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His laugh was a short, humourless bark. “What I would prefer,” he intoned flatly, “does me no credit.”
It didn’t make any sense.
“I can’t ignore you, anyway, Isabella, whether you hide away from me or not. So let’s not even attempt the charade of pretending each other does not exist.”
6
“WHAT THE HELL?”
He stopped walking as he swept into the kitchen, looking forward to an ice-cold beer. Instead, he was hit in the face with a barrage of festive preparations. The air was thick with the scent of spices – cinnamon and nutmeg, fruit and wine. Carols played from a phone placed on the edge of the bench, and at some point throughout the day a piece of a pine tree had been set in a vase. Little decorations dangled from the spindly branches, though a second glance showed that they were actually cookies, with the exception of one ornament that looked like a little birds nest.
“Oh!” She spun around to face him, wearing the same apron she’d had on last time she’d been baking, a smudge of something dark on her cheek. “Hi.” Her face warmed, glowing pink. Conflicting emotions ripped through him. Irritation at this festive assault, the makeshift tree, the carols, the baking, all things which he’d never condone nor welcome into this place – his sanctuary from all things Christmas. But at the same time, there was something about her that made him glow. He hated that.
“Did I disturb you?”
That was one way to put it. Since she’d arrived, she’d been an unwelcome presence in his mind, weaving through the fabric of his thoughts. He’d tried ignoring her, and now that they’d kissed, his body was constantly humming on a frequency that drove him towards her.
He ripped a beer from the fridge, his lips a grim line. “You could say that.”
He didn’t want to acknowledge the crestfallen expression on her face as she wiped a hand on her apron and dialled down the volume on her phone. He cracked the top off the beer and took a long drink, ignoring the pressures of the day. His work, his family’s disappointment that he was still at Il Nido, the difficulty he’d had in keeping his distance from his beautiful intruder.
“Sorry,” her smile was just a twist of her lips. “I always cook with music. And cooking Christmas food means Christmas music,” she shrugged.
He dipped his head, ignoring the crushing weight of guilt, trying not to lose himself in the vicious memories of the past. Trying not to remember another woman who’d loved Christmas, who’d loved everything about the Italian countryside, until it had taken her life.
Without his knowledge, his hand tightened into a fist at his side. He moved towards the windows, looking out over the forest. There was a disturbance in the perfect blanket of white, just visible.
“You went outside?”
“Uh huh. To grab the branch. Snow’s up to the top step of your front porch.”
He nodded slowly, turning around to face her once more, drinking his beer without taking his eyes off her. She watched him, too, but the look in her eyes was half-deer-caught-in-headlights, and half-sensual-appraisal. His gut tightened.
How many times had he seduced women like her? Beautiful, kind-hearted women, enjoying their company for a night or two, tormenting himself with the kind of life he’d never let himself lead? He did it to torture himself. He liked to remind himself of what he’d lost the right to expect.
A life for a life.
So what was holding him back now? Her interest in him was obvious. One move and she’d be his. They were snowed in together, stuck here in this beautiful gilded cage; why not pass the time in sensual exploration instead of tiptoeing around each other?
Because he didn’t deserve it.
Why should he have such heady pleasure after killing Carmen?
And yet, he was tormenting himself in a new way now, spending time with her without acting on his normal impulses. Standing across from her, resisting the invitation in her eyes. Wanting her and denying himself that pleasure.
“This is an incredible kitchen.”
Her words cut through his thoughts, but didn’t ease the dark look from his face. “Is it?”
“You must know it is. You could cook for three hundred.”
“The previous owners often threw large parties,” he confirmed, the information something the realtor had been at pains to point out. Back then, Gabe might have seemed more like the kind of man who’d enjoy entertaining. Maybe he’d heard the last name and presumed Gabe would want to host corporate events at Il Nido, instead of turning it into a sublimely isolated fortress for one.
“That makes sense,” she said with a nod. “Everything in here is designed to cater for a crowd. Which makes it perfect for me, because I’m kind of a messy cook,” she said with a small laugh. A nervous sound that he would say was completely involuntary. “I need lots of bench space. And a commercial dishwasher,” she nodded towards the corner, where a large silver machine stood, the lid lifted, a tray half-stacked with cookware.
“What are you making?” The question was drawn from him reluctantly. Another form of torture. Standing and looking, not touching, remembering the feathery softness of her lips as she spoke, every word reminding him of how it had felt to crush them with his own.
Cristo, he’d wanted to take her last night, a furious coming together of two people that was dictated by anything but sense.
