The Brides of Bella Rosa: Beauty and the Reclusive Prince

Max jerked upright when he heard his mobile chime. For just a moment, he wondered what the noise was. He’d only heard it a few times before. Almost no one had his number, and those who did usually called on the landline or sent him an e-mail. He frowned as he fumbled through his stack of books and papers, looking for the blasted thing and ready to bark at whoever was calling and interrupting a good idea flow he’d got into on this lazy, sunny afternoon.

His frown deepened as he realized he didn’t recognize the caller’s ID. Probably a wrong number. He dropped the phone back onto his desk and turned away, ready to let it ring itself silly. But it didn’t stop and he swore sharply and reached for it again, prepared to turn it off. But this time something about the caller ID caught his attention. He hesitated. Why not give it a try? After all, what could it hurt? With a grimace, he clicked on and put it to his ear.

“Ciao.”

There was a soft exhalation of breath and a feminine voice said, “Is this Max?”

He blinked. “Yes. Who’s this?” But in a flash, he knew.

“Isabella Casali. I…we met the other night when I…”

Letting his head fall back, he closed his eyes. He really didn’t need this. Life as he’d grown to know it was boring but placid. Not too many highs and lows—if you didn’t count the midnight agonies of a guilty conscience. And then, this woman had inserted herself into his sphere. And it came to this—just the sound of her voice did strange and mystical things to him.

“I remember,” he said gruffly. “How did you get this number?”

“It wasn’t easy.” She hesitated, then went on. “Listen, I don’t mean to be a bother, but I need to talk to you.”

His hand tightened on the small device. “It’s that damned basil, isn’t it?”

She sputtered for a few seconds, then got herself together again in time to be coherent. “Well, yes, it is. You see, this is a matter of such importance—”

He stopped her with a rude word. He was angry with himself, angry with her. The way she’d barged into his life a few nights before had affected him more than he wanted to admit. He told himself it was just her femaleness that had sent him into a tailspin for a couple of days.

It could have been any woman, anyone at all. Despite everything, he did feel a real lack of the feminine presence in his life. He missed having someone around who put flowers in a glass and plunked them in the middle of the table at breakfast. He missed the flow of shiny hair spilling over a smooth, silky shoulder, the soft pout of red, swollen lips, the cheerful voice that sounded like sunshine, the way a pair of breasts filled out a sweater and pulled the fabric in that tightly entrancing way that just knocked him out. All these things shouted femininity to him. Having a woman around made daily existence softer, more colorful, more dramatic. He missed that.

But such things were part of a life that was closed to him now. Finding Isabella on his property had just brought that home to him and made the loss fresh again. He needed to forget all about her.

And he’d managed over the last few days to practically obliterate her from his consciousness. He’d done it deliberately, piece by piece, setting up work schedules and exercise routines that demanded more of his attention and time, until he fell exhausted into bed at night and slept like a drugged beast. He’d done everything he could think of to make his life new and challenging in order to keep his mind from going where he didn’t need it to go.

Now here she was with her provocative voice and her urgent requests, stirring up things he didn’t want stirred. That made him angry, even though a part of him knew that the anger was a direct attempt to stave off temptation.

“Tell me the truth,” he demanded. “How did you get this number?”

She drew her breath in. “I found it.”

The sheer audacity of that answer took him by surprise and he nearly laughed out loud. But he held it back and managed to ask with a straight face, “Where?”

“In the trash.”

He shook his head. Did she really think he was going to buy that one? “Isabella, please. That doesn’t make any sense.”

She sighed. “Life doesn’t make any sense. Hadn’t you noticed?”

“Don’t try to throw sand in my eyes with ridiculous philosophical musings,” he warned her, thoroughly annoyed. “This is a very basic problem. It doesn’t need an esoteric response. You found my number. I want to know how so that it doesn’t happen again.”

“I’ve told you the truth,” she insisted, sounding earnest. “It was in my trash.”

So she wasn’t going to tell him. That only strengthened his convictions. If she couldn’t respond truthfully to a simple question, he didn’t need her complicating his life any longer. Best to cut all ties as quickly as possible. Prolonging this would only make things worse for him and his peace of mind.

“I don’t know how you got this number,” he told her gruffly, “but it hardly matters. I’ll get it changed right away.”

She drew her breath in. “All so you can avoid any calls from me?” she asked, her voice sounding shocked.

“Yes,” he said stoutly.

She didn’t understand. But that was for the best. If she ever tumbled to the truth—that she affected him as no one else had in years—his situation would be that much more precarious.

“Why do you hate me?” she asked, aghast.

“I don’t hate you.” He groaned softly, closing his eyes. “That’s just the problem,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” she said.

