Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6)

by Clare Connelly

  She wouldn’t.

  Used to being pushed away, she would never let Gabe become another person she’d loved who’d let her down. It would taint everything they’d shared. Developing feelings for him would ruin everything, even her memories. She smiled in an attempt to push the dangerous and dark thoughts from her mind.

  “How far is it?”

  “Only forty minutes or so.”

  In fact, it took less – a half hour later, the helicopter was descending over a stunning, verdant vineyard, rolling lanes of vines running down a hill and towards a valley. An historic farmhouse sprawled at the crest of the hill, everything she would have imagined if she’d been asked to describe something quintessentially Tuscan. A red tiled roof stood above limewashed walls in a terracotta colour, the gardens were a mix of formal Italianate design and rambling country wildness. Bursts of colour – bright red geraniums and deep purple Bougainvillea were visible and happy-making even from the sky. As they drew closer, she saw hallmarks of wealth: an enormous fence surrounded the property at a discreet distance, walling it off from the world. There were tennis courts and a small golf course, as well as a swimming pool that looked like heaven, with its glistening water and sun beds. True, it was still winter – far too cold for swimming, but they’d travelled a vital distance south. The sun was shining and there was no snow in sight.

  He brought the helicopter down with expert ease, waiting until the blades had slowed before reaching across to her seatbelt clasp. His eyes held hers for several seconds and she felt the question on the tip of his tongue: are you sure? But she was glad he didn’t ask it, because the truth was, she wasn’t sure, and if he gave her a chance to back out, Isabella was a little afraid she might take it.

  “Let’s go,” he murmured, his smile warming something suspiciously close to her heart.

  Her pulse skipped a beat. “Are you sure they’re not going to mind that I’m here?”

  His look was rich with amusement. “Believe me, that’s going to be the last thing they feel.”

  “But I’m invading…”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “My family will love you. Come on, Yaya will have heard the helicopter and already be wondering what’s keeping me.”

  My family will love you.

  The words rummaged through her brain over and over again. A harmless epithet spoken by way of encouragement, and yet she braced against their seductive weight, not wanting to believe them to be true, because having people love her was fraught with difficulty.

  It’s just an expression, she reminded herself, glad his fingers were laced through hers as they walked towards the house. It was definitely not swimming weather. Despite the beauty of the day, it was crisp and cool, so she shivered a little. Gabe must have noticed – he seemed to notice everything. He dropped her hand and instead put an arm around her shoulder, drawing her closer to his body, his warmth passing through her completely. She looked up at him and smiled – an easy, natural gesture.

  Stone steps led to the villa, and the doors were huge and made of very old timber painted a bright shade of turquoise. Two pots – terracotta with dwarf lemon trees in each – were fragrant and beautiful.

  Her heart was beating far too fast, her pulse racing as Gabe lifted a hand to the door to push it inwards – of course he wouldn’t knock. This was his family’s home.

  But before he could open it, the door was wrenched inwards.

  “Thank Cristo,” a man said on a rush of breath, dragging a hand through his thick dark hair. “Yaya’s been beside herself. What the hell kept you –,”

  The man turned to Isabella then, as if just realising Gabe wasn’t alone.

  “Holy shit,” he cursed, switching to English, then turned over his shoulder. “Luca? Fiero? Guys? Gabe’s here. And he’s not alone.”

  Isabella stiffened, squeezing Gabe’s hand for support. He practically crushed her bones with his response.

  “Raf,” his tone held a warning.

  But the other man – Raf – just grinned, a look that was so familiar Isabella couldn’t help returning the smile. “Isabella Moss.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard all about you.”

  Isabella momentarily missed a beat. Had Gabe told his family about her? Something like hope burst through her chest.

  “My cousin Fiero’s wife is a fan of your show. She saw the video you posted from Il Nido.”

  Isabella blinked up at Gabe, covering her disappointment with a look of surprise. “You said there was no risk –,”

  “Apparently everyone in the world watches you after all.”

