“We were dating for a few months. It wasn’t serious, but I liked her. She had a baby – Avery.” The word was thick with guilt. Heat spread through his body as he prepared to break his silence on this subject.
“You had a baby?”
“Not mine,” he clarified. “The baby was hers with her ex husband. They’d broken up while she was pregnant, before we met. In any event, she came to Italy to spend Christmas with me. She brought Avery.” Memories of that time rang through him. He braced a palm on the bench top, needing support.
He found it hard to continue, almost impossible to find the right words, yet there was something about Isabella that made him push through that, determined to identify the right way to explain what he meant.
“We were just going to stay in Rome but then I got the brilliant idea of wanting to surprise her with this place.” He ground his teeth together. “It was Avery’s first real Christmas. She was fifteen months old and Carmen wanted it to be perfect for her. I thought this place would be like something out of a fairy tale,” his voice was laced with condemnation.
“I’ll bet it was.”
“More like a nightmare.” He looked towards the window, watching the snow whirl past. “Raf came with us – I can’t even remember why – but somehow, it was the four of us, driving up here on a night not unlike this,” he said with a shake of his head. “The roads were icy.”
The only sign that Isabella sensed what was coming was the way she bit down on her lower lip. Holding back a gasp?
“I know how to handle these roads,” he muttered. “I took it slow, checked the tyres, did everything right.”
She nodded slowly. “But?”
“There was a bike. The driver had been drinking, and was speeding. He came around a bend and lost control. I swerved to avoid him, but the car drifted onto ice and spun out. We hit a tree.” He groaned, dropping his head, the simple words hiding a cacophony of painful memories all crowding through him. “In all my life I will never forget that moment. Time seemed to slow down, everything was happening so fast yet I was minutely aware of every single detail. I didn’t realise, but Carmen had undone her seatbelt so she could adjust something for Avery. She was thrown from the window.”
“Oh, Gabe.” Isabella clasped a hand to her lips, tears moistening her eyes. But he couldn’t look at her for long; there was too much pain. Too much blame. Not from Isabella, and yet how could there not be? He’d destroyed Carmen’s life – and Avery’s too.
“There was so much blood,” he said quietly, shaking his head in an attempt to grab onto a different thread of conversation. “I didn’t know what to do, where to go. I wasn’t hurt, but my seatbelt had locked and it took me a long time to work it free – probably only minutes, but the longest of my life. Avery was screaming, high-pitched and frantic. I managed to escape the car and get around to her – I checked her first. She didn’t look hurt. Raf was unconscious but breathing, his leg bent at a strange angle. My God, Isabella, I will never forget a single moment from that night.”
“And Carmen?” She whispered.
“I held her hand and told her everything would be fine. I told her she’d be fine, that I’d stay with her until help arrived,” he shook his head in frustration. “It was a lie. She died in my arms, on a mountainside not far from here.”
The silence that fell between them was coated with grief. The air throbbed with sadness.
“The day you arrived was the anniversary of her death. Seven years.” He said the last two words like little bullets, puncturing the air.
“And you’ve spent seven years hating yourself for the accident,” she said eventually, sipping her wine before placing the glass down at her side.
He rejected her characterisation. He hadn’t been hating himself. Not consciously. He’d simply lived as he’d needed.
“It was an accident,” she said gently.
“I killed her.”
“She died, but you didn’t kill her.”
“If I hadn’t invited her here. If I hadn’t insisted on Christmas at Il Nido. If we’d left any other time. If I’d seen the ice and avoided it.”
“If, if, if,” she said with a terse shake of her head. “How many people run down that path, only to realise they can’t change the past? You didn’t do anything wrong. You were trying to surprise your girlfriend and her baby – that’s lovely. You tried to avoid a motorcyclist. The ice, the crash, these things were bad luck, out of your hands completely.”
“No, cara. You want me to feel better, and so you say this, but the fact is, were it not for me, Carmen would still be alive. Avery would still have a mother.”
Isabella’s eyes fluttered shut a moment. “What happened to the little girl?”
“Her ribs were broken, but nothing more serious.”
“And where is she now?”
“With her father.”
“Do you ever –,”
“Speak to her?” He supplied. “No. She hates me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“If she doesn’t, she will when she’s older and learns the truth.” He expelled an angry breath. “All I could do was lend…”
She waited but he clammed up.
“Go on,” she prompted quietly.
Another rough breath exploded from his lungs. “I sought to alleviate any financial worries. It was the only thing I could do.”
“So you support them?”
“I’ve established a trust fund for her. Anything she needs in life will be taken care of. Her father does not need to work – he is both parents to Avery now, mother and father.”
Tears sparkled like diamonds on Isabella’s lashes. “You can’t keep beating yourself up for this.”
Gabe punctured her with the strength and steel of his gaze. “No?”
“No.” Her response was emphatic and then she pushed down from the bench, crossing the kitchen and standing in front of him. “No.” Louder this time, almost angry. “What good comes from the way you’ve ostracised yourself from life?”