He gritted his teeth and expelled a long line of swear words in an obscure dialect, just because it made him feel better. This woman was driving him around the bend. And that was odd. He didn’t remember trouble like this with women that he’d known before…before Laura. He’d always had friends and casual relationships. It seemed he’d lost the knack for free and easy dealings with the opposite sex.

Of course, Laura’s death and the accident that had scarred him had changed all that. For over a year after it had happened, he hadn’t been able to speak to anyone, even family members. He had waited to die, wishing for it. When that didn’t happen, he began to realize he was going to have to go on without her and without his face. And that was a problem. He didn’t have much appetite for it.

It had taken a long time, but slowly he had let others in—but only his immediate family and a few close friends. Most other friends had probably decided he must be dead himself. He didn’t really want them around and that had become obvious.

And no strangers. Never strangers.

Yet, once he’d opened up to his closest family members, he’d begun to see that there were still things he could do with his life, even if he didn’t go out into the world as before. Today, he had a relatively active professional life, thanks to the computer and the Internet. In the old days, he would probably have been locked away from all human commerce, but with the modern conveniences of semi-anonymous communication he was able to do quite a bit without having to come face-to-face with the people he interacted with. Mostly, he still only saw people he’d known all his life.

“That’s because you’re a coward,” his sister maintained wryly during one of their frequent arguments.

He didn’t take offense. She was probably right. Though he told himself he didn’t want to inflict his savaged visage on others, that was only a part of it. He didn’t want to see the reaction in the eyes of strangers. There was a certain vanity there, he had to admit. But he knew what the world wanted from him, and it wasn’t his scarred face.

He’d been through the fickle reactions of the public at large before and he knew very well how cruel they could be. His mother had been a beautiful film star. During her twenties and early thirties, people had flocked to see her films. She’d been in demand everywhere.

But unlucky genetics had been her downfall. She had lost her looks early. Even as a young boy he’d understood how the media had begun to rip apart her image as she had disappointed them. It almost seemed they took it personally that she wasn’t the beauty she once had been. As though she’d wasted their time and now would have to pay the price. He had been ten years old when she had taken her own life.

Yes, he knew what the public was like. And he didn’t see any reason why he should go out of his way to be accepted by them again.

But Isabella Casali was another matter. He couldn’t seem to put her off in a distant box the way he knew he ought to.

He came back to the conversation, knowing he needed to create a plausible alternative to her accusation of him hating her. “I hate talking on the phone,” he supplied quickly. “It’s not just you,” he added.

Despite everything, he didn’t want to hurt her. She was quite adorable and didn’t deserve it. This was his problem, not hers. If only he could explain to her…But that was impossible. “I don’t like talking to anyone.”

“Oh.”

She still sounded downhearted and that made him wince. Silently, he told himself to man up. He had to remain firm. It was the only way.

“Well, I won’t keep you much longer,” she promised, sounding wistful. “I just have one thing to talk to you about.”

He knew what that was. There was no point prolonging things. “The answer is no,” he said evenly.

“But you don’t know—”

“Yes, I do. You want permission to come in and scavenge my river valley hillside for your precious basil herb. And I won’t allow it. Case closed.”

He could almost hear her gulp and he grimaced. He hated doing this. He could see the look she probably had in her huge blue eyes and it killed him. But he couldn’t weaken.

“Please hear me out—”

“No, I won’t allow it. It’s too dangerous.”

It was her turn to make that sound of exasperation. “Dangerous? What’s dangerous about it?”

“You fell into the river, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but that was because it was the middle of the night and you scared me.”

He nodded. “Exactly. These things are always…accidents.” He should just hang up and he knew it. He tried. But somehow, it just seemed too cruel.

“Why?” Her voice sharpened, as though she’d suddenly found the hint of a chink in his argument. “Why are you so sure I’ll get hurt? Has anyone actually been hurt in that river?”

His throat choked shut for a moment. This was something he couldn’t talk about. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath to steady his resolve. The consequences were too risky to gamble with.

There was a part of him, in a deep, secret place, that halfway believed there was an evil force lurking by the river, waiting to trap another woman—especially one that he had some affection for—and pull her under the water as well. There was another, more rational part of him that contended the evil force was his own sense of guilt. Which side was right? It wasn’t worth putting it to the test.

“Isabella, I forbid you to go anywhere near that hillside. And the river. Stay away.”

“But—”

“Promise me.” His voice was harsh and stern. He had to make sure she didn’t feel she could come on her own.

She swallowed hard. He could hear the effort she was making but that didn’t matter. He steeled himself. It had to be done.

“All right,” she said at last in a very small voice. “I’ll stay away. At least I’ll stay away until I can find a way to convince you—”

“You’re not going to convince me. I’m changing this number, remember?”