  Isabella grimaced, but it was softened by the hint of a smile, and as the door frame filled up with some kind of casting call for ‘tall, dark and handsome male models’, her smile only grew brighter. It was terrifying and intimidating but also exciting to meet Gabe’s family and see where he came from – and this group definitely, unmistakably, looked as though they were cast from the same mould as him.

  “Are you going to let us in?” Gabe drawled, his expression the opposite of hers – his features were hard and chiselled, his eyes flashing with exasperation as he scanned his relatives.

  “Oh, by all means,” Raf grinned, stepping back and bumping directly into the broad chest of one of the other men.

  Gabe gestured to each in turn, introducing them. “Luca, Max, Nico, Fiero and Raf you’ve already met, more or less.”

  “That’s a lot of names to remember,” she said a little nervously.

  “Oh, it’s almost impossible,” a female voice, British, came from behind. She walked up to Raf, sliding an arm around his waist. Her hair was a pale gold, her eyes blue and wide set, her face inviting warmth and confidence. “I’m Lauren,” she said gently. “I love your show.”

  Isabella’s cheeks grew warm. Despite the fact she was often recognised and fans would pour out stories of their favourite episodes or kitchen mishaps and successes, she’d never really grown comfortable with the spotlight.

  “Thank you.”

  Perhaps Lauren sensed that, because she changed the subject. “I just came to gather everyone for brunch. Why don’t you come and meet Yaya?”

  Isabella looked up at Gabe, completely lost.

  “We’ll go to her now,” he agreed. “Unless you need a moment to freshen up?”

  Isabella thought about saying yes, actually, she did, but it would have only been a form of delay – and what was the point? She’d have to meet the matriarch of the family sooner or later – and in her experience, sooner was always better. Like the ripping off of a Band-Aid.

  “Sure,” she said softly, only a hint of hesitation in her voice. “Let’s go meet Yaya.”

  Gabe winked at her and all her doubts disappeared completely. This was fine! Meeting his family didn’t change anything. He was still Gabe, she was still Isabella, and in two more nights, she’d be gone – never to see him again.

  13

  “A FRIEND?” YAYA REPEATED, peering closer, her intelligent eyes scanning every single detail of Isabella, from top to bottom, until Isabella felt distinctly like a bug in a microscope. She held her breath, waiting for the executioner’s blade to fall, intensely wary of – and desperately wanting to please – the elegant older woman, for reasons she couldn’t quite comprehend.

  “Actually, it’s more like Gabe’s my saviour,” Isabella couldn’t help interjecting. After all, the woman’s English was flawless and she wasn’t the kind of woman who liked to be spoken for.

  Yaya’s expression didn’t change, reminding Isabella a thousand times over of Gabe. She could only imagine what it would be like to play poker with this pair!

  “My car got stuck under an ice embankment just a short walk from Il Nido,” she elaborated. “I had to shelter there for a few days while the blizzard went on.”

  “I see,” Yaya murmured, and then her mouth cracked into a smile that crinkled the papery skin at the corner of her eyes. It was as though the sun was being beamed into the room, through Yaya and right into Is
abella’s heart.

  The older woman leaned forward then, placing her fine-boned hand on Isabella’s. “Sit beside me for brunch, dear. I want to hear all about you.”

  Isabella’s throat was inexplicably dry. Emotions deluged her. Pleasure, but something a lot like pain as well. It was a complicated state – complicated by the fact Isabella knew this was temporary, and also because she’d never known such a warm, instant welcome. It was hard for her to remember not to trust her feelings, harder to still remember all the reasons for not getting attached to these people.

  “See? They love you,” Gabe murmured into Isabella’s ear as they walked towards the table, his arm around her waist casual and intimate all at once. She was seated near the middle of the table, Yaya on one side and Gabe the other. Elodie with glossy dark hair and chocolate brown eyes sat opposite, and despite the fact she’d immediately declared, as they’d taken their seats, “Ohmygod, I’m your biggest fan, I just love what you do!”, Isabella had warmed to her immediately, and not just because they had matching Australian accents. It was easy to make conversation with Elodie about their homeland. Sydney and the Gold Coast were alike in a lot of ways, and they’d been to many of the same holiday destinations.

