by Raye Morgan
It was her turn to make that sound of exasperation. “Dangerous? What’s dangerous about it?”
“You fell into the river, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but that was because it was the middle of the night and you scared me.”
He nodded. “Exactly. These things are always…accidents.” He should just hang up and he knew it. He tried. But somehow, it just seemed too cruel.
“Why?” Her voice sharpened, as though she’d suddenly found the hint of a chink in his argument. “Why are you so sure I’ll get hurt? Has anyone actually been hurt in that river?”
His throat choked shut for a moment. This was something he couldn’t talk about. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath to steady his resolve. The consequences were too risky to gamble with.
There was a part of him, in a deep, secret place, that halfway believed there was an evil force lurking by the river, waiting to trap another woman—especially one that he had some affection for—and pull her under the water as well. There was another, more rational part of him that contended the evil force was his own sense of guilt. Which side was right? It wasn’t worth putting it to the test.
“Isabella, I forbid you to go anywhere near that hillside. And the river. Stay away.”
“But—”
“Promise me.” His voice was harsh and stern. He had to make sure she didn’t feel she could come on her own.
She swallowed hard. He could hear the effort she was making but that didn’t matter. He steeled himself. It had to be done.
“All right,” she said at last in a very small voice. “I’ll stay away. At least I’ll stay away until I can find a way to convince you—”
“You’re not going to convince me. I’m changing this number, remember?”
“But, Max…”
He winced. Hearing his name in her voice sent a quiver through him, a sense of something edgy that he didn’t like at all. Given a little time, it would chip away at his resolve, bit by bit.
“Goodbye, Isabella,” he said firmly.
She sighed. “Goodbye.”
Her voice had a plaintive quaver that touched his heart, but he hung up anyway. He had to. Another moment or two and he’d have been giving in to her, and that was something that couldn’t happen.
This entire connection had to end. He couldn’t afford the time and emotional effort involved in maintaining a relationship, even on the phone. He had work to do.
But returning to his research was hopeless at this point. Instead, he rose, grabbed his towel and headed for the fully equipped gym he’d had built into half of the whole ground level of the building. It was obvious he was going to have to fight harder to push Isabella Casali out of his system.
CHAPTER FIVE
ISABELLA fought back tears of frustration as she clicked off her phone connection to the palazzo.
“There go any hopes of a career in negotiations,” she muttered to herself. “Turns out I’m not any better at that than I am at breaking and entering.”
Hardly a surprise, but disappointing anyway. What now? Giving up wasn’t an option. One look at her half-empty restaurant told her that. She was going to have to find another way. But how? She’d promised him she wouldn’t go near the hillside or the river and she was going to keep that promise, much as it hurt.
But there had to be a way to breach those high walls in a more effective manner. Someone in the village had to have dealings with the palazzo. It didn’t make sense that they would import everything from Rome. Slowly, carefully, she began to ask around. At first all she got were blank stares.
And then, finally, she hit pay dirt of a sort. Much to her surprise, the man who delivered seafood to her restaurant every morning also made a stop at the Rossi palazzo once or twice a week.
“Only on Tuesdays and Fridays,” he told her chattily, wiping his hands on his big white apron. “Wednesdays are out. It seems to be the day off for the staff, such as it is.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. I made the mistake of showing up on a Wednesday once. I couldn’t even get in the gate. I had two pounds of Chilean sea bass go bad over that little error.”
“Do you ever see the prince?” she asked quickly, afraid he might escape before she got all she needed to know from him.
“The prince?” He shrugged. “I don’t think so. I usually deal with an old fellow who tries to get something for nothing every time.” He chuckled. “The place is like a mausoleum. You’d think it was full of old dead ancestors, but somebody seems to have an appetite for salmon and scallops.”
And so, a plan was born.
The gap in the stone wall that surrounded the Rossi estate was still there. No one had filled it in—and that was lucky. Without this little piece of access, her plan would never have worked at all.
And so the following Wednesday, Isabella squeezed through and then stood very still in the warm noon sun, listening as hard as she could. The wind was quiet. The water was a distant babbling. And once the pounding of her heart quieted down, she could tell—the guard dogs didn’t seem to be loose. There wasn’t a sign of them.
She bit her lip, tempted to race up the hill and gather basil as fast as she could, then race back again. But she knew that was no solution. And such an action certainly held no honor. Much as the prince scared her, she had to confront him about this and do things openly and honestly.
He’d told her not to come here. She had to change his mind—not steal from him. Taking a deep breath, she started up the hill toward the castle.
It was a long climb and she was carrying a heavy backpack with supplies—her special sauce pan, her favorite olive oil, the tomatoes that would form her base—and a small container of all that was left of the basil supply for her restaurant. She was going to go for broke and cook for the prince. It was pretty much the last idea she had left.
All the way, she kept expecting to hear someone shouting for her to go back. That didn’t happen and she found some shade once she’d reached the top of the hill. There were no cars in sight, and not a sign of life anywhere. The castle looked just as old and moldy, but a lot less intimidating in the sunlight.
