Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6) Page 14

  A few more steps and the tree was in the entrance hall, still on its side, and so much larger once within the confines of the castle’s walls.

  “Where would you like it?”

  He wiped his hands on the back of his pants, watching her in that way he had, as though she was beautiful and precious and special and he was exerting all his energy in trying to figure her out.

  She bit down on her lower lip and looked around. “Umm, I don’t know.” She had to do better than that, though. Somewhere different to last time, to the tree he’d put up seven Christmasses ago, and taken down after enduring an impossible tragedy.

  “What about the kitchen,” she suggested after a moment.

  His expression showed she’d chosen well. His face relaxed visibly, and his smile seemed to come from deep in his soul. “Yes, the kitchen,” he agreed. “That’s perfect.”

  He clenched his hands into fists and then released them, grabbing the rope lower now and starting to drag the tree. She frowned as she watched him. “Please let me help. It isn’t right that you do all the work.”

  “Oh, you can make it up to me later.”

  She lifted a brow. “I can, can I?”

  He laughed. “I meant by decorating the damned thing.” He stopped and turned to face her, his eyes loaded with meaning. “But you can feel free to use your imagination. I am at your disposal.”

  Her throat went dry at that simple promise, the idea of Gabe Montebello being her very sexy plaything to do with what she would…her pulse went into overdrive so that, by the time he’d propped the tree against the kitchen wall, it was Isabella who was out of breath.

  She busied herself making coffees while he fetched a copper pot for the base, lifting the tree into it then placing a stack of bricks in for balance.

  The room smelled like Christmas, and tears of joy filled Isabella’s eyes. It wasn’t the Christmas she’d had planned but everything about this felt perfect and right. She blinked quickly, hoping to clear the tears, but emotions were thick in her throat.

  “It’s perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “But you’re crying?”

  She dashed a tear from her cheek. “I’m not,” she denied, then laughed. “They’re happy tears, I promise.” His dark eyes roamed her face, and her mouth felt dry even as her body began to throb with awareness. “It’s just – this is – I know it’s not how you want to spend Christmas, but for me,” she gestured with her hand to the tree first then the snowy alpine vista beyond the windows, “This is exactly what I imagined when I set off for Italy.”

  “Different to what you’re used to,” he said softly, nudging her with his shoulder.

  She smiled up at him. “Yes. And everything I’ve imagined. Thank you.”

  A frown flickered on his lips for a moment and then he dropped his head, kissing her on the forehead. “My pleasure.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. Silence vibrated around them. Isabella felt it weaving through her soul and despite the fact neither spoke, a new awareness was spreading from the pit of her stomach through her arms and legs, and into her soul.

  “You made coffee?”

  It was the perfect circuit-breaker, a question that dragged her back to the rudimentary. She nodded towards the bench, watching distractedly as he strolled to it and took a sip, before shrugging out of his jacket. He was wearing a soft wool sweater beneath, dark in colour, with faded jeans, and the effect combined to make him look dangerous and tantalising.

  “If you continue staring at me like that, cara, I’m going to have to do something about it.”

  Her heart stammered. “Oh, yeah?”

  A growling noise of agreement emerged from his throat.

  “And you think that’s going to make me stop staring?”

  His lips twisted in a smile but this time, it was devoid of humour. It was speculative and thoughtful, and a little hesitant.

  “You say that like it’s a threat,” she continued, taking a step towards him. “But I see it rather as a promise.”

  His eyes darkened so they were almost granite in colour. “I would never threaten you.”

  Something popped in the region of her chest; she knew that was true. She felt safe with him. On the first night they’d met, he’d told her he wasn’t kind, but Isabella didn’t think that was true at all.

  “And what about promises?” She asked, as she drew close to him, her breath fanning his chest a little.

  Something shifted in his face, as though a rope were being tightened around his chest. For a moment, his features drew gaunt and his skin paled, but then he was himself again.

  “I don’t make promises.”

  Her heart stammered.

  She’d been referring to sex, and to this specific moment, when desire was lashing the base of her spine, but his emphatic assertion turned her mind to more. It made her remember his determination to push people away, his insistence on being alone. It made her think of the way he’d kept himself isolated – emotionally and geographically – so as to avoid entanglements. It made her remember that he was yet another person determined to keep her at arm’s length even when they were becoming more intimate with each day that passed.

  Sadness curled through her, so she reached past him for her coffee and turned away a little clunkily, needing some breathing space. She focussed on the tree, her back to him, concentrating on regulating her breathing and hoping he wouldn’t notice the abrupt change in her demeanour.

  “Okay,” her voice was raspy. “Let’s get started.”

  “Isabella.”

  His voice cut through her. She bit hard on her lower lip, gripping the coffee cup firmly.

  “We should do lights first,” she continued as though she hadn’t heard. Then his hand was curving around her hip, turning her slowly to face him. Oh, God help her. Up close, he was electrifying. Something sparked inside of her at the closeness of him. She tried to look away but couldn’t.

  “I hate hurting you.”

  Her stomach swooped to her toes. “You’re not,” she insisted, even as her chest felt oddly as though it were being cleaved in two.

