Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6)

heard of him. Who hadn’t heard of his family in some way or another?
“Then I guess the castle makes sense,” she joked quietly, her throat moving as she swallowed. What the hell had she been thinking, to be out in this weather, and dressed so inappropriately? Skinny leather-look pants, white joggers and a collared shirt with buttons down the front was hardly enough to navigate an Italian winter. She was asking to catch her death of cold.
“You live here?”
The question was one he wasn’t prepared to answer. He took a step away from her, angling himself towards the fire, his back to her a little. “Don’t misunderstand the situation, Isabella. You’re here because the only alternative is to throw you out into the forest where you’d surely die, and as much as I don’t want you here, nor do I want your death on my conscience. But we are not friends. We are not two people who have to make conversation. I have no interest in telling you my life story, nor in hearing yours.”
Though he wasn’t facing her, he had enough of a sight of her in his periphery to be aware of the way her lips parted, her eyes widening at his unapologetic rudeness.
“Then why don’t you show me to a room and I can stow away for the night? You won’t even know I’m here.”
“Good,” he responded with a nod. “As soon as you’ve warmed up sufficiently, I’ll do exactly that.”
Rather than stand here and argue, he took the opportunity to leave her once more, striding from the room with relief, wanting – as much as ever – to be left damned well alone.
What a rude…she searched for an appropriate insult but couldn’t land on one. There simply wasn’t any word that would do justice to his appalling behaviour! Of all the arrogant, horrible, mean, unkind…
It wasn’t as though this was her dream night! Why was he acting as though she’d purposely crashed his party?
And what party, anyway?
From what she could tell, he’d been brooding alone in this lovely, dark room with only the crackling fire for company. Oh, she’d have loved to have an alternative to staying – some pithy retort she could fire at him, telling him she’d rather take her chances with the elements, thank you very much, but having felt the brunt of this winter night already, wild horses – and impossibly rude men – couldn’t drag her back out there again.
After a few minutes, it became clear he wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Relaxing a little, she sat down on the floor, crossing her legs and staring at the flames as they flickered in the grate. As a child, she’d always been mesmerised by fire, until the night the flames had taken her house away, and then she’d been afraid of it for a long time.
Gradually that had ebbed – she didn’t feel fear now, so much as awe and respect. Respect of someone who’d seen the unleashed, elemental power of fire, knew what it could do, and would always be careful in how she handled it. Sitting here now though, she welcomed its warmth. She sat until her cheeks grew pink and there was no longer any vestige of the night’s cold attached to her body. She sat until her eyes grew heavy and the Cointreau had relaxed her, and it became difficult to stay awake. She looked over her shoulder at the armchair and contemplated taking a seat, and closing her eyes for just a moment, but it felt so far away.
With a yawn, she lay onto her side, still watching the fire, one arm extended on the floor, her head pressed to it. She blinked heavily as the flames danced and leaped, and then she could only hear them, her eyes were closed to the sight.
Sleep followed. She didn’t know for how long, only that at some point, a hand curved around her arm, shaking her awake.
She blinked, disorientated at first, but one dozy look into the face above her and she startled, immediately defensive. She moved quickly, sitting up, almost banging her head to his in the rapidity of her movement.
“Relax,” he murmured, pushing back onto his haunches so his jeans stretched across muscular thighs. “You’re fine.”
The words were spoken strangely, though, almost as if he was reassuring himself.
“I know I’m fine,” she retorted with tartness, wriggling away a little and pushing up to standing. She held her hands towards the fire, the heat on her palms unnecessary now, but it was a gesture designed to emulate calm normality. “I just fell asleep, that’s all. What time is it?”
“Ten.”
It had been just after seven when she’d arrived – so she’d been sleeping for hours.
She bit back an apology, not wanting to offer him the standard civility, nor to concede any ground to him. She couldn’t say why but that point felt vitally important.
“I woke up early,” she offered instead, even resenting that admission. She looked towards the door, crossing her arms over her chest. She noticed her shoes had been rearranged, placed carefully by the fire, to help them dry.
“I’ll show you to a spare room,” he said after a beat.
“Thank you.”
He turned and swept from the room; this time she followed. The hallway was light now, illuminated by lamps on the walls. He led her down the corridor, past several doors, including one that was open to show a bed, bedside table, and a little disorder, indicating that it was being used. By him? Her heartrate increased. At the next door along – closed – he pushed it inwards without entering.
“Here.”
“Next door to yours?”
His lip twisted a little, into a cynical half-smile. It was the first time he’d done anything close to smile, but she realised her earlier assessment had been right. Even a half-mocking gesture was quite breathtakingly beautiful in his face.
She quelled the little burst of butterflies that stirred in her belly, refusing to admire anything about her very reluctant saviour.
“You are quite safe, Isabella.