That wasn’t likely to be for some time, though. Likely several days, if the forecasts were to be believed. Which meant he had to find out how the hell to tolerate her existence in the house.
Eyeing his empty coffee cup, he snatched it off his desk and strode out of his office, down the deserted hallway into the blessedly silent stairwell, thankful that at least she was capable of following directions.
There was no sight, nor sound of her. Good.
But as he pushed into the kitchen, his luck ran out in spectacular fashion.
Not only was the intruder ensconced here, she had completely taken over the space. Neatly – and orderly – but nonetheless, almost every surface was covered. Bowls, pots, pans, chopping boards, and various food items, were scattered over the counter. And it smelled…wonderful.
His stomach gave a low grumble of recognition, but he refused to be mollified by the fact she had clearly concocted something delicious, when he hadn’t eaten all day. He wanted a damned coffee and she was standing between him and his machine. In an apron, no less. Damn it, where had she even found such a thing in his home?
“What the hell are you doing?”
She startled out of the note she was making, lifting a hand and self-consciously pushing her hair back from her cheek, unwittingly smudging polenta there.
She’d wondered if she should ask him to use the kitchen, but he’d been quite emphatic about not disturbing him, and it wasn’t as though she was depleting his resources. A quick investigation of the larder attached to the kitchen showed that he was well-stocked enough to last out a decades-long blizzard. Bags of polenta, flour, pasta, rice and legumes stood beside wicker baskets overflowing with produce – onions, garlic, carrots, potatoes, apples, pumpkins. There were cartons of long life milk, cream, milk solids, spices galore. It was a cook’s dream come true, and yet she suspected this man rarely made use of the stock.
“Cooking,” she responded simply, wondering if that would annoy him further or placate him.
“I can see that,” he clamped his lips together, crossing his arms over his chest as he had the night before. He was mercifully dressed now, wearing a grey sweater with a pair of dark jeans. “Why?”
“Well, what else was I supposed to do?”
He frowned as though that hadn’t occurred to him.
“I don’t know,” he admitted finally, moving his coffee cup from one hand to the other.
Realising it was empty, and guessing at his reason for coming into the kitchen, she extended her hand for it. “Top up?”
He stared at her as though she’d started speaking Swahili.
“Coffee. Would you like one?”
If anything, his scowl grew deeper. “That was my intention.”
“Then let me make it. How do you take it?”
More confusion. He looked at her with a beetled brow before extending the mug as if for lack of other options.
“Black? White? Sugar?”
“Black.”
“Of course, like a proud Italian male,” she couldn’t help teasing. He was, clearly, not receptive to the comment. Her smile dropped a little but she did her best not to show how unnerving she found him.
“I was just about to make one for myself,” she said after a charged silence. “This is a beautiful machine.”
Rather than an ordinary domestic coffee maker, he had a café style cappuccino machine installed, and it had been left on when she’d come in that morning. Pulling a milk from the fridge and pouring it into a small stainless-steel jug, she set about grinding the beans before gently tamping down on the coffee.
“You have worked as a barista.” The statement was a completely toneless observation – his voice not showing interest, nor speculation, nor anything so ordinary as a conversational cue.
Nonetheless, it was a step up from, don’t bother me, stay out of my way, so she smiled and nodded. “When I was at uni, yeah. It’s kind of a great Aussie tradition – most of us have worked in a café at some point or another.” She locked the coffee bar into place and lined up a cup beneath, pressing the red switch and observing as the machine hummed to life, and after a tiny delay, a rich golden brown liquid began to pour from the basket, two dark streams of coffee joining together and pooling in one cup. She waited about twenty seconds then flicked the switch off, breathing in the delicious aroma before removing the cup and handing it to him.
He nodded by way of acknowledgement – she wondered if ‘thanks’ or ‘grazie’ were even in his vocabulary. Somehow, she doubted it.
Emptying the coffee grinds, she went through the motions again, aware of his eyes on her back the whole time, and wishing he’d go away while somehow hoping he’d remain. She refilled the basket with care, tamped down on it then slid it into place.
“I miss this, you know,” she said, conversationally, as the coffee began to stream into her own cup. She simultaneously lifted the jug towards the steam nozzle and tilted it at an angle as she rotated the switch, so that for a moment, conversation was made difficult by the noise of the milk’s heating. It swirled around and around in the jug and when the side felt too hot to hold, Isabella released the pressure, turning the nozzle off and banging the jug on the countertop.
“Miss what?”
The question seemed to be drawn from him against his will. She angled her face in his direction a little, but promptly looked away again at his expression. It was forbidding, to say the least. He had said he wasn’t nice, or kind – though the two were not mutually exclusive and of course had very different meanings. Well, she didn’t know if that was an accurate observation but she did know he wasn’t particularly friendly or polite, and she couldn’t quite fathom how to deal with such unashamed animosity.
“Making coffees. There’s something meditative about it. It’s satisfying to get to know a beautiful machine like this, and be able to coax the best from it. Rewarding to speak to customers as you make their drink, see them smile as they take their first sip.” She smiled naturally, memories of that brief time in her life warming her.
