The Brides of Bella Rosa: Beauty and the Reclusive Prince

CHAPTER SIX

UNPLANNED passion like this was taboo, unacceptable—and, once ignited, completely irresistible. Max’s lips touched Isabella’s once, twice, and then again, as though he’d suddenly developed a raving hunger for the taste of her, and then the moist warmth of her mouth was there, open and inviting and his kiss grew in sweet, silky intensity. And he was lost in the moment.

It was hard to know how long the kiss lasted. When he finally revived, feeling like a swimmer coming up for air, she was trying to push him away and murmuring, “No, no. I didn’t come here for this.”

He pulled his face back, but his fingers were still tangled in her hair. He looked down at her and shook his head almost sadly.

“Neither did I,” he told her, his gaze ranging over her pretty face. It took all his strength to keep from kissing her again. “But I won’t say I’m sorry it happened,” he added, his voice husky with the lingering sense of how tempting she was.

Their eyes met. He saw wonder there, and questions. She was a woman who deserved more than he was allowing her. He groaned, then shrugged in bittersweet surrender.

“All right, Isabella. I’m ready to sample your sauce and hear your entire presentation.”

Suddenly her face was shining. “That’s all I ask,” she said, blooming like a flower that had just found the sun. “Just give me half an hour.”

He nodded, reluctantly smiling at the picture she made. “You’ve got it. Hit me with your best shot.” He gave her a warning look. “And then I will tell you ‘no’ and send you home again.”

She nodded happily. “I’ll convince you. You just wait.”

He released her slowly, wishing he could pull her back into his arms and hold her again. Somehow he doubted her cooking was going to captivate him more strongly than her kisses had.

He went back to his room to put on a shirt and she got busy cooking the pasta. She’d actually talked him into hearing her out. She could hardly believe it.

The fact that he’d kissed her didn’t mean a thing, she told herself. It had thrilled her and she was still tingling. Her heart was racing, skittering around like a happy bird in her chest. But she knew she shouldn’t have let it happen and now she had to get over it. She had work to do.

But she also knew that she would be remembering how her cheek had felt against his naked chest for the rest of her life. The smoothness of his skin, the strength of his arms, the sound of his heartbeat, had sent her into a tailspin. She had to push those thoughts away, save them for later, or she wouldn’t be able to do what she’d set out to.

He was more beautiful, more manly, more exciting than any man she’d ever known, but, still, she hadn’t let it completely drag her under, and she was proud of that. She’d been the one to pull away. And she had definitely not come here scheming to use any feminine wiles or anything of the sort. The kiss hadn’t been planned by either of them and it didn’t count.

At least, she hoped it didn’t. Because she wasn’t going to let it happen again. She couldn’t.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded. Never again. That was the route to ruin and she was too smart to go that way. She had something to accomplish here, and she got down to it.

Max sat at the head of the long mahogany table that had been in his family for over two hundred years. Before him lay a mat of ivory lace that was set with heavy sterling silver flatware in an exceptionally beautiful baroque pattern. Two crystal goblets of wine had been added, one reflecting a golden hue, the other taking in sunlight and translating it into a deep, rich, royal red. There was a silver fingerbowl as well, deeply engraved with a bucolic scene, and a fine, creamy-white, linen napkin.

He surveyed it all and shook his head, wondering how she’d found everything so quickly. It had been almost thirty years since he’d seen these pieces laid out this way—when his mother was alive.

It came to him that he ought to do this more often. Just seeing these things here, touching them, brought up feelings of attachment, memories of ancestors, connections to his family and his past that he didn’t think about often enough. It all touched a chord deep inside him, a link to eternity.

He swallowed his smile quickly as Isabella entered the room. Sunlight slanted in from the tall windows that lined the space, setting her dark hair aflame with golden highlights. Her cheeks were red from time over a hot stove and she was carrying a steaming pot with hot pads protecting her hands. As she approached, the scent of something extraordinary filled the room.

He shook his head. As he watched her a sense of her beauty overwhelmed him, despite her bruised eye, and he felt an intense need to hold her again that filled him with an aching regret.

How had he gotten here? It was insane. Over the last few years, he’d lived his whole life to keep people away. Isabella had somehow crept right through his barriers and found the center of his being in ways no one else had done. He wasn’t really sure how she’d accomplished that, but he knew she had. And he knew he had to resist it.

She turned an impish smile his way as she placed the pot onto the trivet in the middle of the table.

“There you are,” she told him, ladling the sublime sauce out into a porcelain bowl, which she’d already filled with freshly made pasta. “I hope you’ll deem this fit for a king,” she said with another grin. “Or, at any rate, a prince.”

He looked down into the bowl. The sauce was the color of a late summer sunset and swimming with beautiful vegetables he couldn’t name. “It smells wonderful.”

She nodded and didn’t waste time on false modesty. “It tastes wonderful, too.”

He managed to maintain a skeptical look, just for dignity’s sake. “We’ll see.”

And he began to eat.

She was right. The sauce filled his mouth with a feeling like ecstasy. He’d never had anything quite like it. Amazing how one little herb could make such a difference.

“Well?” she asked, watching him like a hawk.

