Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6) Page 6

  Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, her lips parting as his tongue thrust into her mouth, duelling with hers, so she had to grab hold of something, a thought, a memory, a warning that was flashing in her mind. But what?

  Don’t beg. Don’t plead.

  She remembered just in time, on the brink of crying his name into his mouth, she knew a plea wouldn’t be far behind. He kissed her and she felt her anger eroding, leaving only desire in its place, hot and urgent, insistent for indulgence. She wanted him to keep kissing her.

  She’d never felt like this before. She’d only been with two men – a boyfriend in high school and then Andrew, who she’d dated for a few years. Long enough to get to know him intimately, to feel comfortable with him, and she’d never once felt this. It was as though she was being ignited, cell by cell, as though he was sparking a fever in her blood, a tsunami of heart-pounding desire that was ravaging her system and yet for all there was a drowning, apocalyptic, terrifying slipping sensation, she couldn’t get enough. Alarm bells were sounding in her brain but they were impossible to hear above the rushing of her blood.

  Her fingers held his chest as though that grip alone could save her from being subsumed by this, yet even that wasn’t enough, because beneath the grip of her fingers was the warmth of his chest and the solid thumping of his heart, a heart that hammered in unison with hers, so in that way they were perfectly, completely in synch.

  His kiss was not gentle.

  It was demanding.

  Fierce.

  And she bent to it in every way. Her body clung to his, her soul submitted, resistance be damned. Need stirred within her, primal and consuming, and everything she was demanded more. More of him, this, the maddening feelings that were throbbing through her. She made a whimpering noise deep in her throat – all she was capable of – as she held tight. It was the smallest noise; nothing, really, but suddenly he stopped kissing her. He stayed where he was at first, close to her, breathing her in, bodies pressed, but then he moved quickly, stepping back as though she were suddenly radioactive.

  His face showed emotions she didn’t comprehend – dark, almost tortured.

  “I don’t want to do this.”

  That wasn’t true. She’d felt his desire whipping through the room with the same frantic intensity as her own.

  “Liar.”

  His jaw moved as he ground his teeth together.

  “I won’t do this,” he corrected throatily, his features implacable, his eyes holding hers, showing the seriousness of his intent. “Get the hell out of here, Isabella.”

  Her lips parted, and out of nowhere, tears stung her eyes. She blinked furiously, refusing to give into them.

  “Are you deaf?” He snapped. “Get. Out.”

  She was tempted to turn tail and run from the room. God knew it was what her humiliated heart wanted. But the same spirit of antagonism that had fired through her initially was still exploding in her cells – even more strongly now. “I was right. You are afraid.”

  “Of you?” He drawled mockingly. “I don’t think so.”

  “No. Of living. Of feeling.”

  In response, he turned his back to her, facing the fire once more. His expression was a hard line, his profile set. She stared at him, waiting for something, though she couldn’t say what. Finally, when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to say anything, she stalked from the room with her spine ramrod straight, refusing to let him see that she was anything but furious.

  He’d tasted alcohol on her breath and now the empty wine glass confirmed that she’d been drinking. Which went some of the way to excusing her behaviour, but what of his? Why the hell had he challenged her the way he had? Why the hell had he kissed her?

  He pressed his palm to the wall beside the fire, staring at his hand with a locked jaw and a sense of utter disbelief.

  He wanted her gone. He needed her gone. But one look at the window showed him that it wasn’t possible. The weather was against him, the storm only gaining momentum, so he knew there was no help in sight. He’d have to find a way to live under the same roof with her, God help him.

  5

  THE NIGHTMARE CAME FOR him again that night, but it was intensified by what had happened. Isabella was there too. Not in person, just her eyes, and yet he knew it was her: watching him, judging him, silently hating him as he did himself for what he’d allowed to happen.

