Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6) Read online

  She blinked her attention back to his face. His eyes were lined with thick lashes, and though it was too dark to make out the exact colour, his eyes themselves were dark.

  “English,” she said quietly, clearing her throat, attempting a smile. It felt tight on her lips. “I speak English.”

  His square jaw flexed a little, his arms lifting to cross his chest. He was imposing enough, let alone standing several steps above her, and with his muscular arms drawing her attention to his abdomen.

  He wore jeans that were low on his hips, a faded denim, they looked well-loved. His feet were bare, his chest heavily inked.

  “And what the hell are you doing in my house?”

  It occurred to Isabella for the first time since setting off for the sole light in the woods that he may not let her seek shelter here. Perhaps he intended to slam the door in her face and send her back to her car? Or trust her fate to the wild weather?

  Anxiety skidded down her spine, sending little arrows through her blood.

  “My car – skidded off the road.”

  “You mean you were driving? In this?” He gestured with his thumb towards the outside and though there were no windows in that direction, she followed the direction he’d indicated, nodding jerkily.

  “It wasn’t so bad when I set out. I didn’t realise –,”

  He interrupted her with a curse. “What kind of fool –,” the invective tapered into nothing as he shook his head with obvious disapproval. “This is a blizzard. You shouldn’t have been out on a night like this.”

  “I know that now,” she said, and even though his words had driven her to anger, even though she’d been challenged by people before, her voice shook a little, as though tears were close at hand. She dug her fingernails into her palms, refusing to admit them. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have my crystal ball when I left the roadhouse, and so couldn’t have known that the whole sky would open up and dump down on this hillside.”

  “A crystal ball is beside the point. I presume you know how to read a weather forecast.”

  Heat bloomed in her face and she didn’t dare admit that the thought hadn’t occurred to her. “In any event,” she said stiffly, her throat thick, her body shivering from head to toe now. “My car skidded off the road and my phone has no reception, your house was the only light I could see, so I walked here –,”

  “From the road?” He interrupted flatly, his expression unchanging.

  She nodded once.

  He swore under his breath then reached down, surprising her by gripping her elbow with his firm, warm fingers. “You are ice.”

  “Yes, well, it’s rather cold out there,” she said unevenly, surprised at the little bursts of electricity that were bursting from his touch, warming her up even when she knew that shouldn’t be possible.

  “Come upstairs. There’s a fire.”

  The prospect of such a thing overrode every modicum of concern she felt. For a fire, it was worth risking almost anything. She jerked free of his grip, moving ahead of him, shivering uncontrollably by the time she reached the top of the stairs. But it was warmer up here – much, much warmer.

  “This way.” His hand in the small of her back had exactly the same impact as his earlier touch. Flames seemed to burst wherever he touched. She tilted her face towards him, but he wasn’t looking at her. On the contrary, he kept his face averted and his face bore all the signs of complete irritation at her intrusion.

  Her spine was ramrod straight as she walked, Isabella quite indignant at his impatience. After all, this had hardly been her plan! She thought longingly of the accommodation she’d angsted over and eventually reserved, the sweet, cosy little cottage that would be sitting empty, awaiting her arrival. A kitchen she’d been looking forward to getting to know, as she experimented with the recipes she’d gathered for her cookbook during her travels so far.

  At the door to a large room – a library? Books lined three of the four walls, and on the fourth there was an enormous fireplace, at least twice the width of any she’d ever seen before. It had dark marble sides and a mantle that looked to be timber, a red oak. Above it sat a mirror, as ancient as the castle. The floor was timber, polished floorboards, with a rich burgundy rug in the middle. It was the room she’d spied from outside, and guessed a light to be on. She’d been wrong. There was no light, only the glow cast from the fireplace.

  “Sit,” he grunted, gesturing to a single high-backed armchair set a short distance from the fireplace. She paused, dumping her bag, rucksack and coat on the seat before moving directly in front of the fire, hugging herself as she waited for the heat to sink into bones that had turned to ice chips.