“How old are you?”
She angled her cup as she poured the milk in, marvelling at the way the two liquids swirled together to create a dramatic mix of gold and white on the top of her drink. “Twenty six,” she spoke as though his question wasn’t jarring, lifting the cup to her lips. “I’ll be twenty seven in January.” She wasn’t sure why she’d volunteered the information. Her birthday was, and always had been, her least favourite day of the year. She cleared her throat and looked to the windows – a view that had transfixed her all day.
“There is a television in the room down the hall,” he said. “It has American Netflix. Watch whatever you’d like.”
She wasn’t going to tell him she wasn’t a huge television watcher – it was an improvement that he was even offering her some form of entertainment. “Thanks, maybe later.”
He stared at her for a few moments, a beat too long, and then nodded. “Fine.” He spun on his heel but at the door, with his shoulders braced, tossed back into the room, “Thank you for the coffee.”
It was expressly what he’d asked her not to do, and she knew it, which is why a kaleidoscope of butterflies was beating through her body as she moved lightly down the corridor in search of Gabe.
She didn’t want to disturb him. But she really did need to get online and for that, she’d need her host to provide her with a WiFi password. As a peace offering, she’d brought the fruits of her cooking labours – well, some of them at least. The Cuccidati had turned out almost perfectly, the addition of the spice she’d bought at a market an excellent addition to the sweet biscuit – and a way to make it ‘her own’.
She moved past her bedroom and several other doors, aware of small noises that indicated he was in a room not far away. Nothing significant, the occasional clicking of keys on the keyboard, a rustle of fabric as he shifted in his seat, and a blade of light filtered into the hallway, beckoning her forward.
But oh, nervousness ma
de her knees wobble a little, and she desperately wished he wasn’t so completely intimidating! It had been a long time since Isabella had been on the ‘back foot’ but this man just made her feel apprehensive and self-conscious in a way she couldn’t explain.
Just as she reached the door, she paused, sucking in a deep breath to steel her nerves, then poked her head around the corner.
“Hi.”
His surprise was obvious. He scowled as he looked towards her, obviously displeased by the intrusion. Nerves buffeted her insides.
“Cookie?”
“What?” It was little more than a growl. Crikey. She really should have rethought this. Maybe banged about a bit as she approached so he wasn’t caught so off guard by her arrival. Not that it would have made any difference – except given him a chance to lock the door, she thought with a wry grimace.
“A Cuccidati, in fact. Want one?”
His eyes dropped to the plate she held, with several still warm biscuits piled on top of it.
“What the hell for?”
She flinched at his language and tone, her skin paling. “It doesn’t matter.” She honestly couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to her like that. She knew she had to stay strong, not to let him see how hurt she was, but that was easier thought than done. “I actually came to ask for the WiFi password, and just didn’t want to arrive empty handed.”
He expelled an angry breath through his nostrils, reaching across his desk. His head dipped forward as he wrote something and a moment later, pushed back his chair, striding around the desk and across to her.
“Here.” He held out a post-it note towards her.
Throat thick with emotions she bitterly resented, she took it without looking at it.
“Thank you. I just need to be able to log on to catch up on work stuff,” she explained quietly, hating that her voice shook with the hint of tears. How dare he make her feel like this? “I’ll leave you to it.”
She spun and quickly turned to leave, but her swift departure was marred by her elbow’s collision with the door frame. It was a hard hit and hurt like the blazes but she didn’t dare stop.
He cursed under his breath into his empty office. The smell of Cuccidati lingered in the air, mingling with whatever she used in her hair – something like jasmine or vanilla, sweet and summery. He clamped his jaw shut as he moved back to his desk, staring at his computer screen with a fury zipping through his belly, a fury borne of his lack of control.
Why had she come?
He didn’t want her here. He wanted to be alone.
But he took precisely zero pleasure in treating her in such a way that brought tears to her eyes. He’d been way too harsh. He didn’t even want to think about what Yaya would say if she could see his behaviour. I didn’t raise any grandson of mine to talk like that to anyone, let alone a woman clearly in need of your help.
Well, he was helping Isabella. He was letting her wait out the blizzard in his home, allowing her to make merry in the kitchen, to play on his cappuccino machine, he’d offered her goddamned free reign of the media room.
And he’d also snapped at her when she’d arrived at his office smiling and holding out a platter that might as well have contained the spirits of doves for all the peace treaty it obviously was.
This was why he needed to be alone. He knew what kind of company he was, particularly now, at the anniversary of Carmen’s death. He knew how he made people feel. He didn’t want to hurt anyone – he just wanted to be by himself. That was a simple enough request, wasn’t it?
He thought of her more often than he liked, for the rest of the day his ability to concentrate was hampered by an image of her emerald green eyes as she’d looked at him with such obvious surprise.
They were an incredible colour, like the pine trees that formed the forest surrounding Il Nido, vivid and shimmering, and rimmed with curling brown lashes. Her nose had a smattering of freckles across the bridge, and her lips were a deep shade of pink.