  He woke early, and didn’t bother trying to fight it. Reaching for his phone, he loaded up his emails then went through the motions of triaging them before giving in to curiosity and heading to the YouTube app. He typed her name with a sense of resignation, resenting his curiosity, resenting his attraction, resenting the hell out of her.

  Her YouTube channel was evidently a raging success. She had over ten million subscribers, and her content was engaging and funny. He watched her make a croquembouche then take it to a wedding. Apparently the bride and groom were enormous fans of hers. They cried.

  He dropped his phone to the bed beside him with a grimace of disgust. He hated easy emotion. He especially hated the over-sharing of easy emotions on the internet. And he hated people who were bubbly and perky and light-hearted, like Isabella.

  Except she wasn’t really like that. Her online persona was all sugar and honey, but in reality she was contemplative and watchful.

  He reached for his phone, loading another video. This time, she was cooking a vegan moussaka. He didn’t even want to think about what Yaya would say if he suggested such a thing to her. He watched the video though, and found a reluctant smile lifting one corner of his lips when Isabella tried the moussaka at the end and gave it a six out of ten. “It’s good, don’t get me wrong, but I’d be lying if I said it wouldn’t be ever so slightly improved with a bit of real cheese,” she laughed, and winked, her manner casually flirtatious, effortlessly likable.

  Cristo.

  He needed a session on the treadmill, the relentless pounding of one foot after the other enough – he hoped – to drive her from his head once and for all.

  Oh, sweet Jesus. Tell me that didn’t actually happen. Isabella’s fingers lifted to her lips, brushing the flesh there as though they would confirm or deny her memories – were they of an actual event, or the strings of a dream? Her eyes flew wide open and she stared at the ceiling above her bed, her skin draining of all warmth and colour.

  She’d kissed him.

  Worse, she’d pushed at him until he had no choice but to kiss her back. She’d been absolutely, unforgivably rude.

  Reaching under her head, she pulled a pillow out and held it over her face, screaming into the feathery softness, the noise muffled by the bedding.

  He’d said she would beg for him and he was right. Oh, she hadn’t in so many words, but her body had shown that he was her master; she’d ached for him, surrendered to him in every way. And he’d pushed her away without a backwards glance.

  Get the hell out of here.

  She’d had plenty of embarrassing things happen in her life – who hadn’t? – but this somehow took the cake. She wasn’t just embarrassed, she was mortified, wishing she could crawl up into a ball and avoid seeing him. And maybe she could, she thought with a sudden sense of relief. He’d been adamant he wanted to be left alone. Why didn’t she do exactly that? She could hide out in her room, disappearing into the kitchen to grab food just once, enough to see her through the day and night. She could even hide out the whole darned blizzard in here, wait until it was safe to leave and by then the whole disastrous thing would just be a distant memory.

  It was an almost perfect plan. She showered and washed her underwear, hanging them over the edge of the shower rail, then pulled on her jeans and sweater without – it was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra and the thought might have kept her hiding out in the room until her undies were dry again, but she was starving, and determined to avoid him.

  Tiptoeing down the stairs, she paused at the bottom, looking in every direction to make sure he wasn’t near
by. Then, stealthily, she crept forward, pausing at each door, listening for the slightest sound before scurrying past. She knew she must look ridiculous, but so what?

  Better to avoid him altogether than be mortified in an unexpected confrontation. It was the kitchen she knew she had to be careful with. She listened at the doors for a long time – and there was silence. Good. Perfect. When she was sure that silence meant he wasn’t in the room, she pushed the doors inwards and stepped inside, looking around quickly and releasing a huge, pent-up breath at the sight of an obviously empty kitchen.

  It was such a beautiful space, she felt true remorse to have to avoid it for the day – and the foreseeable future! – but she wouldn’t risk another confrontation. Not after the way she’d behaved. Her lips tingled and she lifted her fingers as a gasp escaped, memories slamming into her of the way he’d felt, the way his mouth had pressed to hers, demanding, taking, insisting.

