Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6)

by Clare Connelly

  “You haven’t met her?”

  Isabella’s heart clunked in her chest. “There was a note attached to the file that she wanted to veto future contact with me. The records were only released to me on the basis that I would respect my mother’s wishes.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, but otherwise his expression didn’t change.

  “Then you were raised by adoptive parents?”

  Isabella’s spirit of confiding clamped up. She spun away from him on the pretence of moving towards the fruit basket, her heart heavy. She lifted out an apple, wiping it on the thigh of her jeans. “For a time.” She bit into it, the chewing an excuse not to answer further. He watched, drinking his coffee, then looked towards the window.

  “You will be stuck here for a while longer.”

  She was glad he’d moved the conversation on; she’d half-feared he might push her to answer. And she wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t.

  “How long, do you think?”

  He finished his coffee, placing the cup in the sink then moving towards her. She bit into the apple again, in an effort to stall conversation and keep her nerves at bay. He stood in front of her, waiting for her to finish chewing.

  “Several nights.”

  She tried not to read into the fact he’d said ‘nights’ and not ‘days’.

  “But not for Christmas?”

  He looked to the windows once more, then back to her. “Probably.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes dropped to the benchtop, so she didn’t realise what he was doing until she felt his fingers curl around hers, liberating the apple from her grip. As she watched, he lifted it to his own lips, taking a bite out of the side, his gaze locked to hers while he chewed. It shouldn’t have been sensual, but on every level, it was. She could only stare at his lips as they moved over the fruit, its core glistening and wet, his stubbled throat shifted as he swallowed. He reached for her hand once more, opening her fingers and placing the apple there.

  “Do you –,” she hesitated, staring at the fruit, rather than him. Again, he lifted her face by her chin, but this time his thumb padded over her lower lip. She forced herself to finish her question. “Would you like me to stay out of your way? I can, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

  His laugh was a short, humourless bark. “What I would prefer,” he intoned flatly, “does me no credit.”

  It didn’t make any sense.

  “I can’t ignore you, anyway, Isabella, whether you hide away from me or not. So let’s not even attempt the charade of pretending each other does not exist.”

  6

  “WHAT THE HELL?”

  He stopped walking as he swept into the kitchen, looking forward to an ice-cold beer. Instead, he was hit in the face with a barrage of festive preparations. The air was thick with the scent of spices – cinnamon and nutmeg, fruit and wine. Carols played from a phone placed on the edge of the bench, and at some point throughout the day a piece of a pine tree had been set in a vase. Little decorations dangled from the spindly branches, though a second glance showed that they were actually cookies, with the exception of one ornament that looked like a little birds nest.

  “Oh!” She spun around to face him, wearing the same apron she’d had on last time she’d been baking, a smudge of something dark on her cheek. “Hi.” Her face warmed, glowing pink. Conflicting emotions ripped through him. Irritation at this festive assault, the makeshift tree, the carols, the baking, all things which he’d never condone nor welcome into this place – his sanctuary from all things Christmas. But at the same time, there was something about her that made him glow. He hated that.

  “Did I disturb you?”

  That was one way to put it. Since she’d arrived, she’d been an unwelcome presence in his mind, weaving through the fabric of his thoughts. He’d tried ignoring her, and now that they’d kissed, his body was constantly humming on a frequency that drove him towards her.

  He ripped a beer from the fridge, his lips a grim line. “You could say that.”

  He didn’t want to acknowledge the crestfallen expression on her face as she wiped a hand on her apron and dialled down the volume on her phone. He cracked the top off the beer and took a long drink, ignoring the pressures of the day. His work, his family’s disappointment that he was still at Il Nido, the difficulty he’d had in keeping his distance from his beautiful intruder.

  “Sorry,” her smile was just a twist of her lips. “I always cook with music. And cooking Christmas food means Christmas music,” she shrugged.

  He dipped his head, ignoring the crushing weight of guilt, trying not to lose himself in the vicious memories of the past. Trying not to remember another woman who’d loved Christmas, who’d loved everything about the Italian countryside, until it had taken her life.

  Without his knowledge, his hand tightened into a fist at his side. He moved towards the windows, looking out over the forest. There was a disturbance in the perfect blanket of white, just visible.

  “You went outside?”

  “Uh huh. To grab the branch. Snow’s up to the top step of your front porch.”

  He nodded slowly, turning around to face her once more, drinking his beer without taking his eyes off her. She watched him, too, but the look in her eyes was half-deer-caught-in-headlights, and half-sensual-appraisal. His gut tightened.

  How many times had he seduced women like her? Beautiful, kind-hearted women, enjoying their company for a night or two, tormenting himself with the kind of life he’d never let himself lead? He did it to torture himself. He liked to remind himself of what he’d lost the right to expect.

  A life for a life.

  So what was holding him back now? Her interest in him was obvious. One move and she’d be his. They were snowed in together, stuck here in this beautiful gilded cage; why not pass the time in sensual exploration instead of tiptoeing around each other?

  Because he didn’t deserve it.

