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She stood at the landing, looking right first, down the long corridor that would lead to her bedroom, then left towards the salon he’d taken her to the night before, the flickering flames suggesting the beautiful wide fire had been lit, and was glowing with its orange warmth.
She hesitated a moment, then moved quickly towards that room, telling herself she
was only seeking a burst of warmth before bed, telling herself she’d say goodnight and then leave.
But the wine had been so delicious and she’d had two quick glasses, so the sensible comments were hard to deliver.
Instead, she heard herself say in a slightly husky voice, “I know you don’t want me here, but I am here. I don’t think ignoring each other makes any sense, to be completely honest.”
She stalked to the wingback armchair and deposited her laptop and phone on the seat, sipping her wine as she moved to stand directly opposite him. The flames licked upwards, but that wasn’t why she suddenly felt warm all over.
She hated confrontation, and that was what she was doing. Laying down a big fat gauntlet even when she’d just been acknowledging to herself that it was his prerogative to ask for privacy in his own home!
He stared at her for so long she wondered if he wasn’t going to reply. She sipped her wine, then clasped the glass in both palms, blinking up at him.
“Believe me, Isabella, you should be glad I am ignoring you.”
She’d had enough wine to drink that his words didn’t make much sense. Or maybe it was the way he said her name, so thick with his accent, so perfectly Italian, that she felt it reverberate deep down inside of her. It was a jolt she’d been missing – a reminder of why she’d come to Italy, the answers she’d hoped to find, an answer to a question she’d held all her life: who am I? Who are my parents?
“Why?”
His lips twisted into the imitation of a smile, but it was grim and dark. “Go to bed. You don’t want to do this.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped, annoyed with him and uncharacteristically willing to show that. The wine had given her courage.
“What gives you the right to think you can come into my home and speak to me like this?”
Great question. She glared at him, wondering the same thing herself, and also why she cared so much? Why did his ignoring her bother her?
“You’re treating me like the dirt on your shoe,” she snapped, sipping her wine.
“I am treating you like a stranger who’s invaded my privacy. Better than that deserves, in some ways.”
Her eyes flashed to his and she gulped down some more wine, hating that he was right, hating how annoyed she felt. “What’s wrong with you?” She shook her head angrily. “You’re barely human. I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once since I arrived. You don’t show any normal curiosity, any tendencies to kindness.”
“I told you, I am not kind.”
“And you don’t think that’s something you should address?” She retorted, before frowning, moving closer without realising it, and jabbing a finger to his chest with her spare hand. “And anyway, I think you are kind. You came to apologise to me earlier.”
He reached down and grabbed her finger, lifting it from his chest. But he didn’t drop it to his side. Instead, he held it between them, his own much larger fingers wrapped around hers. “I came to explain.” It was basically a bark.
“Same difference.”
“No,” he corrected, nostrils flaring. “It is not. I wanted you to understand that this is not personal. It’s just the way I am.”
“I bet nothing’s ever personal with you,” she muttered.
His eyes, dark grey like pewter, bore down on hers, and Isabella didn’t know if she’d moved closer or if he had. She knew only that her hand was almost crushed between them now, and that with every deep breath she drew, angry and harsh, her breasts came closer to brushing his hand.
“Seriously, you’re like some kind of automaton, completely without feelings! What the heck happened to make you like this?”
His own breathing was tortured, drawn from him in deep, hoarse waves, his eyes harsh as they glared into hers.
“Nothing.” He dropped her hand then, taking a step back and turning his gaze to the fire. A muscle jerked low in his jaw as he concentrated on looking anywhere but at Isabella. She wasn’t sure why she was doing this, but having started, she didn’t feel inclined to stop.
“Damn you, Gabrielle!” She finished her wine then placed the glass on the mantle above the fireplace. “Who chooses to live somewhere like this?”
His voice was carefully wiped of emotions. “You don’t like it?”