Not only were her eyes a striking colour, they were expressive and easy to read, revealing what she was feeling even if she had no intention of such a betrayal. They’d looked at him with clear, unmistakable woundedness and he hated that. It was like kicking a Labrador puppy. She’d brought him cookies, for God’s sake.
Dropping his pen to his desk, he scraped back the chair and prowled to the door, wrenching it inwards and going in search of her before he could second-guess his intentions.
“You got online okay?”
She didn’t look away from her screen. She didn’t trust herself to look at him, and wasn’t sure she could speak. It had taken her a good hour, but Isabella had finally grappled with her feelings, and made sense of why she was being so emotional. She was completely stranded with this man, and after the trauma of crashing her rental car and being frozen to ice in an alpine forest! No wonder she was a little fragile today.
She clicked down the browser and nodded, because she had to acknowledge him in some way. She heard him behind her, but still didn’t turn. A moment later, he’d taken the seat opposite, the dining table feeling instantly smaller.
“Are you working?”
“Yes.” To her relief, her voice sounded almost like always.
Silence sparked between them, and of their own volition her eyes sought his, jolting away again just as quickly at the sharp sense of lightning bursting beneath her skin. Her mouth went dry and she swallowed to bring moisture back to it. She stared at her screen, her lips compressed into a flatline.
“I like being here alone.”
His words were spoken quietly, as though being dredged from the depths of his soul.
She didn’t look in his direction.
“I don’t want you here.”
She flinched. “I’m aware of that.”
He made a sound beneath his breath. “That isn’t what I meant to say.” When she looked at Gabe, he was shaking his head with obvious frustration. “This is not about you personally. I have no issue with you, Isabella.”
“Just my presence at Il Nido.”
His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“I didn’t plan to be here, believe me. This was an accident, plain and simple. A mistake.”
But his face grew ashen at her words and for a moment he looked completely shattered, as though a part of him had fallen through the cracks of her sentence and was staring at her from a long way away.
“I really don’t want to invade your space. I’m trying to stay out of your way. Now that I have internet access, you’ll barely see me. I promise.”
He nodded, looking a little more like himself. “Bene.”
Good.
She tried not to let his easy acceptance of her promise hurt. She didn’t know the man and as soon as the weather permitted, she’d be out of his hair for good.
“Why did you make cuccidati?”
The question was unexpected. She chewed on her lower lip then stopped when his eyes dropped to the gesture. “I had my first one in Rome last week. It was delicious, but I wanted to experiment with the recipe the woman gave me.”
“If it was delicious, why experiment at all?”
“I just thought it could use something else – a hint of depth. I added some coconut to the first batch –,” his brow lifted in surprise, but she barrelled on. “Then some dried thyme, which I bought at a market. I think it works.”
His features weren’t exactly encouraging, but he was sitting there, not scowling, and that was in and of itself a turn up for the books. “Would you like to try one?”
He hesitated for a moment and then shifted his head in silent agreement.
Isabella reached across the table, where she’d discarded the plate earlier. She pushed it towards him, watching as he reached for a biscuit. His fingers were long and tanned, his nails neat, but not in a manicured way. He lifted it to his lips, his expression sceptical as he sniffed the baked goods first.
“It won’t kill you,” she said with a slight laugh, an u
nexpected sound cutting into the tension that surrounded them. “You might even like it.”
His eyes seemed to spark with their own electrical current when they met and held hers, even as he opened his mouth and took a bite into the small biscuit. She watched, unexpectedly nervous, awaiting his verdict as he chewed and finally swallowed.
“Well?” She prompted, eventually, then regretted it – he wasn’t likely to hold back if he didn’t like it, and she wasn’t sure her ego could take the bashing today.
“It’s very good,” he admitted a moment later. “The biscuit is just how my Yaya used to make them, but the stuffing is different.”
“The thyme,” she murmured.
“Yaya used date and orange.”
“That’s the same as the recipe I was given. I just wanted to have a tinker. I don’t know if I’ll leave the thyme in, or experiment with something else altogether; it occurred to me that dried lavender could work nicely, or candied pear, but I’m obviously a bit limited in ingredients here.”
Then, feeling as though she’d said too much, she winced. “Which isn’t to insult your kitchen. It’s surprisingly very well stocked. I suppose whoever comes and cooks does that.”
Great. She was babbling. She had no doubt he would panic and run away again, just as he was beginning to show signs of thawing. She clamped her lips together, then wiggled them into a small smile.
“I cook.”
It was the last thing she’d expected him to say.
“That is to say, Ariana, my housekeeper, leaves some meals in the freezer, but generally, while at Il Nido, I cook. The ‘very well stocked’ kitchen is at my request.”
“Oh.” Chastened, her cheeks felt warm. “I honestly didn’t have you pegged as much of a cook.”
His shoulder shrug was the most relaxed gesture she’d witnessed from him since arriving. “Why would you? You don’t know me.”
Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6) Page 4