  “Your shoes are wet. You will be more comfortable if you remove them.”

  She looked down at her feet and realised with a slight yelp that he was right. She’d traipsed a watery trail behind her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

  His eyes glared at her, but not with anger about the water marks. She suspected these were the least of her sins.

  Compressing her lips, she turned her back to the fire and did as he’d said, using her toes to kick the impractical white joggers from her feet, then peeling off her saturated socks. It offered some relief.

  “I’ll get you a rug.” It was said with what could only be described as resentment. As though accommodating her in any way was wounding him personally.

  She ground her teeth together, aware that she couldn’t exactly demand he treat her like a welcome guest. He was under no requirement to act as her gracious host – at this point she’d settle for him not kicking her out before she’d thawed completely.

  “Thank you.”

  That simple civility seemed, if anything, to offend him more. He muttered something under his breath then strode from the room, his gait long and feral, his shoulders squared. Without her unwilling benefactor, and as the ice in her veins gradually gave way to blood, she skimmed the room with her eyes, taking in details that had eluded her at first. The books were all very old. Unlike modern novels, with pretty spines and colourful writing, these were either navy blue or dark red, some black, many with gold writing. The shelves she’d originally believed wrapped around the room on three sides didn’t quite. There were gaps to allow for windows, two overlooking the forest, showing that the snow was still falling in rapid swirls. She shivered at the memory, already losing her romantic fantasies about European winters. Across from her, there was a grand piano, shining and beautiful. The ceiling had a line of three antique chandeliers running down its centre, two smaller on the outside and a large, glistening creation in the middle of the room, framed by delicate plasterwork ceiling roses.

  His footsteps entered the room and she startled guiltily, for no reason she could put her finger on. His arm extended, holding a pale grey rug towards her. She took it gratefully, the softness showing it to be expensive, perhaps merino. She wrapped it around her shoulders and turned back to face the fire.

  The flames licked upwards, filling the room with a crackling noise. The silence hadn’t bothered her when she’d been on her own, but now that the man had joined her, she was conscious of every breath she took, every exhalation, every chatter of her teeth.

  “What is your name?” His voice was quieter now, less angry, but she was no less intimidated.

  “Isabella Moss,” she said quietly, with no real expectation he’d have heard of her. Most of the subscribers to her YouTube channel and social media network were in the States, UK or Australia, which was why her publisher wanted the next cookbook to have a bit of a European bent.

  His silence confirmed her thoughts. There was no recognition in his face when she risked a glance at him. Only that same withering disapproval that had marred his handsome features from the moment he’d appeared on the steps.

  “You’ll have to spend the night,” he snapped.

  “Yes.” What else could she say? Probably, ‘thank you’, or, ‘if you’re sure you don’t mind’, but both felt beyond her. She clamped her lips
together and tried to think warm thoughts.

  Silence engulfed them, and not a comfortable one.

  “What’s your name?” She volleyed his own question back at him after several minutes, clearing her throat to dispel the croak in her voice.

  He moved to a bar across the room. It contained an impressive array of alcohol bottles. He reached for a glass, holding it towards her in an unspoken invitation. She eyed the bottles more thoughtfully, nodding when she saw one in particular.

  “Cointreau. Please.”

  He turned away from her, busying himself with opening the lid and tilting the bottle into the glass, pouring a generous measure into the vessel.

  “It will warm you,” was all he said, as he crossed the room to her, holding the glass out only when he stood directly in front of Isabella. Up close, and in the light cast by the fire, she could finally see the colour of his eyes – they were a dark grey, flecked with black.

  She took the glass, her fingers brushing his, sparks igniting at the accidental touch. She pulled the glass away a little roughly in response, her awareness of him on a purely masculine level something she definitely didn’t want to be dealing with.