He looked at her. He could hardly keep his eyes off her. She was so alive, so vibrant, so expressive. There was something real about her, something basic and decent and appealing in a new way. He felt a pull toward her, a definite attraction, something he couldn’t deny.

But how could that be? She was so different from the wife he had loved so much. The woman he still missed so much.

Laura had been blonde, ethereal, slender and light as a bird. She had looked very much in life like the angel she had surely become since. But this woman was very different—full and round and earthy. And, to his eternal regret, he ached for her right now as he’d seldom ached for a woman before.

He looked back down at the bowl, avoiding her bright gaze. It was insane to let her stay. He had to get her out of here before he lost control and did something crazy.

The worst of it was, it was quite evident that she had not come here to seduce him at all. She was dressed modestly in a simple peasant blouse and full skirt. There was no cleavage showing, no revealing exposure of skin. She was honest and straightforward and she wasn’t playing games. He liked her for that. It showed a certain respect for him and for the dilemma between them. The fact that he could detect the beauty of her body beneath all the swishing fabric was beside the point. She wasn’t using it as a trump card—even though she probably sensed it wouldn’t be hard to do.

Resolutely he lifted his gaze and met hers.

“Magnifico, Isabella,” he told her. “This is spectacular. I can fully understand why your cuisine is famous and people come from miles around to enjoy it.”

She brightened with happiness at his words. “You’ve heard of it, then?”

“Oh, yes,” he admitted.

She radiated joy. “I knew once you tried it—”

“And I understand how important it is to you,” he interrupted before she could have a chance to make assumptions his admission didn’t quite warrant. “But that doesn’t change the danger that you would face every time you went across that divide above the river.” His hand swept out in a royal gesture. “If I had a house full of servants, I could have one of them go and harvest the weed for you. But at present, Renzo and I live here alone. There is no one to help out.”

Isabella bit down hard on her lower lip, keeping herself under tight control. His constant emphasis on the danger of going near the river was clearly overstated and there had to be a reason for it. She was pretty sure it had something to do with the death of his wife. What had happened that had made him so sure the place wasn’t safe for her? She wanted to know, but she didn’t want to push him. A horrible vision of tractors mowing down the hillside if he got annoyed enough did the trick.

Back to the plan.

“We can talk about that later,” she said quickly. “Right now I just want you to enjoy this.”

He gave her a faint, reluctant smile, his eyes glowing. “I do, Isabella. More than you know.”

She flushed. It was odd to watch how he still tended to turn his face away from her, as though trying to keep her from seeing the scars. No matter what he did, he looked gorgeous to her. How could it be otherwise when he was blessed with those huge, emotional dark eyes and that wide, sensual mouth?

He looked like a poet, she decided. A poet with a tender, sensitive soul purposefully disguised by his muscular form and his harsh, cynical manner, all protected by a wall of ice to keep the world at bay. She knew about his physical scars. What had hurt him so deeply that he couldn’t be free? That was the mystery he carried with him.

“Tell me about this place,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows as she watched him eat. “Did you grow up here?”

“Pretty much.” He took another bite, savored it, and sighed with pleasure, then went on. “My father tended to drag us all over the continent, staying at one property after another. He was quite a gambler, you see, and he was always looking for another game. But when I was young we spent a lot of time here. I would ride my pony all over these grounds.”

“Mmm. And you didn’t fall into the river?”

His face darkened. “That is not a matter to joke about,” he said curtly. “Our river is a dangerous place. We didn’t realize how dangerous at the time.” He looked at her face and winced. “I should have caught you before you hit the rocks.”

She marveled at him. He seemed to think it was his job to save the world—or at least all females that came within his purview. That was too big a role to take on for any man. She wished she knew how to tell him so. Instead, she shrugged.

“It will heal. It will be gone in no time at all.”

He heard her blithe words but they didn’t placate him. He couldn’t help but feel that the water had almost claimed another victim that night. If he hadn’t been there to grab her…

He shook his head again and swore softly.

“And as you grew older?” she asked. “Did you still stay here often?”

He pushed away thoughts of the river and let himself look back instead. “Not as often. My mother died when I was young and, after that, I went to live with my aunt, Marcello’s mother.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured about his mother. She hesitated to tell him they had something in common. Was she being presumptuous? Never mind, she told him anyway.

“I lost my mother early, too,” she told him. “I can hardly remember what she looked like.”

“Where were you sent to live?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I stayed right where I was. Someone had to take care of my father, and my two little brothers.”

He stared. “Surely you were a little young for that.”

She smiled. “Yes, much too young. But we didn’t have a choice. We didn’t have the money or the other ‘properties’ like you did. We made do.”

His face twisted. “You mean, you made do. But at least you had your family around you.”

She looked up, surprised. “Where was your father?”

He gazed at her coolly. “He was despondent. My mother’s death hit him hard.” His gaze darkened. “We didn’t see much of him after that.”

“But you had your sister.”

He shook his head. “Not really. She went to live with another aunt. I had a pretty lonely childhood when you come right down to it. You were lucky to stay with your family, even if it did mean you ended up being the support for everyone.” He smiled at her. “That was the way it was, wasn’t it?”