A few minutes of rest and she began to work up the nerve to go on with her plan. She knew where the cook’s entrance was. She would use that first, hoping to find things unlocked. Once she was inside, she knew exactly what to do next.
She scanned the windows as high as she could look. There was no telling where his rooms were, no way to know where he hung out during the day.
Her fingers trembled a bit as she reached for the latch on the kitchen door, and she paused for a moment. Closing her eyes, she muttered a quick plea. This had to work. He had to understand. He was a prince, but he was also a man and she was counting on that basic humanity to come through for her in the end.
And whatever chance there was, she had to take it. She had no choice.
Max stood with his eyes closed and savored being bombarded by water. He’d just had a grueling workout in his gym and the water pouring over his naked body was creating a special kind of ecstasy. Every aching muscle sang with relief. Every body part relaxed with delight. Every nerve, every fiber, came together in rapt happiness.
He would have to pay for this someday. Maybe at the gates of heaven. This was pure self-indulgence and he was probably wasting water to boot, but he let it go on and on, gushing through his thick hair, making small silver rivers over his tanned shoulders and through the dark thatch on his chest. It felt so damn good. He was pure appetite today, appetite for pleasure.
And what the hell? It was his birthday.
It was his birthday and no one had remembered.
That was okay. In fact, it was exactly as he wanted it to be. He hated people making a fuss. What was a birthday, anyway? Just a day. Nothing special. All the celebrating was just a pretence that something had actually happened, something had actually changed, a milestone had been set down. And actually, it was all much ado about nothing.
A memory floated into his mind, how his birthday had been when Laura was still with him. She’d slipped out of bed early in the morning and taken little gifts and hidden them all over the castle. It had taken him the entire day to find them all. How she’d laughed when he’d looked in all the wrong places. He could almost hear her musical voice now.
But he shook it away. Thinking of Laura was still too painful. Would there ever come a time when he could remember her without that dull, hopeless, agonizing pain of guilt in his gut?
Finally he was ready to put a stop to this and get on with his day. He turned off the water and stood there for a moment, feeling the mist around him turn into clear air, the warmth turn into refreshing coolness, the moisture evaporate on his skin. For some reason his senses seemed especially acute today. He was feeling things he never noticed, hearing birds outside, feeling a breeze, enjoying the rays of the sun that came in through the open window. As usual, he avoided looking in the mirror while he dried himself with a huge fluffy towel, glancing out the window at the beautiful day instead.
“There’s no place like Italy,” he murmured to himself. “And in Italy, there’s no place like Monta Correnti.”
He stretched in the warm sunlight, smelling the clean scent of his soap. And…something else.
He stopped, frowning, and sniffed the air again. There was something else in the wind—or, more likely, wafting up from the kitchen. Someone was cooking. How could someone be cooking? There was no one here. Even Renzo was gone, making his weekly trip to see his daughter an hour’s drive away.
Was it his imagination?
No, it got stronger. Garlic, tomatoes, olive oil, and something else.
It was a wonderful smell. A slow smile began to transform his face. It seemed someone had remembered his birthday after all and had come back to surprise him. It had to be Renzo.
Much as the old sourpuss tended to be a dour figure, he had his moments. Max pulled on a pair of jeans, suddenly in a hurry to find out what was going on. He turned to the stairway, bounding down, barefooted and shirtless, feeling happier than he’d felt in a long time. Funny how the fact that someone had remembered his birthday after all seemed to buoy him. He was smiling as he pushed in through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
“So you did remember my birthday after all,” he said, and then he stopped dead, shocked to the core. It wasn’t Renzo who turned to greet him.
“You!” He stared at her. “How did you get in here?”
Isabella was opening her mouth, and as she did so she thought she had words to say. But somehow they never made it out past her lips. For the moment, she couldn’t speak.
It was all too much. She was startled by the way he’d come barging into the room, but, more than that, she was stunned at the beauty of the man she saw before her. His bare chest, his strong shoulders and muscular arms, the way his worn jeans rode low on his hips, revealing a tanned stomach that was smooth and tight as a trampoline canvas, all combined to present a picture of raw, candid masculinity that took her breath away.
“Oh! I…I…”
His jaw was hard as stone and his eyes blazed. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Uh…” She gestured toward the stove. “Cooking?”
His head went back. That part was obvious. He was tensed, every muscle hardening, as though ready to pick her up physically and throw her out onto the front walkway.
“That’s not what I mean,” he said through teeth that were close to clenched.
“I know. I know.”
She shook her head, trying to clear it. She’d never responded to a man like this before. She was swooning like a young girl in the sixties at a Beatles concert. She had to get a grip.
But something about him had hit her hard, right in the emotions. He had come barging into the kitchen and as she’d turned to greet him she’d seen this beautifully sculptured image of a man, backlit by the golden light coming in from the high windows. Michelangelo’s creation in the flesh. She had that feeling she sometimes got when her favorite tenor reached an impossibly high note and held it forever. She even had tears stinging in her eyes—he was just so beautiful.