  Her knees went shaky and she spun towards the window, bracing her palms on the kitchen bench in an attempt to support her suddenly tremulous body.

  It was then that she heard the whooshing of the doors. Oh, crap. She squeezed her eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath in an attempt to fortify herself before turning around.

  “Coffee?”

  The question was the last thing she’d expected. It was so normal. So completely, utterly pedestrian that for a second she wondered if perhaps she had imagined the kiss after all? Maybe it had all been a dream?

  But, no. When she spun around and looked at Gabe, she saw him as he’d been then, she felt every inch of him against her; it was all the confirmation she needed.

  It didn’t help that his shirt was off, revealing his inked chest and biceps, leaving very little to the imagination. Tattoos covered his biceps and shoulders, all the way down to his rock-hard abs. There were pictures as well as words, intricate drawings that she ached to understand; tattoos that would, she was sure, tell a story. Her pulse went haywire and she struggled to swallow with a suddenly desert dry throat.

  “I just came in to grab some food.”

  A single dark brow lifted. “Is that a ‘no’?”

  Her eyes darted to the machine and despite the embarrassment still engulfing her, she lifted her shoulders. “I have a rule never to say ‘no’ to coffee. Especially not in the morning.”

  His response was a quick flick of his lips, something very close to a smile. Her pulse throbbed and she took a step away from him, nearer to the machine. “I’ll make it.”

  “It’s my turn,” he demurred, striding to the fridge and removing a bottle of milk, then flicking the switch on the grinder. The smell of coffee filled the air and she sucked in a breath.

  Isabella backed up a little, propping her hip against the edge of the counter, watching as he filled the coffee basket, his movements confident and lithe, the simple act of making coffee one he evidently did often, and yet watching it, Isabella felt as though it were one of the most beautiful things in the world. Without a shirt, there was a hyper-masculinity to the act. She wanted to film him – such beauty should be trapped in some way, kept for posterity, not allowed to pass unnoticed and unappreciated.

  “Coffee with milk,” he said, as he finished up, lifting the mug and holding it towards her, without standing, so that she had to push away from the bench and cross the distance towards him. Almost toe to toe, the memories of last night were impossible to ignore. She lifted a hand, gingerly reaching for the cup to avoid touching him, but he didn’t relinquish his grip. With the cup held between them, each with a hand on its ceramic bowl, their eyes met, and a silent challenge passed from him to her.

  She didn’t understand. She couldn’t answer it, couldn’t hide from it. She bit down on her lip, uncertainty washing over her.

  “I watched some of your videos last night.”

  It was the very last thing she expected him to say. Her eyes widened, her features showing surprise.

  “Oh.”

  His lips compressed as though he were fighting himself, battling with the words he was saying and his ever-present desire to push her away.

  “What did you think?” She was asking for a compliment, and she hated herself for that, but her battered ego needed something from this behemoth of a man.

  His knowing smile showed that he understood what she was asking of him.

  “I think vegan moussaka sounds like an oxymoron.”

  She let out a small laugh. “It was a viewer request.”

  “You’re not vegan.”

  “Heck, no.”

  “Good.”

  It wasn’t the approval she’d been hoping for but it didn’t matter. The small word still burst through her like sunshine on a frigid day. It relaxed her too, so she found herself blinking up at him and feeling more like equals and even friends, rather than strangers.

  “I’m sorry about last night.”

  His demeanour immediately shifted. His features tightened, his chest seemed to grow bigger and broader. “Are you?”

  It was something else she hadn’t expected.

  “Are you sorry for kissing me?” He prompted, and the same challenge in his eyes made it impossible for her to lie.

  She didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t know how to answer that. Because even though she’d woken with a sense of shame and mortification licking the soles of her feet, she couldn’t say that she wished she could take the kiss back.

  “Are you sorry I kissed you back?” He demanded, more gruffly this time, his fingers feathering over hers, the touch simple and light but enough to send lightning bolts through her system.