  “So what brings you to Italy?” Elodie asked, as staff cleared away the plates and replenished them for the pastry course.

  “The food,” she replied immediately, gesturing to the delicious assortment spread down the centre of the table. She realised most of the family had stopped talking and were listening to her. A predictable warmth spread into her face and she knew her cheeks would have turned pink. “I’m researching a recipe book,” she elaborated.

  “Oh, wonderful,” Elodie clapped her hands together.

  “Ellie’s got us all hooked on you,” another one of the women – Maddie? – explained. Her accent was British, and she was just as welcoming as everyone else had been. She was married to Nico, Isabella remembered, surprising herself with how well she was doing on the name front.

  “She gave us each a copy of your recipe book last Christmas,” Alessia – Italian – nodded. “I have cooked many things from it, grazie.”

  Elodie brushed aside the praise. “Do you all like to cook?”

  “We like to eat,” Lauren said with a laugh. Yaya matched it, and their eyes met, a look of accord passing between the younger woman and older.

  “My boys all cook,” Yaya said, her voice softer than everyone else’s, so Isabella had to lean a little closer.

  “Yes,” Isabella nodded. “Gabe surprised me with some meals at Il Nido.”

  “You cooked for her?” Raf let out a whistle. “Must be serious.”

  Isabella looked at Gabe on autopilot, but the expression on his face was like the cracking of a whip. He stared at his cousin and Raf quickly moved the conversation along, perhaps sensing he’d said something wrong.

  But what?

  That it was serious between the two of them? Why should that bother Gabe? They both knew the truth – there was nothing between them except a brief fling. Did he think she’d start getting ideas just because of a throwaway comment?

  To dispel any doubts on that score, she put her hand beneath the table and squeezed his thigh, drawing his attention to her. She smiled, hoping he could see in her eyes that she was fine – that this was fine.

  Only Gabe was different somehow. He looked – like he had on the first night they’d met. Her own smile slipped and then he found his, as though seeking to reassure her now.

  The day passed in a whirlwind. She’d come to Villa Fortune at Gabe’s urging and yet she’d barely seen him! Sometime after lunch, Bronte – Luca’s fiancé – whisked Isabella into the kitchen.

  “You look like you could use a break,” she said with an exaggerated grimace. “As the newest member to this clan, I get it. They’re great but kind of overwhelming.”

  Isabella laughed. “Yep.” Then, she sobered, flicking the switch on the kettle out of habit. “In all sincerity, I really like it. It’s what I’ve always imagined family to be.”

  “Oh? Why? What’s your family like?”

  Bronte grabbed two teacups from the cupboard, then lifted a tin of bags. “English Breakfast okay?”

  “Great, thanks.” Isabella watched as Bronte placed the bags into the mugs, then both stood by as the kettle boiled. Finally, Isabella answered Bronte’s question.

  “I don’t really – have a family.” Her voice throbbed a little with the admission. It was Christmas eve and the house was full of merriment and festive decoration. In the distance, Christmas carols were being sung, a piano accompaniment played by someone.

  “No family?” Bronte repeated, splashing water into the cups then drawing a bottle of milk from the fridge.

  Isabella shook her head. “I was adopted. That didn’t work out. I went into foster care, but moved around a lot.” She shrugged, as though admitting that wasn’t part way to killing her. Especially here, surrounded by the evidence of what families were meant to be, proof of all the love she’d missed out on.

  “And you?” She pushed, not wanting the sympathy she knew she’d find in Bronte’s response.

