The Brides of Bella Rosa

She looked at him blankly, clutching her basket and not sure what the problem was.

“This isn’t an outing, Isabella,” he said coolly, his dark eyes shadowed. “It’s a job to be done. Let’s get on with it.”

“But, the sandwiches won’t keep out here in the sun and—”

“Give your basket to Renzo,” he said.

She turned, surprised to see that the older man was standing there with his hand outstretched. Gingerly, she handed him her basket and tried a small smile. The man gave her a small smile back, and that helped a bit.

Turning, Max began to stride toward a fence that ran along part of the long driveway where two horses were saddled and ready to go. She hurried to follow him.

“You do know how to ride, don’t you?” he asked over his shoulder.

Did she? She swallowed, looking at how big both beasts were.

“I’ve been riding a time or two,” she admitted reluctantly, remembering one successful trip around the lake and another painful excursion in the mountains when she was younger.

But she was pretty sure she could do it. Given a choice, she would rather have walked with him all the way. But he was obviously in a hurry today. That was disappointing. But at least the trip was still on. She ought to be grateful for that.

“Don’t worry, Mimi is gentle as a lamb,” he told her, reaching out to stroke the downy nose of a gray mare with a black, silky mane. “She’ll treat you right.” His face softened as the horse nuzzled into the palm of his hand with clear affection. “Won’t you, girl?”

Isabella watched, surprised to see him show such open emotion so effortlessly. That made her wonder what he’d been like before the accident that had scarred him. Had he been happy? Carefree? Had affection come naturally to him? Somehow she thought so. What a blessing it would be if somehow she could help him get that life back.

She bit her lip, knowing how ridiculous that thought was. She had no business thinking it. His life had nothing to do with her. Hadn’t he even told her so? But as she watched him gently stroke the beautiful horse, she found herself wondering if the touch of his hand was as gentle when he stroked a woman, and she flushed.

And then it came to her in a flash of intuition—this had been his wife’s horse. Of course. And that made her even more nervous about riding.

But the mounting went fine and soon they were trotting slowly out of the yard and onto the fields of the estate, she on Mimi and Max on the stunning black stallion he had been riding the night they’d met. Very quickly, she began to feel at ease, as though she were an experienced rider herself. Mimi was the perfect mount for a greenhorn such as she was.

The day was gorgeous, bright and breezy and full of promise. They were riding over territory she’d never been through before, rolling hills and green meadows. And then they came over a rise and below them spread an ancient vineyard with grape stakes as far as she could see.

She pulled the horse to a stop and made an exclamation of surprise as she looked at the limitless plain of struggling grape plants.

“What is this?” she asked him.

He leaned forward in the saddle and gazed at the expanse of it with one hand shading his eyes.

“This was once the Rossi vineyard,” he said, his voice even and emotionless. “It supplied grapes for our small family winery, an enterprise that lasted for a couple of hundred years.” He paused, then added dispassionately, “It was abandoned almost ten years ago.”

“Abandoned? Why?”

He didn’t turn to meet her gaze, and for a long moment, he didn’t answer. Watching him, she suddenly realized his neck was strained, as though he were holding something back, something painful. Her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to reach out to him, to touch him, but she didn’t dare. So she waited, and finally he spoke.

“I’m sure you know that I was married when I was younger. And that my…my wife died.” His voice almost choked, but he went on firmly. “At the time it happened, everything stopped. Life stopped.”

Turning, he stared into her eyes as though he was forcing himself to do it. “I mean that literally. All the workers were sent away, except a bare skeleton crew to keep the place from completely reverting to the wild.” His eyes seemed to burn. “And I’ve never seen a good reason to bring any of them back.” He stared at her a moment longer, then looked away. “It’s better this way.”

She shook her head. Better for whom? she wanted to say. But who was she to tell him how to live his life?

“It seems so lonely,” was all she dared put out. “And such a waste.”