She frowned, feeling bad for him. At least she had her father and had benefited from his love and counsel all her life. She didn’t know how she would have made it without that. Hearing about his experiences gave her a new perspective on what family could mean to a child.

“But I soon went away to school in Switzerland,” he continued, “and then to university in England. And then…then I married.”

The young wife he’d lost tragically. Should she say anything? She wasn’t sure, so she murmured condolences again, and he brushed them aside.

“Never mind all that,” he said crisply, looking at her over the rim of his wine glass. “Tell me more about you, Isabella. Tell me about your hopes and dreams and how many young men you’ve been in love with.”

Here was the opening she’d been waiting for.

“Exactly what I planned to do,” she told him cheerfully. “Well, not counting the boyfriends. They shall remain nameless, if you don’t mind.” She made a face at him. “But while you’re finishing your meal, I’m going to give you a small background about my family and our restaurant.” She gave a little bow. “With your permission,” she added pertly.

He waved a hand her way, his attention back on the delicious food before him.

“Carry on,” he said kindly.

“Thank you.” She settled into the chair that faced his. “First about my father. His name is Luca Casali. His mother, Rosa, started a restaurant here in Monta Correnti after her husband died and left her with a young family to support. She used a special recipe she got from a secret source, and her food was well received.”

He looked up with a slight smile, his gaze skimming over her face. He liked the way she talked. She was so animated.

“So you are from a restaurant family from the beginning, aren’t you?”

She scrunched up her face a bit. “More or less. My father and his sister, Lisa, took over my grandmother’s restaurant when she died, but they don’t get along very well, so they split up. My father had a roadside stand for years before he moved to our current location. My aunt still runs Sorella, which is basically my grandmother’s place updated for modern times.”

She pulled a scrapbook out of her bag and put it on the table, close to his mat. She’d put it together, using the computer to blow up pictures that would illustrate her family history and help Max understand what Rosa, and the special herb, meant to them all.

“Here is a picture of my father as a young man when he had the food stand on the Via Roma. And the next picture was taken when he was finally able to open a real restaurant, the place we call Rosa, after my grandmother, the culmination of all his hard work.”

Max turned and leaned forward, taking the book from her and frowning at the first picture she’d turned to.

“This is your father?” he asked.

“Yes. Luca Casali.”

He nodded slowly. “I remember him. He used to come here when I was a child.”

Isabella stared at him. This was the first she’d heard of such a thing. “Here? To the Rossi palazzo?”

“Yes.” He looked at her, noting an element or two of resemblance to the man. “I think he cooked for us occasionally.”

She suddenly felt a bit smaller than before, reminded that she was from a different world than the one this man was from.

“Oh,” she said, looking around the cavernous room and trying unsuccessfully to picture her father here. But she took a deep breath and went back to her story.

“Here is a picture of my aunt Lisa. Do you know her, too?”

He looked at the picture and shook his head. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”

For some reason, that was a huge relief to her.

“Good,” she muttered, turning pages. “Here are my brothers, Cristiano and Valentino.”

Max nodded, his interest only barely retained. “Nicelooking young men,” he murmured, looking back at what was left of his pasta.

“Very nice-looking young men,” she corrected. She was crazy about her brothers. “They are both away. Cristiano is a firefighter. He’s in Australia right now, helping them with their terrible brush fires. And Valentino is a race-car driver. He’s always somewhere racing around trying to challenge death at every turn.”

He raised his head in surprise at the bitterness of her tone, and she smiled quickly to take the edge off it.

“So neither one is here helping run the restaurant,” he noted.

“That’s what my father has me for,” she maintained stoutly. “But I do wish they would come home more often.”

“Of course.”

“And finally, here is a picture of Rosa as it was two months ago, when we still had a plentiful stock of the basil. See how crowded it is? Doesn’t everyone look well fed and happy?”

He laughed softly at her characterization. “Yes,” he admitted. “I see what you mean.”

“And here is the restaurant now.” She plunked down a picture of the half-empty room and threw out her hands to emphasize how overwhelming the situation was. “Without the basil, no one is happy anymore.”

He groaned, turning his head and refusing to study that last picture. “Isabella, I get the point. You don’t have to rub my nose in it.”

“It seems I do.” She gazed at him fiercely. “I want you to understand how important this is. How it means everything to my father.”

“And to you.”

“To me?” She pressed her lips together and thought about it. Hearing his words surprised her, but what surprised her even more was that he might be right.

For years she’d chafed at being the one everybody depended on, the one who had to stay behind and help with the restaurant while her brothers went off in search of adventurous lives and her cousins went off to explore places like England and Australia. Isabella was the one who stayed home and kept the flames going. Sometimes it didn’t seem fair. She’d had daydreams about leaving a note pinned to her pillow and slipping out into the night, getting on a train to Rome, flying to Singapore or Brazil, or maybe even New York. Meeting a dark, handsome stranger in an elevator. Talking over a drink in a hotel bar. Walking city streets in the rain, sharing an umbrella. All scenes snatched from romantic movies, all scenes folded into her momentary fantasies. What seemed hopeful at first eventually mutated into melancholy as it aged.