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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?