  Bronte looked tempted to offer it anyway, but then she followed Isabella’s lead. “Smaller than this, but very loud and loving. My sister just got married, so our family got a bit bigger. And Luca and I are adding to the ranks soon ourselves,” she patted her stomach, her cheeks flashing pink. “But don’t say anything, please. It’s still early. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it, but I’m so excited –,”

  Isabella smiled warmly. “I won’t mention it, I promise. That’s wonderful news; congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  The doors to the kitchen swung open and four staff members – three women and one man – strode into the room, each wearing a crisp white apron.

  “Looks like the serious work is about to begin. Shall we go sing the carols?”

  Isabella looked at Bronte, not wanting to be rude, but desperately wishing she could stay where she was comfortable: here, in the kitchen. Just for a moment, while she regrouped and drew breath.

  “I see,” Bronte nodded with obvious amusement. “You want to roll up your sleeves.”

  “Just for a little while,” she grinned. “Do you mind?”

  “Knock yourself out.” She reached out and squeezed Isabella’s hand. “We’re so glad you’re here with Gabe. He seems – so different. He’s actually happy.”

  Isabella’s smile dropped as soon as Bronte turned her back. If Gabe was different, the change would no doubt be fleeting – as their relationship was. Or perhaps his alteration had nothing to do with Isabella; maybe it was just a coincidence. She hoped that the latter was true – then the differences might be lasting. She wanted, more than anything, for Gabe to be truly happy. He deserved that. Seven years of hating himself was more than enough penance – not that he needed to pay any, in any event.

  “Can I help you, signorina?” One of the women approached, a rounded woman with short brown hair and twinkling eyes. She spoke with a German accent, her fingernails so short they were just rounded tips of her fingers. Her lips were thin, her cheeks ruddy.

  “Oh,” Isabella nodded. “I was hoping I could stay and help for a little while.”

  The woman harumphed. “I see. You like to cook?”

  “I love to cook,” she admitted. “And I’d love to observe and learn. What can I do?”

  The woman – who introduced herself as Christel – handed Isabella a potato peeler and a large sack of Colfiorito potatoes with their distinctive rust coloured skins. Isabella peeled very happily, listening to the chatter in the kitchen. By virtue of the fact the staff were from different countries – Germany, France, Italy and Greece – they spoke in English, making it easy for Isabella to listen and occasionally interject. Each seemed to have a different role. Stavros, the man, worked on sweets, cooking elaborate pastries which Isabella recognised as primarily Greek. Christel cooked over the stove – a ragu a
nd a soup. Anna-Maria, the Italian chef, worked at breads and Marion cooked at a separate stove to Christel, creating cheese sauces.

  As time passed, Isabella grew more confident, and began to ask questions – about their experience, first, then about their favourite recipes. She confessed she was working on a recipe book and asked if they had any regional favourites they thought should be included.

  When Yaya walked in an hour later, it was to see Isabella had abandoned the potatoes and was busy with a notepad and pen instead, making copious notes as each chef spoke. The appearance of Yaya though silenced the room. It was not a silence brought about by intimidation so much as admiration and affection.

  Yaya inspected each station and Isabella watched, her attention to detail obvious as she lifted spoons and sampled each dish, nodding at times, or alternatively making quiet little recommendations to the chefs.

  She came to Isabella last. “For your book?” She pointed to the notes.

  Isabella nodded. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why should I mind?”

  “I’m sort of distracting your staff.”

  “It’s Christmas eve and they have given up time with their families to come here and cook for mine. Do you think I am some kind of slave driver not to let them enjoy themselves in the process?”

  Isabella shook her head. “I didn’t mean to imply –,”

  Yaya cackled. “Relax, cara.” She leaned closer. “Have you seen enough?”

  Isabella looked longingly at the chefs and Yaya laughed again.

  “Apparently not. I’ll join you then.”

  She took a seat beside Isabella, the younger woman resisting the temptation to help Yaya onto the stool. Her intuition told her the assistance would be unwelcome. A moment later, two glasses of mulled wine appeared.

  “My favourite,” Yaya explained.

  Isabella dutifully sipped. It was, of course, delicious. Christel was watching expectantly; Isabella smiled her approval at both women.