  “I’m just sorry that I –,” she searched for words, her eyes pleading with him to understand, but he gave her no lifeline, no chance not to say what she was thinking. “I overstepped the mark,” she finished quietly. “I’m a guest in your house – well, as you’ve pointed out, more of an intruder, really. I should have respected your wishes and stayed away, instead of –,”

  Again, he waited, not rescuing her by supplying the end of her sentence, nor allowing it to dwindle by moving conversation onto new ground.

  “Attacking you.”

  Her honesty was rewarded with a half-smile, but it was gone in an instant, his expression unreadable once more. “You should have stayed away,” he agreed.

  She sighed softly, her eyes falling to the coffee cup.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  His finger pressed into her chin, lifting her face to his, and desire arced between them, as real as any electrical current running through the walls of this house. “So am I. I tried to ignore you, Isabella Moss, and then you kissed me and now I find I can’t get you out of my head. That is a problem for both of us.”

  Her only reply was a short gasp. He dropped his hands, dismissing her with a tight smile as he turned to lift his own coffee cup. He stood holding it, his eyes boring into hers, watching her, waiting for her to say something that might indicate how she felt about that.

  But Isabella’s mind was spinning, desire making it hard to think straight, a sense that she was misunderstanding him in some way making her quite numb.

  “Why did you come to Italy?”

  It was a welcome change of subject, and yet it wasn’t. The truth was something she hadn’t shared with anyone, for fear of how stupid it sounded. But there was something about Gabe – no. Not about Gabe himself, per se, so much as the fact they were closed off from the rest of the world. It all felt like it was a million, trillion miles away, reality a very distant consideration on the edge of another galaxy.

  She sipped her coffee, taking a small step away from him, even when her body complained about that, needing to be closer to him, not further away. Her heart was stuttering in her chest.

  “It’s a long story, and I’m sure you have more important things to do than listen to me.”

  He lifted his shoulders. “I asked the question, didn’t I?”

  Warmth lifted her soul. She knew she was crossing a one-way threshold, and
yet that didn’t deter Isabella. She dug her teeth into her lip for a moment, trying to work out where to start, not sure if she would regret this even as the words began to untangle inside of her of their own volition.

  “I guess I came for answers,” she said cryptically, sipping her coffee. As she lifted it to her lips, she noticed there was a love heart in the pattern, an obvious accident, because this man would never do anything as twee as that, but it made her smile regardless.

  “To what?”

  “I never knew anything about my biological parents. I’m adopted,” she added, for unnecessary clarification. “And I always had questions. I mean, so much of who we are comes from our parents, I would have thought. I used to wonder about the physical stuff – like did my mum have red hair, or my dad?” She lifted her fingers to her ponytail, brushing her fingers over the feathery ends. “Or eyes like mine, skin like mine, a nose like mine?” She gestured to her tilted nose tip.

  “And this led you to Italy?”

  “When I turned eighteen, I was able to apply for information about my birth parents. My dad’s not listed on the certificate, but my biological mum is. Isabella Maria Varizzi,” she said the name she knew inside out, a name that had swirled through the recesses of her mind for many years.

  “So you came to find her family?”

  “No,” Isabella shook her head. “I know it sounds stupid, but I came to – to find myself, I guess,” she whispered the last words, embarrassed by the over sentimentality of it all.

  “In what way?”

  The question seemed genuine, not cynical or mocking.

  “I wondered if I’d get here and feel an affinity to the people, the place. The food.”

  “And do you?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes.” It was an admission she hadn’t even really made to herself. “But then, Italy has such star-power, doesn’t it? Everyone who comes here seems to fall in love with the place, so maybe there’s just an element of that?”

  He was quiet, watchful.

  “Or maybe I’m just so desperate to feel a connection to my biological parents that I’m looking for something that’s not there. I mean, for all I know, my mum was a third generation Aussie, and her connection to Italy is tenuous at best.”