He didn’t respond.
“Do you think Carmen would want this to be how you remember her?”
“I killed her,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to forget. And I don’t want to forgive myself. I don’t deserve that.”
“So this is your self-imposed punishment? Living here, far away from friends and family, alone and furious with yourself, hateful of the world?”
He lifted a shoulder, as if to say ‘why not?’.
“She lost her life.”
“And you’re forfeiting yours.” The words were tinged with bitterness. He met her gaze then, his gut rolling at her obvious sympathy. But her next action caught him off guard. Slowly, she lifted onto the tips of her toes, watching him the whole time, her eyes impossible to read.
“You’re wrong, Gabe, but that’s not your fault.” She pressed a hand to his chest, moving incrementally closer. “The fact you’re living like this is proof of one thing only.”
He braced for her condemnation, because surely she meant his guilt?
“You have a huge heart, and it’s filled completely with goodness. Only someone good could be feel this bad.”
The words were the last thing he expected and so he wasn’t braced to inure himself to their impact. They landed in the pit of his belly, spreading warmth even as he sought to douse that. He didn’t deserve to feel pleasure nor happiness, nor, God help him, an alleviation of his perpetual pain.
Her kiss sparked his blood, and the lifeline she offered – to obliterate their conversation and his thoughts, and all his sadness – raced through him, so her tentative contact was no longer sufficient. He crashed his mouth to hers, kissing her hard and fast, tasting her until she moaned, then lifting her easily, carrying her away from the kitchen and their conversation, confident that making love to Isabella offered a form of temporary salvation – and he was selfish enough to take it…
10
IT WAS STILL EARLY when she woke, dark outs
ide, though the snow had stopped falling. Isabella stretched gently, her fingertips brushing Gabe’s side. She lifted up onto her elbow, watching him, studying him, grateful that in this moment of repose, she could look without explanation.
Awake, he was so hard-edged, his face set, his shoulders stiff, tension radiating from him at all times. He lived as though he had a ghost at his back and now she understood: he did. Sadness rolled through her. His grief was real. His guilt almost impossible to stem. She didn’t want to wake him and yet she needed to touch; she wanted to feel him, to pleasure him, to wipe his grief away once more.
She’d seen his darkness and presumed it was immovable, but that had been wrong. His darkness was a shell, assumed as a form of penance, a shell he was determined to keep hold of, but it could be moved. Bit by bit, she was sure he could be freed from it.
His chest moved rhythmically with each breath he drew in, his lips parted as he exhaled, so she shifted quietly at first, pushing the sheet back from his body and straddling him in one movement, his cock between her legs.
Heat spread through her, memories of the way they’d made love all night burning her blood. How could she want him again already?
It had never been like this for her before. She was floundering, losing her footing and unable to care.
He was beautiful and despite what he might think, he was good and moral, kind and caring. What a waste it was that he chose to keep himself tied up in this castle, far away from people, punishing himself with every waking moment for an accident that had been, by and large, outside of his control.
She kissed him awake, moving her body over his as she welcomed him inside, smiling against his lips at the guttural groan that escaped from deep within his soul. A storm raged outside, but here in Il Nido, there was only this moment, this perfect, pleasure-filled moment. She wanted to make him smile and laugh, because he deserved that. Understanding the source of his pain had liberated her from its effects. He wasn’t rejecting her, he was rejecting life. Pushing people away had become his default position, yet he couldn’t push her away – not while they were snowed in together. He’d tried, and failed.
For whatever reason, they were drawn to one another, and there was no sense fighting it. There was only surrender and delight.
“I thought you’d hate me too.”
She blinked at the words he spoke into the room, milky dawn light gradually lifting the night’s darkness.
“Why?” She frowned, pulling her head to his chest, listening to the thundering of his heart. “Because of the accident?”
He made a gruff sound as her fingers traced the line of his tattoos.
“I don’t hate you, Gabe. I feel sorry for you.”
She felt him stiffen and instinctively knew sympathy was the last thing he wanted. Sure enough, a moment later, he shifted. “I’m going to go for a run.” He stepped out of bed, naked and glorious, so her eyes followed him even as her heart began to thump with a hangover of insecurities.
He drew on a pair of shorts, then turned back to her, a frown on his face.
“Coffee in an hour?”
Her heart tripped over itself. He was going out of his way not to push her away this time. It was a small gesture, but it meant a lot.
She nodded, trying not to focus on the relief flooding her body. “Sure. Coffee.”
Isabella found that even after showering and getting dressed, there was plenty of time left in that hour. She made her way to the kitchen and pulled some pastry from the freezer, thawing it and rolling it into croissants, sprinkling them with flaked almonds and popping them in the oven before making the coffees. He walked in just as she finished, and she smiled at him, shy suddenly.
Or perhaps ‘anxious’ better explained her mood. She felt the weight of what he’d revealed to her, and their changing relationship, and didn’t know exactly how to act – nor how he would act.
