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Perhaps by morning, the weather would have cleared sufficiently to take the helicopter out.
And pigs could very well fly, he conceded with a low groan. He was stuck with her, at least for the next day or so. Which was in many ways, Gabe’s idea of hell.
Isabella couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so comfortable! The mattress was softer than clouds, the pillows the perfect thickness to rest against. She lay on the brink of sleep for quite some time, enjoying that lovely, slow sense of satiation and comfort before memories of the night before dragged her fully into alertness.
She sat bolt upright, turning immediately towards the window. She’d forgotten to draw the blinds the night before, and the first thing she saw was white. Just white – everywhere. In the sky, the colour of the clouds, and on the ground. She pushed back the covers fully and moved to the window, her face instantly chilled by the glass.
It wasn’t all white. There was green too, in the trees she could see to the left, and to the right, grey – the grey of the cliff she’d suspected might be there. But even that was broken with lines of white, demarcating the ridges and shelves that were grooved into its side. She leaned further forward, until her forehead pressed into the glass. It was like ice. There was no sign beneath her of human habitation. No cars. And no footprints. Nothing to show that she’d approached this castle – birdnest – last night. Nothing to show anyone at all had ever lived here.
The thought chilled her for some reason and she jumped back from the window, fidgeting her fingers at her sides. As she looked around the room, more memories from the night before throbbed in her mind. The tray of food he’d left – the delicious soup, undoubtedly cooked by some servant or other.
Servants!
Yes, of course.
In a place like this there must surely be an army of staff.
The thought was instantly reassuring. Why hadn’t it occurred to her the night before?
Because the house had been deathly quiet. Besides the flickering of flames and his scowling disapproval, there hadn’t been a single noise in the ancient home. Not the flurry of footsteps that a silent army might invoke. Not the quiet mutterings of a housekeeper asking if there was anything she could do to help.
Nothing but the watchful, unwelcoming eyes of her reluctant, billionaire tycoon host.
Another shiver ran down her spine, apprehension and unease making her tummy flutter. She reached for her phone, well aware she wouldn’t have any cell service, but checking the time because she didn’t wear a watch. It was still early – not yet eight. Perhaps he’d be sleeping and she could explore a little on her own? The thought of a cup of steaming hot coffee was all the incentive she needed. Taking a quick minute to freshen up, she opened the door slowly,
then backtracked to the dressing table, lifting up the plate and bringing it with her.
Everything looked so different in the daytime!
She caught herself in the thought and smiled. This time, she hadn’t meant the observation as a reassuring platitude, but as a truism. The castle had taken on a distinctly gothic flavour the night before, all dark except for the eery light cast by the enormous fire. Now she saw it for its beauty – the ornately carved banister of the stairs, the stunning works of art, fittings that were, for the most part, quite original. Even the electric lamps on the walls looked as though they had at one time held candles.
Tiptoeing past his room, Isabella quickened her pace as she approached the stairs. They were marble, just as she’d guessed last night, and beneath her bare feet, they were icy cold. Yet the kitchen must surely be down on the first floor somewhere? She had to brave the cold to reach coffee. After coffee, she’d feel more human.
Moving quickly, she took a guess and turned left at the bottom of the steps, making her way across the enormous entranceway, ignoring the artwork she’d glimpsed the night before. She wanted to look at it properly, but she felt too exposed in the cavernous space. She wasn’t yet ready to deal with her grumpy billionaire benefactor.
She wracked her brain for everything she could think of about the Montebellos, but there wasn’t much. Theirs was simply a name that ensured global recognition; their publishing house printed some of her favourite culinary magazines, but beyond that, their business empire straddled many industries. She knew there were several children. Grandchildren? Many boys, all of whom had been in the tabloid press for one scandal or another, at some point, but that kind of thing had never really held much interest for Isabella so she hadn’t paid attention to the details – and those she had gleamed over time simply hadn’t stuck. She seemed to remember something about the family patriarch – John something? – dying a few years earlier, but beyond that, she had only a vague impression of the family.
Thoughts vaporised from her brain as she went room to room, the sheer beauty of the magnificent castle overtaking her thoughts completely. It was in close to original condition. The floors, the walls, the artwork, all appeared to be largely sixteenth or seventeenth century, though the electrics had clearly been overhauled at some point and everything had likely been very thoroughly restored, going by the exceptional state of the décor. She passed one room that was like a princess’s salon, all stunning floral wallpaper and gold furniture, with fairy tale windows overlooking the ravine. With a racing heart, and a sense she was intruding, she crept inside, quickly tiptoeing to the window and peering through it. The glass was all rippled, suggesting it was very old, but that only gave the Italian alps a dreamy look.
The snow was falling again now, swirling past the window in incredible whirls, like mini tornadoes just beyond her. She pressed her fingertips to the glass and shuddered at the remembered sense of cold from the night before. For a girl who was more used to the beaches of the Australian Gold Coast, she’d never known anything like that!
Remorseful to leave the beautiful space, she was more anxious to find the kitchen – always an anchor point for Isabella. Carrying the tray, she poked her head into several more rooms, regretting the fact she wouldn’t get a chance to explore the castle to her heart’s content. Still, that would mean staying here longer, and after the chilly reception she’d received, Isabella knew that to be impossible.
Finally, at the end of the long, wide corridor, there were three steps down and a double set of doors. She had a hunch they must lead to the kitchen – partly by a process of elimination – she’d tried everywhere else! – and partly because the doors looked more utilitarian and functional than the prettily carved doors marking entrances to the other rooms.
Shouldering one inward, she smiled at the first glimpse of stainless steel, immediately recognising her familiar environs. It was a caterer’s kitchen, with huge benches, industrial equipment, and yet the stunning windows that framed endless views of the dramatic snow-covered landscape gave the kitchen an awe-inspiring beauty. How she would have loved to prepare meals in this space! Her video views would go through the roof! A whole series on northern Italian food, she posited, starting with that delicious bread soup she’d had for supper.
But the thoughts were scuppered as she rounded the door fully and realised she wasn’t the only one in the kitchen. A small gasp escaped her lips without her consent and she fumbled the tray, very nearly dropping it. Her ears felt hot.
Gabrielle ‘everyone calls me Gabe’ Montebello was about six feet away from her, shirt off, and just a pair of running shorts hanging low on his hips. His hair was damp, his brow covered in a hint of perspiration, his muscled chest a canvas of artwork, ink covering his flesh. He had an iPad loaded up with a newspaper – the New York Times – and a glass of juice to his left. At her gasp, he looked up, his eyes locking to hers with that same sense of coldness that had been tunnelling into her all night.
Out of nowhere, a bundle of nerves tightened in her stomach. She crossed to the bench and placed the tray down, rubbing her hands over her hips in a gesture of anxiety.
“Hi.” Her voice was croaky.
“Good morning.” He returned his attention to the paper, his face a study in concentration. He flicked to the next page, then sipped his juice.
“I take it you don’t feel the cold,” she murmured.
