneath his gruff, grumpy, recalcitrant exterior. He’d come to apologise to her today for the way he’d spoken when she’d first offered him a biscuit. That showed decency, even though he’d reinforced the same message again in the afternoon.
He didn’t want her here. Message received.
She stood at the landing, looking right first, down the long corridor that would lead to her bedroom, then left towards the salon he’d taken her to the night before, the flickering flames suggesting the beautiful wide fire had been lit, and was glowing with its orange warmth.
She hesitated a moment, then moved quickly towards that room, telling herself she
was only seeking a burst of warmth before bed, telling herself she’d say goodnight and then leave.
But the wine had been so delicious and she’d had two quick glasses, so the sensible comments were hard to deliver.
Instead, she heard herself say in a slightly husky voice, “I know you don’t want me here, but I am here. I don’t think ignoring each other makes any sense, to be completely honest.”
She stalked to the wingback armchair and deposited her laptop and phone on the seat, sipping her wine as she moved to stand directly opposite him. The flames licked upwards, but that wasn’t why she suddenly felt warm all over.
She hated confrontation, and that was what she was doing. Laying down a big fat gauntlet even when she’d just been acknowledging to herself that it was his prerogative to ask for privacy in his own home!
He stared at her for so long she wondered if he wasn’t going to reply. She sipped her wine, then clasped the glass in both palms, blinking up at him.
“Believe me, Isabella, you should be glad I am ignoring you.”
She’d had enough wine to drink that his words didn’t make much sense. Or maybe it was the way he said her name, so thick with his accent, so perfectly Italian, that she felt it reverberate deep down inside of her. It was a jolt she’d been missing – a reminder of why she’d come to Italy, the answers she’d hoped to find, an answer to a question she’d held all her life: who am I? Who are my parents?
“Why?”
His lips twisted into the imitation of a smile, but it was grim and dark. “Go to bed. You don’t want to do this.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped, annoyed with him and uncharacteristically willing to show that. The wine had given her courage.
“What gives you the right to think you can come into my home and speak to me like this?”
Great question. She glared at him, wondering the same thing herself, and also why she cared so much? Why did his ignoring her bother her?
“You’re treating me like the dirt on your shoe,” she snapped, sipping her wine.
“I am treating you like a stranger who’s invaded my privacy. Better than that deserves, in some ways.”
Her eyes flashed to his and she gulped down some more wine, hating that he was right, hating how annoyed she felt. “What’s wrong with you?” She shook her head angrily. “You’re barely human. I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once since I arrived. You don’t show any normal curiosity, any tendencies to kindness.”
“I told you, I am not kind.”
“And you don’t think that’s something you should address?” She retorted, before frowning, moving closer without realising it, and jabbing a finger to his chest with her spare hand. “And anyway, I think you are kind. You came to apologise to me earlier.”
He reached down and grabbed her finger, lifting it from his chest. But he didn’t drop it to his side. Instead, he held it between them, his own much larger fingers wrapped around hers. “I came to explain.” It was basically a bark.
“Same difference.”
“No,” he corrected, nostrils flaring. “It is not. I wanted you to understand that this is not personal. It’s just the way I am.”
“I bet nothing’s ever personal with you,” she muttered.
His eyes, dark grey like pewter, bore down on hers, and Isabella didn’t know if she’d moved closer or if he had. She knew only that her hand was almost crushed between them now, and that with every deep breath she drew, angry and harsh, her breasts came closer to brushing his hand.
“Seriously, you’re like some kind of automaton, completely without feelings! What the heck happened to make you like this?”
His own breathing was tortured, drawn from him in deep, hoarse waves, his eyes harsh as they glared into hers.
“Nothing.” He dropped her hand then, taking a step back and turning his gaze to the fire. A muscle jerked low in his jaw as he concentrated on looking anywhere but at Isabella. She wasn’t sure why she was doing this, but having started, she didn’t feel inclined to stop.
“Damn you, Gabrielle!” She finished her wine then placed the glass on the mantle above the fireplace. “Who chooses to live somewhere like this?”
His voice was carefully wiped of emotions. “You don’t like it?”
“Oh, I like it very much, but not the way you exist here. No lights on at night, no heating, no personal pictures or touches, it’s more like a museum than a house, a shrine to other people’s lives lived long, long ago. Why are you trying to live without actually living?”
