Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6)

But not the look of confusion that crossed her features. His denial made no sense to her – and the last thing he wanted was to mess her around.
Grinding his teeth, he took a step away, turning his back on her for a second.
“It smells good in here.”
“Does it?” Her voice was husky. It whispered through him, squeezing desire like a fist in his gut. “I mean, yes, I know.” Her voice grew distant. He drank his beer, watching the snow fall, before turning back to her again. She was wiping the bench, her cheeks pink, her silk hair down so he couldn’t see as much of her face as he wanted.
“Were you working?” Her voice was a little shaky. She brought the cloth to the sink, skirting a careful distance from him.
“Si.”
“On what?”
He frowned, the question not one he could easily answer. “We’re buying a new tanker. I’m going over the documentation from our lawyers.”
“A tanker?” She lifted a brow as she looked at him. So close, he could see the few freckles that ran across her nose. His stomach looped. “What for?”
“Shipping.”
She nodded, but looked as though she had a dozen more questions.
“We have a shipping company,” he said with a lift of his shoulder. “My grandfather acquired it.” He wasn’t sure why he added the last bit of detail.
“I don’t know much about your family.” Her tone was almost apologetic. “Just that you’re filthy rich.”
He laughed at that, the sound surprising him. How long had it been since he’d laughed spontaneously?
He reached for his beer, realised it was empty, then strolled to the fridge to remove another. “Wine?”
She was watching him carefully. “I don’t think I should.”
“No?”
Her cheeks grew even pinker and memories flashed through him. The taste of alcohol on her breath the night before, the way she’d been so unashamed in her desire for him.
“Coffee then,” he suggested with a low, gruff growl.
She nodded awkwardly. “I’ll make it.”
“It’s fine.” He pulled the milk out with his beer, nudging the fridge door closed with his elbow.
“So you work in the family business,” she prompted, one hip propped against the bench, near enough to the coffee machine that he could reach out and touch her. His fingertips tingled with a yearning to do just that.
He nodded, removing the coffee basket and filling it with fresh grinds. “We all do.”
“All?”
“I have two brothers, three cousins.” He tightened the basket in place. “Four, actually, but Samir is not – here. He lives abroad and we don’t really know him.”
“Why not?”
“Long story.”
She waited, and Gabe found himself talking about something he rarely discussed. “His mother – my aunt – was estranged from my grandparents. They didn’t approve of her marriage. She was very young. Gianfelice, my grandfather, gave her an ultimatum – her fiancé or them – and she chose her fiancé.”
Isabella’s eyes flared wide. “And then what? They never forgave her?”
“My grandfather was a stubborn man. He didn’t know how to forgive.”
“That’s terrible! Was she happy?”
“I don’t know. They stayed married, and had a son – Samir – but my aunt died before they could make peace.”
“That’s so sad.”
“It’s life.”
Something flickered in the depths of her eyes before she turned away from him, angling her face towards the window. “Not for everyone.”
He thought about that. She was right; many people lived lives unmarred by complicated family dynamics and estrangement, by death and loss.
“So you all work together harmoniously, except for Samir?”
Harmoniously? The word was jarring somehow. There was no bad blood between him and his relatives and yet Gabe couldn’t apply the word ‘harmony’ to any aspect of his life. “We respect each other,” he said guardedly.
“I see.”
He began to froth the milk, glad the noise made conversation impossible. But once he was finished, and pouring the silky liquid into the cup, she spoke.
“I was always jealous of kids who came from big families.”
“You didn’t have brothers or sisters?”
“No. It was just me.”
“There were times when I would have given anything to be an only child,” he said with a half-smile.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“It was a lonely way to grow up.”
“You must have had friends?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, but after my mother – my adoptive mother – died, we moved around a lot.”
“What happened?”
Her features tightened, pain obvious in the depth of her ocean green eyes. “There was a fire. An electrical fault.” She cupped the coffee in the palms of her hands, her eyes lifting to his. “My dad blamed himself. He was never the same after that.”
He waited, sure she’d keep speaking if he didn’t interrupt. She sipped her coffee and then continued.
“They were such a great couple. He loved her so much. It was only after she died I realised that he’d been jealous of me – jealous because mum spent so much time with me, jealous because he was perfectly happy being just the two of them. She was the one who wanted more, who needed family – me. He didn’t.” Her throat shifted as she swallowed.
“How did you know this?”
“He started drinking,” she said with a lift of her shoulders. “He told me how he felt one night.”
“I’m sorry.” He was surprised by the quick response, and more so by the genuine sympathy underpinning it.
“He apologised the next day, but the damage was done. I was eight years old.” She placed her coffee cup down on the bench but kept one hand curled around the mug, her eyes lingering on the caramel coloured surface. “After that, things were different between us. I felt like a stranger in our home. I was very conscious of not being wanted, of nothing I did ever being good enough. He was polite and civil, but he didn’t love me.”
She said the words calmly, but he narrowed his eyes, scanning her face for signs of how that must have made her feel, as a little girl. An unexpected rush of pity flooded him.
“He lost his job a few months after mum died.