She turned from him and leaned against the counter, her hand over her mouth. Staring into the red sauce bubbling on the stove, she fought for stability. What was she going to do? She couldn’t seem to stay sane around this man.
And she had to. This was not what she’d come for. She didn’t want to be mesmerized by his male appeal. She had a case to make and she had to stay on her toes to make it. But somehow sanity and the prince didn’t seem to go together well.
Too bad, she told herself sternly. You’ve got to do this right.
Taking a deep breath, she turned back to face him. Resolutely, she lifted her gaze and stared at him hard.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” she said, and somehow she managed to sound strong. “You are denying me access to something I need in order to survive. Something my family traditionally has had access to. We have to find a way to compromise on this.”
He stared back at her. She was looking up at him, her eyes very wide, and he realized he hadn’t even thought to shield his face from her gaze. Here he was in broad daylight with none of the protective shadows of the other night. And there she was, staring straight at him. And yet, once again he felt no overwhelming need to turn away as he felt so often with others. Her gaze was open and natural. She might be scared of something about him, but it wasn’t his face.
But it was her face that drew his attention. He took a step closer and reached out to take her chin in his hand and tilt her head so that he could examine her. And then he swore softly.
“Isabella, you still have a bad bruise,” he said, a touch of outrage in his voice as he studied her black eye.
“Oh,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Yes, I’ve been told it will take a while to fade.”
He swore softly, shaking his head, then pulled away from her and looked at the items she’d spread out all over the kitchen.
“You’re going to have to pack all this up and get out of here,” he said tersely.
She took a step back away from him. She knew he was angry at finding her here. What confused her a bit, though, was why her black eye seemed to make him even angrier. As though it were her fault or something!
“Why?”
He looked back at her. “Because, once again, you’re trespassing. You’re going to have to go.”
She shook her head. She wasn’t going to be bowled over so easily. She lifted her chin. “Not until you try the sauce.”
A look of surprise flashed in his dark eyes. He turned to glance at the brew simmering in the pot. “Is this your special sauce?”
“Yes.”
He turned back and met her defiant eyes.
“I don’t want to try your sauce, Isabella. I’m sure it’s a fine sauce. But, no matter how good it is, it won’t change anything. The special quality of your sauce is not at issue here. It’s the access to the hillside, and I can’t allow you to go there.”
He was like a stone wall. Her hope began to flag.
“Max, please.” She winced and drew back a bit. “Don’t you understand?” she said, trying hard to be calm and reasonable. “I have to go there.”
He shrugged as though he just didn’t care. “I’m going to go and finish dressing,” he said dryly. “I expect you to have cleared out by the time I get back.”
He began to turn away.
Isabella cried out. “No!”
He hesitated and looked back, and in that same moment a furious Isabella, all tossed hair and flashing eyes, got between him and the doorway before he realized what was happening.
“You listen to me,” she demanded, jabbing a finger against his naked chest. “It wasn’t easy doing this. It wasn’t easy coming all this way and climbing the hill with all these supplies, or finding the right time to come here when I would be able to get in, and preparing myself and putting together a proper case to make to convinc
e you. You can at least pay me the respect of hearing me out.”
He grabbed her hand to stop the jabbing and ended up holding onto it. “Why should I hear you out? Your problems have nothing to do with me.”
“Yes, they do,” she insisted, trying to free her hand from his grip. “You own the hillside where the basil grows. That herb is the linchpin of my family’s existence. Without it, our restaurant is over and my father’s lifework is in ruins.”
She finally yanked her hand away and jabbed him again. “You will listen,” she demanded, her eyes fierce.
Max hadn’t been around many people for a good long time, but he’d always had a knack for understanding a lot about human psychology. One thing he knew was that, faced with someone who was almost overwrought with passionate intensity, the worst thing you could do was to laugh. It drove the person crazy and it made you look like a jerk. He knew it was all wrong. Not to mention, if your goal was to calm the person down, it just plain didn’t work very well.
But he couldn’t help it. She looked so cute. Her curly hair was flopping down over her huge eyes and her cheeks were bright red and her lips looked lusciously swollen. And she was so earnest.
He started to try to answer her, but the words didn’t come out right. What did come out was a choking laugh, and once it got started he had a hard time getting it stopped again.
Laughing. It was something he never did. As he tried to analyze it later, he decided it was a release of sorts. He’d spent so long being so tense, so filled with anguished guilt, and Isabella had reached into his life and pulled aside the curtain, letting in a ray of sunshine that helped open the floodgates to emotions he had kept bottled up for too long. But once those gates had opened, it was hard getting them closed again.
She stood back, stunned, her blue eyes bewildered. Next she was going to look hurt and he knew it. He didn’t want her to be hurt. He had to stop that. He had to tell her, had to explain…
But he was laughing and, for the moment, all he could do was reach for her and fold her into his arms.