He shrugged again. “There are plenty of vineyards in Italy,” he said, giving his horse a snicker that started him moving again. “One more or less won’t make a difference.”

She sighed. So he thought she was talking about his grape plants? Well, maybe she was. But she’d meant a lot more than that. A waste, indeed.

They crested another hill and found a small forest barely protecting a group of small stone buildings.

“What’s that?” she called to him, pointing at it.

He turned and looked, then grinned at her. “The family crypt,” he said. “Want to see it?”

“Oh! Yes.”

He helped her dismount and they tied the horses to a gate, then walked slowly into the little glen that held his ancestors’ graves. The garden was overgrown, but not completely shabby. His caretaker had kept it decent, if not pristine. There was a small pond with tiny flashing fishes darting back and forth, a rose garden and a marble chapel. And behind them all was a larger, brooding stone building that had served as a mausoleum to the Rossi family through the Middle Ages and beyond.

Isabella loved it. The place seemed like a secret, enchanted garden, full of history and family stories. But what was most stunning to her as she rounded a corner was a life-size marble statue of a half-naked man with a sword held at the ready guarding the entrance. Carved at the base of the marble was the name Adonis Salviati Di Rossi, 1732-1801.

Isabella gasped, hands to her mouth, then whirled to face Max, who was right behind her.

“It looks just like you!” she cried.

He tried to keep a solemn face and raised one eyebrow cynically, but his pleased sense of humor was hard to hide. It shone from his dark eyes and along the lines that framed his wide mouth. This statue had been a source of teasing and torture for him in his younger days. His friends and cousins had called him “Adonis” and joked about reincarnation and ghostly presences. In fact, Isabella hadn’t been the first to call him a vampire. His childhood playmates had done it as well.

He’d forgotten how much he hated it then. Now, it just seemed amusing.

“How would you know?” he challenged her. “You’re not really sure what I look like at all.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, no doubt in her mind. “I know exactly what you look like.”

She said it with such firm confidence, he looked at her, bemused. He felt so comfortable around her. Whenever he looked into her eyes, all he saw was a candid sort of joy in life. He hadn’t believed her when she’d first told him she didn’t see him as ugly. But ever since, he hadn’t been able to detect one sign of anything negative in her eyes, and he’d definitely been looking for it.

Still, he had to remember that she represented nothing but peril to him. She appealed to him, emotionally, physically, temperamentally—in every way possible. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to hear her laugh. He wanted to feel her in his arms. There was no denying the fact that she made him happy—happier than he’d been in years.

Happier than he had any right to be.

And that was the danger. He had no business dragging her into his private limbo of a life. He would do what he could to help her with her herbal requirements, but that was all. Once he had her supplied, she would be on her way and he wouldn’t see her again. Ever again.

At least that was the way he’d planned it. Now that she was here with him, it seemed almost impossible to think of losing her. She filled a need and a hunger in him he hadn’t even realized he still had.

And so, she was dangerous.

He followed as she explored the mausoleum, chattering happily as she looked into everything, finding all she saw wonderful and interesting. And he wished…

But what the hell was the point of wishing? The more you wanted out of life, the less you got. He was through with wishing. There was a job to be done here and that was all he was prepared to do.

Over and out.

Isabella knew she was talking too much, but she couldn’t help it. The day was so nice and the man she was with was so mesmerizing, she was bubbling with joy just being with him.

And yet, she knew he was troubled. She could sense it in his silence and in the look in his dark eyes. As they got back atop their horses and began the last leg of their trip to the hillside, she ached to help him, if only she knew how.

But that was silly, wasn’t it? He had everything he might want; all he had to do was order it up and it would be there for him. What could she provide that he couldn’t get on his own?

Right behind them in the little courtyard was the evidence of a life that was one of a long line of important people involved in important events. Ordinary people such as she was didn’t find their ancestors memorialized in tombs like this. Here was history, a background to the story of her area. She was a spectator. He was a star of the show.

“What’s it like being an Italian prince?” she asked him at one point.