  He frowned, scanning her eyes far too intently for Isabella’s liking. She blinked up at him then laughed. It sounded hollow to her own ears but she hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Honestly, Gabe, stop worrying about me, would you? Let’s just get this tree decorated.”

  She suspected he wasn’t convinced, but that barely mattered to Isabella. He was wrong, anyway. He had made her a promise – a promise that this meant nothing to him. A promise he’d forget about her afterwards. And those were promises she held close to her heart. Not because they brought her pleasure but because it was vital to remember them if she wanted to be sure she didn’t do something stupid and lose her own heart to him.

  “You’re in charge,” he said, sounding normal and relaxed. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

  “Stop making me laugh,” she warned, an hour later when, atop the ladder, she reached out to hang a ceramic bird from a branch of the tree. It was gleaming white with gold trim, each wing embossed so she’d run her fingers over them and exclaimed at the detail.

  “I should be the one up the ladder,” he muttered.

  “No way. You got to cut the tree down, now it’s my turn for some fun. But seriously, if you make me laugh I’m going to fall down and then you’ll be sorry.”

  “Okay, no more stories about Luca.” When she looked down, he was grinning, a look of such boyish charm on his face that her heart stammered in her throat for a moment.

  “Agreed,” she said a second too late, turning back to the job at hand, hooking the ribbon over a branch and leaning back a little to observe her handiwork.

  “Be careful,” he said firmly, lifting his hands to her hips and holding her steady.

  It was unnecessary but no way would Isabella say that. She liked the feel of his hands on her body, anytime, anywhere.

  “You all sound so close.” Her voice was wistful, heavy with the envy of
an only child.

  “Would you have liked siblings?”

  She began to climb down the ladder, but Gabe didn’t move backwards, so his arms formed, for a moment, an embrace. She looked up at him, her heart in her throat, something clicking into place deep in her soul.

  “Yeah,” she said after a moment, working hard to focus on what he was saying. “Siblings, cousins, family beyond my adopted dad.”

  “What about when you were in foster care?”

  “I was never anywhere long enough to feel connected. A couple of the houses I was at had other children, but you know, it’s hard.” She smiled awkwardly and ducked under his arm, lifting another bird from the ornament box. “Look,” she said. “It’s a perfect match.”

  She moved back to the tree, scanning it for gaps.

  “I think,” she said as she dangled the ribbon over a waist-height branch, “I was always a bit afraid.”

  He reached into the box and pulled out another ornament – a bell – and moved to the other side of the tree, suspending it carefully.

  “Of what?”

  She stood back once more to admire their handiwork. “Well,” she searched for the right words, aware she was confessing something to Gabe she’d never even really admitted to herself. “I’d been pushed from pillar to post, and the only person who’d ever really loved me had died when I was just eight years old. I never had any idea what unconditional love felt like – for me it was always conditional. I thought that if I was a good enough girl, if I made dinners and kept the house clean, my dad would get better. That he’d be proud of me. Happy with me. That he’d love me after all.” She turned away from him, moving mechanically towards the box, grabbing the first decoration she could see – a sled with Father Christmas atop it, carved from wood.

  It brought a small smile to her lips, the retro paint reminding her of some of the decorations she’d had as a child.

  “And instead, he just kept getting sicker and sicker and then he gave me away.”

  When she turned around, he was watching her with an intensity that took her breath away. She pushed a smile to her face and moved back to the tree, looking for a bare spot to put the sled.

  “I just couldn’t bring myself to get settled anywhere after that,” she said with a lift of her shoulders. “I saw every foster placement as temporary, just a place to hang out for a while. I was courteous and polite, but never really myself. I didn’t want to get to know new people, and I didn’t want them to get to know me.”

  She shrugged self-consciously.

  “I guess it was like a defence mechanism.” She’d employed it time and time again and now she realised she’d probably been protecting herself when she’d walked away from Andrew. Oh, he wasn’t the right fit for her, but maybe that was why she’d been attracted to him in the first place? Perhaps it was that she had subconsciously gravitated towards the kind of partner who was non-threatening. She hadn’t loved him. She’d never got close. She hadn’t even cried when they’d broken up! What was that if not proof that she was still isolating herself from being hurt?

  And to think, she’d accused Gabe of being the one who was scared to feel anything!

  Heat stole through her cheeks. She changed the subject deliberately, wanting to shift the focus from herself. “Where did you get all these? They’re adorable.”

  “Adorable?” His smile made her heart thump. “I am not sure I would have used that word to describe them.”

  “Why not?”

  He laughed. “I suppose it’s just not in my vocabulary.” Something flickered in his eyes and then he moved back to the box, lifting out a glimmering gold elf. “As for where I got these, Yaya, of course.”

  “They’re your childhood ornaments?”

  “In a sense. She’s a collector, and from the moment we were born she began assembling a box of Christmas decorations for each of us. I haven’t thought about that in years. It was a very thoughtful thing for her to do. I daresay she hoped she was raising another generation of Christmas lovers.”

  Isabella smiled. “Are any of you?”