  Why should he have such heady pleasure after killing Carmen?

  And yet, he was tormenting himself in a new way now, spending time with her without acting on his normal impulses. Standing across from her, resisting the invitation in her eyes. Wanting her and denying himself that pleasure.

  “This is an incredible kitchen.”

  Her words cut through his thoughts, but didn’t ease the dark look from his face. “Is it?”

  “You must know it is. You could cook for three hundred.”

  “The previous owners often threw large parties,” he confirmed, the information something the realtor had been at pains to point out. Back then, Gabe might have seemed more like the kind of man who’d enjoy entertaining. Maybe he’d heard the last name and presumed Gabe would want to host corporate events at Il Nido, instead of turning it into a sublimely isolated fortress for one.

  “That makes sense,” she said with a nod. “Everything in here is designed to cater for a crowd. Which makes it perfect for me, because I’m kind of a messy cook,” she said with a small laugh. A nervous sound that he would say was completely involuntary. “I need lots of bench space. And a commercial dishwasher,” she nodded towards the corner, where a large silver machine stood, the lid lifted, a tray half-stacked with cookware.

  “What are you making?” The question was drawn from him reluctantly. Another form of torture. Standing and looking, not touching, remembering the feathery softness of her lips as she spoke, every word reminding him of how it had felt to crush them with his own.

  Cristo, he’d wanted to take her last night, a furious coming together of two people that was dictated by anything but sense.

  “A heap of things.” He watched as she moved to the other side of the kitchen, lifting a thick linen tea towel off a tray of goods. He’d expected more cookies, but instead, pastries stood like soldiers in a line.

  “These are cherry and almond scrolls,” she said, lifting a pastry wheel in her delicate fingers and holding it gingerly, her eyes tentative as they probed his. “Would you like to try one?” Her voice had
grown husky, her tone soft.

  He stirred in the fabric of his pants, growing hard, aware of her every movement and breath.

  His nod was slow, an acquiescence. Sanity was berating him, telling him to snap out of it, to stop noticing the fullness of her lips and the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra. But torturing himself was Gabe’s stock in trade; he was great at it, and there was no greater torture than being close to Isabella Moss and denying himself what they both clearly wanted.

  Her eyes held his as she closed the distance. Right in front of him, she stopped, lifting the pastry for him to take. He ignored her gesture, his eyes continuing to bore into hers, encouraging her, inviting her. He caught her wrist, so fine-boned, and lifted it towards his lips.

  Breath sounds filled the air, raspy and fast, as she stared up at him. He guided her hand to his mouth, breathing in the scent of the pastry before taking a bite of it, the delicious combination of ingredients, the buttery warmth, invoking pleasure that he quickly tamped down on out of habit. He watched her as he chewed, swallowed, then nodded his approval. “It’s very good.” He still held her wrist, captive, close, tormenting, promising and pushing away all at once.

  She made no effort to move, nor to question him. Her body was so close to his; he could hook his leg around her ankles and draw her the rest of the way, collapsing her forward, so that every inch of them was connected.

  “It’s a new recipe. I generally use apricots but you only had tinned cherries.”

  She filled silences with sentences. He didn’t share that tendency. It was easy to stay quiet, to watch and see what she said or did next.

  It was a habit that had served Gabe well these last few years – in life, and in business. He was known to be ruthless and intimidating. If the Montebellos were in negotiations, Gabe was dispatched. He could stare down anyone over a table for as long as it took. He didn’t care if they liked him or not, he got the job done.

  “I think it works.” Her voice quivered a little and up close he could see her throat move as she swallowed. “Perhaps some flaked almonds on top would add a bit of crunch.”

  Her tongue darted out licking the corner of her lip. Her eyes dropped to his mouth. His cock jerked in anticipation.

  “You have a little pastry on your lips.”

  The tug towards her was inexorable. Denying it was his strength. “Do I?”

  A frown flickered in her face. She nodded once, lifting up a little, bringing her body even closer, so that her soft breasts brushed his chest for the briefest moment and he trapped a groan low in his throat. Her fingertips were tentative at first, just brushing aside the pastry she’d told him about. But once that job was completed, she didn’t drop her hand away. Instead, she allowed it to linger, her fingers tracing the outline of his lower lip, her eyes sweeping shut as she felt him, touched him.

  He opened his mouth a little, a challenge in the gesture. She startled, watching him, before slowly, uncertainly, pushing her finger forward. He waited until the tip was in his mouth and then closed over it, sucking gently, as though he were kissing her. She groaned, a husky sound in the air between them, her eyes piercing his with longing.

  He understood. He felt it too, but denial of something he wanted so badly was the penance Gabe sought most of all.

  The more they flirted, the closer they got to indulging physical temptation, the more he felt it – pain at resisting her. It was the pain he needed. Giving in to her would ease it and therefore he wouldn’t.

  He lifted his other hand, containing her wrist, drawing her hand from his mouth and down to their sides. He held both her wrists, and the idea of having her imprisoned flashed through him, held hostage to their needs. Desire sparked like a firework.