He shrugged and gave her a look. “You know very well it’s an honorary title these days. The monarchy was abolished in 1946.”

“But you’re still a prince. You still have a special place in history.”

“Bah,” was all he would say.

She smiled. The fact that her own father had been a part, though small, of that background was fascinating to her. She’d wanted to ask her father about his visits to the palazzo in the old days from the moment she’d got home from her visit to Max the day before.

For some reason, she still hadn’t told him that she’d met the prince. She wasn’t sure why she was hesitating, but something told her he wouldn’t necessarily be pleased. So her approach was less direct than usual.

She’d found her father trying to practice using a walker and she’d watched for a while, giving him advice as he’d grown more and more impatient. His ex-friend Fredo had been to see him again and put him in a rotten mood.

“Now he’s threatening me with health violations,” he grumbled. “Me! I’ve always had the cleanest kitchen in the village. And yet he dares to call me a violator!”

She got him calmed down and made him sit in his chair to rest, then brought him a cold lemonade and perched next to him, ready for the inquisition.

“Papa, tell me,” she said, trying to sound casual. “How did you first know about the Monta Rosa Basil? When did you first find it?”

He sat back and slowly he lost the tense look around his eyes as he went into the past with a dreamy look on his face.

“As it happened, I was catering a picnic for the old prince, Prince Bartholomew, and his family, on the top of the hill, just above where the basil grows. I did more catering on my own in those days. I took every side job I could just to keep afloat. Money was very tight. There was hardly enough income to keep my stand going and I had to make some painful sacrifices just to survive.” She nodded encouragement, though at the same time she wondered if he didn’t see that they were close to being in that position again right now.

“There was a young maid who worked for the prince’s family. She showed me the herb. Made me pay a forfeit for some silliness or other by eating a leaf. I put it on my tongue, and I immediately knew it was something I’d never tasted before. At first I thought it strange. But I couldn’t get that taste out of my mind.”

Isabella nodded. Everyone was the same, instantly in love with the magic.

“So the next time I was on the grounds, I went to that hill again and picked some of the herb, took it home and tried it in some recipes.” He snapped his fingers in the air. “Instant success. Everyone loved it.”

How exciting that must have been for him. She smiled, loving him. Growing up without a mother, she’d always felt extra close to her father. His happiness was hers, sometimes too much so.

“Did they have a lot of parties in those days?” she asked, curious to know everything she could about Max’s upbringing.

“Yes. Whole caravans of people would come from Rome or from Naples and stay a week.”

She shook her head with wonder. “Why don’t I remember any of this?”

“These things ended when you were a young child.” Luca sighed. “After Prince Bartholomew’s beautiful wife killed herself, the parties never resumed. In fact, he began to spend all his time in Rome after that.”

“Killed herself!” She sat up straighter and stared at her father. He had to be talking about Max’s mother. An icy hand gripped her heart. “What happened?”

“I don’t know the details. They said she jumped from a balcony.” He shook his head. “Poor thing. She was a film star, you know. She worked with Fellini and Antonioni. She was quite good. It was a tragedy.”

What a series of tragedies in Max’s family if all these stories were true. First his mother commited suicide, then his young wife drowned. And what about his own accident, the one that had done such damage to his face? She still didn’t have the details on that.

It was no wonder he had troubled eyes as they rode across his estate lands. He’d come by them naturally, it seemed. She looked over at him now and found him looking back at her.

“Just a little further,” he called to her from the back of his horse.

She nodded. “Your grounds are so beautiful. You should do something with them.”

He looked out over his hills. “You think so? What do you suggest?”

She wanted to throw out her arms to encompass it all. “I don’t know. You should share this with the world. Maybe put in a hotel, a spa, a destination resort.”

He turned to look at her again, grinning. “Isabella, what a middle-class mind you have. Must everything make you money?”

“No, but…”

She flushed, realizing he was teasing her, and she dropped her defensiveness and returned to a light-hearted mode.