  “No.” He grinned; her stomach twisted. “I like Christmas the least of all, but my brothers and cousins are not particularly enamoured of it. However, we all pretend, for Yaya’s sake.” He moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “They’re all settled down now, either married or engaged, with children or children on the way, so they seem to care for the holiday a little more too.”

  “I guess having children would make it really come to life.”

  “Si,” he agreed, closing the fridge. “Are you hungry?”

  She nodded. “Definitely.”

  His eyes flared, the reason for her appetite and unspoken awareness between them. “Then have a seat; I’ll make some dinner.”

  Everything seemed to be tipping sideways. Isabella felt as though she’d stumbled into a situation that made no sense, and yet it did at the same time. Everything felt so very, very perfect – almost too good to be true. Reminding herself to be careful, and certainly to remember that this was only temporary, she took the seat opposite, watching as he removed ingredients from the fridge and freezer. Frozen spinach, feta cheese and eggs were combined a bowl, before he added seasoning – nutmeg, salt, pepper and garlic. He talked while he worked. Now that Isabella wasn’t precariously high on the ladder, he returned to amusing her with anecdotes about his brothers and cousins, describing their childhood until her cheeks hurt from smiling. The pain in her heart though seemed to be growing worse, as an awareness of everything she’d missed, everything she’d never had, intensified in the pit of her stomach.

  He filled a piping bag and grabbed out a box of cannelloni, stuffing them expertly, each tube filled with the fragrant green mixture. One by one he lay them in the bottom of a tray until it was all filled up.

  “Aspetti,” he murmured, flashing her a devilish grin that sparked hunger and awareness in her bloodstream. “I just need some passata.” He disappeared into the larder and returned carrying a large jar with a red liquid a moment later. “Yaya’s recipe,” he said.

  “She makes it?”

  “I make it,” he corrected with mock offence.

  Isabella couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. “I still can’t really imagine you cooking.”

  His face showed an approximation of hurt and then he turned his back, moving to the pantry and removing her apron from the hook she’d been using. “Does this help?” He lifted it over his head, tying it around the waist.

  She tilted her head back on another giggle. “Definitely.”

  “Cooking was important to Yaya. It was part of not letting us be spoiled. She didn’t want us thinking we could rely on a housekeeper, and so she made sure we could all cook. We took turns every evening, with Yaya teaching us recipes.”

  Isabella considered that. “I wonder if she didn’t have an ulterior motive?”

  “Like what?” He popped the lid off the passata and poured it over the pasta tubes, then added some freshly shaved parmesan.

  “Well, it just sounds like she carved out some special time for each of you, one on one time, and made it easy for you to talk to her about life and any problems you might have.”

  He lifted a brow. “None of us were big talkers.”

  “Perhaps not, but you had the space to be if necessary.”

  He covered the tray with alfoil then slid it into the oven. He’d put the apron on as a joke, but seeing him in it did something strange to her tummy. His sweater sleeves were pushed up to reveal inches of tanned forearm and something about that innocuous display of flesh set her soul on fire. There was something so intensely masculine about him, even in the apron, that all of her desires were invoked.

  “That won’t be long,” he murmured, turning back to face her. His eyes held hers a moment longer than necessary then he was reaching into the fridge, pulling a bottle of wine out. She watched as he poured a couple of glasses, handing one across to her.

  “Saluti.”


  She returned the gesture, clinking her glass lightly to his then taking a sip. “What are we ‘saluti-ing’ to?” She pondered, as the sweetly acidic drink moved through her.

  He frowned. “Does there need to be an excuse?”

  Surprise flittered through her. “I—,”

  He waited, watching as the realisation hit her.

  “It’s a silly thing my mum used to do.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even realise I do it too.”

  “What is?”

  “It’s just, she always used to say, ‘here’s to—,’ and then say what she was grateful for, or hoping for. ‘Here’s to a better year,’ or ‘Here’s to this lovely new car,’ that kind of thing. I didn’t even know I’d picked up the habit.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Then how about, ‘Here’s to…new friends’?”

  Her heart stammered. Friends? Was that what they were?

  She bit down on her lip, nodding slowly. “That works.” She clinked his glass again, holding his gaze. “Here’s to new friends.” She wondered at the sense of emptiness that was spreading through her at the sweet salutation. After all, wasn’t friendship a step up from what she’d been anticipating her relationship with him to be? Friendship was more intimate than two strangers who were having sex for the short time they were in the same house. Wasn’t it?

  Her eyes drifted to the window, an unconscious frown on her face. She wasn’t aware of the way Gabe was watching her, his astute eyes missing nothing.

  But all thoughts of friendship and sex, and of defining what they were, fled from Isabella’s mind when something she’d been aware of all day but not consciously comprehended until now.

  Beyond the window, the trees were frosted in white and the mountains were white, but the snow had stopped falling – hours ago. The weather was starting to clear.

  12

  SHE DIDN’T WANT TO BE the first one to mention it, but by the following afternoon, the day before Christmas Eve, she knew that the lack of snow was something they’d have to address, sooner or later. She’d woken up hoping the blizzard would have started up again, disappointed to see that not only had the snow stopped falling but that the sky was a milky blue, the sun visible for the first time since she’d arrived at Il Nido.