  She breathed as though she’d run a marathon. Her eyes were pleading with him, and yet she said nothing. She didn’t need to.

  “Cherries are better than apricots.”

  It took her several seconds to respond, confusion showed in her features and then she nodded slowly. “I think so too.”

  The air crackled. Her lips parted, begging him to kiss her, and oh how he wanted to do just that! Instead, he dropped her wrists and turned away, reaching for his beer.

  The air whooshed out of her lungs, an audible sound of disappointment.

  He felt only relief – relief that he hadn’t succumbed, relief that thwarted desire was like a dagger at his sides, twisting mercilessly. He relished that pain. But not the look of confusion that crossed her features. His denial made no sense to her – and the last thing he wanted was to mess her around.

  Grinding his teeth, he took a step away, turning his back on her for a second.

  “It smells good in here.”

  “Does it?” Her voice was husky. It whispered through him, squeezing desire like a fist in his gut. “I mean, yes, I know.” Her voice grew distant. He drank his beer, watching the snow fall, before turning back to her again. She was wiping the bench, her cheeks pink, her silk hair down so he couldn’t see as much of her face as he wanted.

  “Were you working?” Her voice was a little shaky. She brought the cloth to the sink, skirting a careful distance from him.

  “Si.”

  “On what?”

  He frowned, the question not one he could easily answer. “We’re buying a new tanker. I’m going over the documentation from our lawyers.”

  “A tanker?” She lifted a brow as she looked at him. So close, he could see the few freckles that ran across her nose. His stomach looped. “What for?”

  “Shipping.”

  She nodded, but looked as though she had a dozen more questions.

  “We have a shipping company,” he said with a lift of his shoulder. “My grandfather acquired it.” He wasn’t sure why he added the last bit of detail.

  “I don’t know much about your family.” Her tone was almost apologetic. “Just that you’re filthy rich.”

  He laughed at that, the sound surprising him. How long had it been since he’d laughed spontaneously?

  He reached for his beer, realised it was empty, then strolled to the fridge to remove another. “Wine?”

  She was watching him carefully. “I don’t think I should.”

  “No?”

  Her cheeks grew even pinker and memories flashed through him. The taste of alcohol on her breath the night before, the way she’d been so unashamed in her desire for him.

  “Coffee then,” he suggested with a low, gruff growl.

  She nodded awkwardly. “I’ll make it.”

  “It’s fine.” He pulled the milk out with his beer, nudging the fridge door closed with his elbow.

  “So you work in the family business,” she prompted, one hip propped against the bench, near enough to the coffee machine that he could reach out and touch her. His fingertips tingled with a yearning to do just that.

  He nodded, removing the coffee basket and filling it with fresh grinds. “We all do.”

  “All?”

  “I have two brothers, three cousins.” He tightened the basket in place. “Four, actually, but Samir is not – here. He lives abroad and we don’t really know him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Long story.”

  She waited, and Gabe found himself talking about something he rarely discussed. “His mother – my aunt – was estranged from my grandparents. They didn’t approve of her marriage. She was very young. Gianfelice, my grandfather, gave her an ultimatum – her fiancé or them – and she chose her fiancé.”

  Isabella’s eyes flared wide. “And then what? They never forgave her?”

  “My grandfather was a stubborn man. He didn’t know how to forgive.”

  “That’s terrible! Was she happy?”

  “I don’t know. They stayed married, and had a son – Samir – but my aunt died before they could make peace.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  “It’s life.”

  Something flickered in the depths of her eyes before she turned away from him, angling her face to
wards the window. “Not for everyone.”

  He thought about that. She was right; many people lived lives unmarred by complicated family dynamics and estrangement, by death and loss.

  “So you all work together harmoniously, except for Samir?”

  Harmoniously? The word was jarring somehow. There was no bad blood between him and his relatives and yet Gabe couldn’t apply the word ‘harmony’ to any aspect of his life. “We respect each other,” he said guardedly.

  “I see.”

  He began to froth the milk, glad the noise made conversation impossible. But once he was finished, and pouring the silky liquid into the cup, she spoke.

  “I was always jealous of kids who came from big families.”

  “You didn’t have brothers or sisters?”

  “No. It was just me.”

  “There were times when I would have given anything to be an only child,” he said with a half-smile.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “It was a lonely way to grow up.”

  “You must have had friends?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, but after my mother – my adoptive mother – died, we moved around a lot.”

  “What happened?”

  Her features tightened, pain obvious in the depth of her ocean green eyes. “There was a fire. An electrical fault.” She cupped the coffee in the palms of her hands, her eyes lifting to his. “My dad blamed himself. He was never the same after that.”

  He waited, sure she’d keep speaking if he didn’t interrupt. She sipped her coffee and then continued.

  “They were such a great couple. He loved her so much. It was only after she died I realised that he’d been jealous of me – jealous because mum spent so much time with me, jealous because he was perfectly happy being just the two of them. She was the one who wanted more, who needed family – me. He didn’t.” Her throat shifted as she swallowed.