  He was right about the alcohol and warmth. She threw a large gulp down, heat burning her oesophagus, flooding into her stomach and then forming a tidal wave in her veins. His proximity didn’t hurt, either. He stayed close to her, watching as she drank, nodding once with approval.

  “You can stay here tonight,” he said, as though still ruminating on a point she thought they’d already agreed to. “But first thing in the morning, I will fly you to the nearest town.”

  She frowned. Fly her? In what?

  “I am not a hotel,” he said darkly. “And I do not want company, no matter how –,”

  He didn’t finish the observation and her heart was jack hammering against her ribs, far too persistently to permit her to speak, anyway.

  “I don’t want you here.”

  The words splintered through the room.

  “I don’t particularly want to be here either,” she said with quiet dignity. After all, he certainly wasn’t the first person to tell her she wasn’t wanted. She was, if anything, used to that. “But seeing as we’re stuck together for the night, why don’t you stop being such a bastard and tell me your name?”

  2

  HE GROUND HIS TEETH together, not letting her accusation land anywhere near his chest. She thought this was him being a bastard? Hell, he’d practically rolled out the red carpet, given what day it was, and how determined he’d been to spend it alone. Her intrusion was deeply, deeply unwelcome, and yet he’d brought her to the fire, offered her a blanket and a drink. What more did she want? A goddamned rose-petal parade?

  “My name,” he said, after a moment, stepping back and returning to the bar, pouring himself another measure of whisky. “Is Gabrielle Montebello. Most people call me Gabe.”

  He filled the glass halfway up, then lifted the Cointreau bottle, striding back to his intruder and gesturing towards the glass. She used both hands to hold it towards him, the action strangely childlike and trusting.

  “Gabe Montebello,” she repeated, a frown on her lips, her green eyes flaring wide as the penny dropped. “As in, The Montebellos? Who own everything from airlines to hotels to newspapers to – everything?”

  He dipped his head in agreement, surprised that he was disappointed she’d heard of him. Who hadn’t heard of his family in some way or another?

  “Then I guess the castle makes sense,” she joked quietly, her throat moving as she swallowed. What the hell had she been thinking, to be out in this weather, and dressed so inappropriately? Skinny leather-look pants, white joggers and a collared shirt with buttons down the front was hardly enough to navigate an Italian winter. She was asking to catch her death of cold.

  “You live here?”

  The question was one he wasn’t prepared to answer. He took a step away from her, angling himself towards the fire, his back to her a little. “Don’t misunderstand the situation, Isabella. You’re here because the only alternative is to throw you out into the forest where you’d surely die, and as much as I don’t want you here, nor do I want your death on my conscience. But we are not friends. We are not two people who have to make conversation. I have no interest in telling you my life story, nor in hearing yours.”

  Though he wasn’t facing her, he had enough of a sight of her in his periphery to be aware of the way her lips parted, her eyes widening at his unapologetic rudeness.

  “Then why don’t you show me to a room and I can stow away for the night? You won’t even know I’m here.”

  “Good,” he responded with a nod. “As soon as you’ve warmed up sufficiently, I’ll do exactly that.”

  Rather than stand here and argue, he took the opportunity to leave her once more, striding from the room with relief, wanting – as much as ever – to be left damned well alone.

  What a rude…she searched for an appropriate insult but couldn’t land on one. There simply wasn’t any word that would do justice to his appalling behaviour! Of all the arrogant, horrible, mean, unkind…

  It wasn’t as though this was her dream night! Why was he acting as though she’d purposely crashed his party?

  And what party, anyway?

  From what she could tell, he’d been brooding alone in this lovely, dark room with only the crackling fire for company. Oh, she’d have loved to have an alternative to staying – some pithy retort she could fire at him, telling him she’d rather take her chances with the elements, thank you very much, but having felt the brunt of this winter night already, wild horses – and impossibly rude men – couldn’t drag her back out there again.