“Something smells good,” he remarked, lifting the coffee and sipping it appreciatively. And despite the fact they’d spent all night naked in his bed, she couldn’t help letting her eyes drop to his abdomen, the ridges of his muscles exposed and highlighted by his sheen of perspiration.
“I made croissants,” she said. “Well, cheats’ croissants, really, because I didn’t want to faff about with rolling pastry for hours on end. And they’re a pretty good substitute, I have to say.” She moved to the oven, withdrawing the tray and placing it on a wooden chopping board. The croissants had turned a light gold in colour and were steaming from the top.
Pulling butter from the fridge and jam from the larder, Gabe had arranged plates by the time she returned to the pastries. She placed one on each plate, then gestured to the butter.
“It looks too good to eat,” he observed, but nonetheless reached for the pastry.
“I’m sure we’ll manage.”
His laugh fired something in her chest; she felt, briefly, as though she were flying.
“What are you going to America for?” The question was unexpected – and a relief. Though there were many things she wanted to ask him, she didn’t want to make him retrace a traumatic time in his life, nor did she want to dwell on grief. She suspected he’d done more than enough of that.
“Various things.” She cut into the croissant, spreading butter over the soft insides until it melted. “I’m meeting with my book publisher, and a TV producer about a network show.”
His face gave little away, but his eyes probed hers. She turned back to the croissant. “And on New Years Eve, I’m cooking dinner in Times Square for some Hollywood types.” Feeling like that made it sound inconsequential, she shook her head. “It’s a charity even, for a foodbank. I’m really passionate about food – it’s a way of connecting people, bringing them together, but for a lot of people, it’s a matter of survival. The stats on hunger poverty in wealthy countries are truly alarming. All the proceeds from ticket sales go to a foodbank in the area.”
“Impressive.”
She shrugged, self-conscious. “Thanks.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Cooking?”
“Entertaining.”
Isabella contemplated that. “I guess so.”
She watched as Gabe lathered his croissant in condiments, then preceded him to the table. She sat opposite him, biting into the croissant.
“That’s not convincing,” he said, biting into his own pastry. “Delicious, grazie.” Crumbs fluffed down his front, sticking to his bare chest. She laughed, reaching across, wiping them off with her fingertips.
“Careful, bella,” his voice held a light-hearted warning. “I’m not done wanting you.”
Their eyes met and a silent promise passed between them.
“So what don’t you love about it?”
“Did I say that?”
“Not in so many words but I can tell.”
“Ah, now you’re a mind reader?”
“I’m observant.”
She sipped her coffee, silent while the balm worked its way through her.
“I love cooking,” she said thoughtfully, taking another sip of her coffee. “And I love the YouTube channel, I think.”
“You think?”
She nodded. “No, I definitely love it. It’s just…”
“Go on,” he prompted.
“It’s all the stuff that goes with it.”
“Such as?”
“Being,” she lifted her fingers into air quotes, “Famous,” then poked out her tongue. “I don’t like that. I find being recognised mortifying. And I don’t like being treated differently, like on the way over here I was upgraded to first class by the guy at the check in counter at the airport.”
“You didn’t like flying first class?”
She laughed. “Oh, the flying first class part was lovely, but knowing it’s just because I have a shedload of followers on YouTube less so. I always feel guilty, then a sense of obligation,” she shook her head. “I guess you wouldn’t understand.”
“On the contrary, I’v
e never liked attention, and I’ve never liked having doors opened because of who I am. I believe I understand perfectly.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
He lifted his shoulders. “My family’s reputation is…inescapable.”
She considered that. “Why would you want to escape it?”
A look crossed his features then, one of surprise, then uncertainty. “For the same reasons you feel. Anonymity is something we all seek.”
“Not all of us. Have you watched a reality show lately?” She shuddered at the open-door nature of those programs, the way people let cameras into their lives, warts and all.
“You don’t like that kind of fame?”
“I guess I think ‘fame’, if necessary at all, should be merit-based.”
“Is there merit in sharing every detail of your lives with outsiders?”
“I suppose there’s savvy in it, if being rich and famous is a life goal.” She lifted her shoulders.
“And they’re not for you.”
“Being financially independent has always been very important to me. It’s basically why I studied law.”
He lifted a brow, silently prompting her to continue.
“I know that sounds mercenary and I wish I could say there was some greater, noble goal, like world peace or, I don’t know, something lofty like that. But ultimately, I was good at it, and I knew I could get a decent salary once I graduated.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of, cara.” He extended a finger, stroking it down one shoulder slowly, so warmth fired through her.
“No,” she agreed quietly, fixing him with a level stare. “When I was a teenager, there were three things I wanted more than anything in the world.”
“And money was one of them?”
“Financial independence,” she nodded. “It’s not as though I set out to make a fortune. I just wanted to know I could buy my own house, a place no one could ever take away from me. Anyone who’s been made to move around a lot knows what that’s like.”
Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6) Page 12