“Hey, it’s the money-making middle class that makes the economy hum for everyone,” she reminded him. “Let’s have none of your upper-class arrogance.”

“The idle rich,” he muttered dismissively.

“Exactly.”

But she was laughing.

“You think I’m lazy, don’t you?” he said, as though it was a revelation to him.

“Not at all. I just think you don’t have an eye out for profit. The spice of life.”

He shook his head. His eyes were warm. For the moment, his troubled look had faded. “Tell me this, Isabella,” he said. “You’ve said your restaurant was in trouble because you couldn’t get the best ingredients. Is this going to make that big a difference? Will all be well now?”

She hesitated, tempted to fudge the truth a little. This was such a subject of frustration for her. But when she looked at his face, she knew she could never be less than frank with him.

“No,” she said simply. “All will not be well. My father is a wonderful man and a good cook, but he can’t run a business to save his life. We are in big trouble financially, and in all sorts of other ways. I’m not sure we’ll last much longer no matter how much good food we cook up.”

He nodded. From what she’d told him and a few things he’d heard from Renzo, he’d had a feeling that was the case.

“Maybe your father should let you take the reins,” he said dryly. “You are the one who seems to have a passion for business.”

That brought her up short, but she realized, very quickly, that he had a point. She had the instincts, though not the training. If only Luca would give her a chance…

“So what could I do to make a profit?” he asked her. “Besides turning my ancestral estate into a…what did you call it? A destination resort.” He gave her a mock glare. “Something, by the way, that I would never do.”

She took his question quite seriously. “Well, to begin with, you could renovate your vineyards. How about that? Wine sells very well these days.”

He was laughing at her. It was obvious he wasn’t taking this as seriously as she was. “Isabella, Isabella, what about the nobility of the grape?”

She made a face. “Nobility is a pose,” she said. “Something that looks nice for special occasions, but is shed in a moment when it’s no longer working for you.”

He threw back his head and laughed aloud. “I can see you have big plans for me. What in particular?”

“I was thinking after seeing your abandoned vineyard…” She hesitated. Did she really want to tell him her thoughts? But why not? If not now, when?

“Well, you could hire my friend Giancarlo. The way some people restore businesses that have been run badly, he restores vineyards. I’m sure he can get you up and running in no time.”

He gazed at her as though he wasn’t sure just how seriously to take what she was saying. “So I can sell my grapes?”

“Why not? Or how about your own winery? With a tasting room? Then you could run tours from the village. People love to tour wineries. A little wine tasting, a small bistro on the premises…”

He was laughing at her but she didn’t care. “You could run my restaurant,” he said with a grin.

“Thank you.” She made a pretend curtsy from the saddle. “I’d love to.”

What a great idea. She fairly shivered with excitement over it. To think of running a restaurant for Max! Of making the special sauce for tourists who would come from far and wide…

But she quickly brought herself back down to earth. It was a pipe dream and she knew it. He refused to come face-to-face with strangers. He wouldn’t even let vineyard workers on his land. How could he stand to have tourists? It wasn’t going to happen.

They crested another hill and there below them was the field where the basil grew. She leaned forward in the saddle and sighed with relief. She’d had a dream during the night that she’d arrived here only to find the earth scorched and not a plant in sight. At least that hadn’t happened.

But that dream had cast a pall on her morning. She’d thought of it with dread as she was preparing the picnic lunch to take with her. Was it a sign? Should she be prepared for the worst?

Susa had raised an eyebrow at the preparations, but didn’t say a thing. Isabella ignored her and packed sandwiches in a basket and stowed them in her little car.

“Where are you going?” her father called from the doorway.

She hesitated. Should she tell him? Dashing back to give him a hug, she whispered in his ear, “I think I will have the basil with me when I return. Say a prayer for me.” And she kissed his leathery cheek, turned and hurried off before he had time to question her further.

And all the time, she’d wondered if the basil would even be there once she made her way to it. Now she knew. It was here all right. And she was going to take as much of it as she could.

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