His eyes swept shut, blocking her out, but Isabella didn’t want to be blocked out. She had the strongest conviction that he needed to have this conversation, that on some level he needed someone to ask this of him, to make him see what he was doing.
“It’s like you’ve put yourself in some kind of stasis. Why would a gorgeous young guy like you choose to hide away on your own in this stunning but very impersonal castle? It makes no sense. Don’t you miss people? Don’t you want companionship? Don’t you miss human connection and relationships? Women, sex, normal stuff?”
He jerked his face to hers, and the look he gave her seared Isabella to her toes. She had no idea why she’d thrown the last question at him. The words had just flown from her lips, like fully formed missiles she hadn’t been able to deny.
She clamped her lips together but it was too late – she’d already put the words out there and they hovered between them, an electrical current of accusation. Desire seemed to whip through the air, at least it did for Isabella, making her stand taller and straighter, every cell of her body quivering in sudden, enormous awareness of this man.
“You wish for me to talk about my sex life?” He turned to face her slowly, pinning her with a gaze that was both assessing and furious at the same time. She held her ground even as his eyes moved lower, the insouciant inspection sparking like flames in her bloodstream.
“You want me to tell you about the women I sleep with when I crave human connection, Isabella?” Now he said her name with derision, a slow drawl that showed he knew exactly how he affected her. “You want me to tell you that when I seek that kind of ‘connection’, I go to a bar and pick up a random woman, then never see her again? Is this what you want me to tell you? Would you like details of where I go? Of what I like?” He moved closer, his face just inches from hers. “Is this what you are goading me for?”
“I’m not goading you,” she denied, shaking a little at the turn their conversation had taken.
“You think I am not human, that I lack normal human feelings, and perhaps in some ways you are right. But I am very much a man, Isabella, and if you weren’t seeking protection under my roof, I’d be happy to arrange a demonstration of that fact.”
She stared up at him, her brain signal jammed in some vital way, so she couldn’t think straight and certainly couldn’t move.
“Are you offended that I haven’t hit on you? Is that what you want?” He moved closer still, his body touching hers now, his powerful legs flanking her on either side, surrounding her, so she was engulfed by him in every sense of the word.
“Do you want me to say that I’m attracted to you?”
She shook her head, but her heart was fluttering in her chest and desire made her stomach swoop.
“You are just a little girl, with no idea what you’re doing,” he said scathingly. “You are way out of your depth.”
Her lips parted but she couldn’t deny that. She did feel as though she were truly way, way out of her depth.
“I could kiss you right now, and you would beg me to make love to you, but it would just be sex. I’d be using you because you’re here and available, and we’d both hate me in the morning. So do me a favour and go to bed now.”
Anger flared inside of her. He was so goddamned cocky! She’d never beg a man to make love to her, and especially this man. She had too much pride for that. And suddenly, she wanted to teach him a lesson – arrogant so and so! Telling herself she had the
situation completely under control, she pushed up onto the tips of her toes, a challenge in the smooth tones of her voice. “It sounds to me like you’re scared of what might happen if you were to kiss me.”
She saw the answering flare in his eyes and knew he was tempted.
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” he snapped, but didn’t move away. In fact, his head dropped lower, so their lips were only a hair’s breadth from brushing. She shivered, anticipation tingling at all her nerve points. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you were still a virgin.”
She rolled her eyes. “Wrong.”
“But you don’t have much experience with men.”
Heat stirred in her cheeks. She didn’t want to talk about her experience with members of the opposite sex – nor the lessons it had taught her.
“Chicken,” she taunted, because it was more satisfying to do that than to answer his questions.
He made a groaning noise of dismissal. “Fool.”
“Maybe,” she shrugged, adding, inwardly, undoubtedly. It didn’t make any sense but something was pushing her to this point, making her act in a way that wasn’t sensible or logical but that absolutely demanded she do this. “But at least I’m not scared, Gabe.”
“You should be, little fool,” he swore in Italian, shaking his head and because she thought he might pull away, she acted swiftly, closing the gap between them by lifting higher onto her toes, and hovering her lips over his. Just lightly, a silent invitation. The air between them hissed – was it him, or her?
She closed the gap, kissing him properly now, and the second their lips locked it was as though the universe shifted gear; light seemed to stream around them, something universal and intimate slammed into place. She’d kissed him out of anger, wanting to teach him a lesson, but there was total surrender in the kiss, acquiescence to the rightness of this, even when it made very little sense on a rational level.
Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6) Page 5