  After a few minutes, it became clear he wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Relaxing a little, she sat down on the floor, crossing her legs and staring at the flames as they flickered in the grate. As a child, she’d always been mesmerised by fire, until the night the flames had taken her house away, and then she’d been afraid of it for a long time.

  Gradually that had ebbed – she didn’t feel fear now, so much as awe and respect. Respect of someone who’d seen the unleashed, elemental power of fire, knew what it could do, and would always be careful in how she handled it. Sitting here now though, she welcomed its warmth. She sat until her cheeks grew pink and there was no longer any vestige of the night’s cold attached to her body. She sat until her eyes grew heavy and the Cointreau had relaxed her, and it became difficult to stay awake. She looked over her shoulder at the armchair and contemplated taking a seat, and closing her eyes for just a moment, but it felt so far away.

  With a yawn, she lay onto her side, still watching the fire, one arm extended on the floor, her head pressed to it. She blinked heavily as the flames danced and leaped, and then she could only hear them, her eyes were closed to the sight.

  Sleep followed. She didn’t know for how long, only that at some point, a hand curved around her arm, shaking her awake.

  She blinked, disorientated at first, but one dozy look into the face above her and she startled, immediately defensive. She moved quickly, sitting up, almost banging her head to his in the rapidity of her movement.

  “Relax,” he murmured, pushing back onto his haunches so his jeans stretched across muscular thighs. “You’re fine.”

  The words were spoken strangely, though, almost as if he was reassuring himself.

  “I know I’m fine,” she retorted with tartness, wriggling away a little and pushing up to standing. She held her hands towards the fire, the heat on her palms unnecessary now, but it was a gesture designed to emulate calm normality. “I just fell asleep, that’s all. What time is it?”

  “Ten.”

  It had been just after seven when she’d arrived – so she’d been sleeping for hours.

  She bit back an apology, not wanting to offer him the standard civility, nor to concede any ground to him. She couldn’t say why but that point felt vitally important.

  “I woke up ea
rly,” she offered instead, even resenting that admission. She looked towards the door, crossing her arms over her chest. She noticed her shoes had been rearranged, placed carefully by the fire, to help them dry.

  “I’ll show you to a spare room,” he said after a beat.

  “Thank you.”

  He turned and swept from the room; this time she followed. The hallway was light now, illuminated by lamps on the walls. He led her down the corridor, past several doors, including one that was open to show a bed, bedside table, and a little disorder, indicating that it was being used. By him? Her heartrate increased. At the next door along – closed – he pushed it inwards without entering.

  “Here.”

  “Next door to yours?”

  His lip twisted a little, into a cynical half-smile. It was the first time he’d done anything close to smile, but she realised her earlier assessment had been right. Even a half-mocking gesture was quite breathtakingly beautiful in his face.

  She quelled the little burst of butterflies that stirred in her belly, refusing to admire anything about her very reluctant saviour.

  “You are quite safe, Isabella. I have no interest in taking advantage of you.”

  The bottom seemed to fall out of her stomach once more. It didn’t matter how used to rejection she was, it still stung. Rejection? What the hell? Was she actually wishing he’d seduce her? Crap. She was out of her mind.

  “But if you are worried, there is a bolt on the other side of the door. Lock it, I don’t care.”

  She tilted her chin defiantly, her green eyes spitting towards his. “I will.”

  Another half-smile. “Good night, Isabella Moss.”

  She watched his retreating back with a sense of intense irritation. What had she been expecting? What had she wanted?

  Something to eat, her tummy prompted a second later, as she realised she hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. But pride kept her silent – she absolutely refused to ask him for another thing. She slipped into the room, flicking the light switch on to find it was like stepping into one of the fairy tales her adoptive mother had read her as a child. A wrought iron four poster bed stood in the centre of the room with a gold quilt cover and several plush pillows. The furniture was all French art nouveau, with turned legs and cream faces, gold rims on each. Two bedside tables, a rolltop desk, and a mirrored dressing table, as well as a little pile of clothes folded at the foot of the bed.