“But, Max…”

He winced. Hearing his name in her voice sent a quiver through him, a sense of something edgy that he didn’t like at all. Given a little time, it would chip away at his resolve, bit by bit.

“Goodbye, Isabella,” he said firmly.

She sighed. “Goodbye.”

Her voice had a plaintive quaver that touched his heart, but he hung up anyway. He had to. Another moment or two and he’d have been giving in to her, and that was something that couldn’t happen.

This entire connection had to end. He couldn’t afford the time and emotional effort involved in maintaining a relationship, even on the phone. He had work to do.

But returning to his research was hopeless at this point. Instead, he rose, grabbed his towel and headed for the fully equipped gym he’d had built into half of the whole ground level of the building. It was obvious he was going to have to fight harder to push Isabella Casali out of his system.

CHAPTER FIVE

ISABELLA fought back tears of frustration as she clicked off her phone connection to the palazzo.

“There go any hopes of a career in negotiations,” she muttered to herself. “Turns out I’m not any better at that than I am at breaking and entering.”

Hardly a surprise, but disappointing anyway. What now? Giving up wasn’t an option. One look at her half-empty restaurant told her that. She was going to have to find another way. But how? She’d promised him she wouldn’t go near the hillside or the river and she was going to keep that promise, much as it hurt.

But there had to be a way to breach those high walls in a more effective manner. Someone in the village had to have dealings with the palazzo. It didn’t make sense that they would import everything from Rome. Slowly, carefully, she began to ask around. At first all she got were blank stares.

And then, finally, she hit pay dirt of a sort. Much to her surprise, the man who delivered seafood to her restaurant every morning also made a stop at the Rossi palazzo once or twice a week.

“Only on Tuesdays and Fridays,” he told her chattily, wiping his hands on his big white apron. “Wednesdays are out. It seems to be the day off for the staff, such as it is.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. I made the mistake of showing up on a Wednesday once. I couldn’t even get in the gate. I had two pounds of Chilean sea bass go bad over that little error.”

“Do you ever see the prince?” she asked quickly, afraid he might escape before she got all she needed to know from him.

“The prince?” He shrugged. “I don’t think so. I usually deal with an old fellow who tries to get something for nothing every time.” He chuckled. “The place is like a mausoleum. You’d think it was full of old dead ancestors, but somebody seems to have an appetite for salmon and scallops.”

And so, a plan was born.

The gap in the stone wall that surrounded the Rossi estate was still there. No one had filled it in—and that was lucky. Without this little piece of access, her plan would never have worked at all.

And so the following Wednesday, Isabella squeezed through and then stood very still in the warm noon sun, listening as hard as she could. The wind was quiet. The water was a distant babbling. And once the pounding of her heart quieted down, she could tell—the guard dogs didn’t seem to be loose. There wasn’t a sign of them.

She bit her lip, tempted to race up the hill and gather basil as fast as she could, then race back again. But she knew that was no solution. And such an action certainly held no honor. Much as the prince scared her, she had to confront him about this and do things openly and honestly.

He’d told her not to come here. She had to change his mind—not steal from him. Taking a deep breath, she started up the hill toward the castle.

It was a long climb and she was carrying a heavy backpack with supplies—her special sauce pan, her favorite olive oil, the tomatoes that would form her base—and a small container of all that was left of the basil supply for her restaurant. She was going to go for broke and cook for the prince. It was pretty much the last idea she had left.

All the way, she kept expecting to hear someone shouting for her to go back. That didn’t happen and she found some shade once she’d reached the top of the hill. There were no cars in sight, and not a sign of life anywhere. The castle looked just as old and moldy, but a lot less intimidating in the sunlight.

A few minutes of rest and she began to work up the nerve to go on with her plan. She knew where the cook’s entrance was. She would use that first, hoping to find things unlocked. Once she was inside, she knew exactly what to do next.

She scanned the windows as high as she could look. There was no telling where his rooms were, no way to know where he hung out during the day.

Her fingers trembled a bit as she reached for the latch on the kitchen door, and she paused for a moment. Closing her eyes, she muttered a quick plea. This had to work. He had to understand. He was a prince, but he was also a man and she was counting on that basic humanity to come through for her in the end.

And whatever chance there was, she had to take it. She had no choice.

Max stood with his eyes closed and savored being bombarded by water. He’d just had a grueling workout in his gym and the water pouring over his naked body was creating a special kind of ecstasy. Every aching muscle sang with relief. Every body part relaxed with delight. Every nerve, every fiber, came together in rapt happiness.

He would have to pay for this someday. Maybe at the gates of heaven. This was pure self-indulgence and he was probably wasting water to boot, but he let it go on and on, gushing through his thick hair, making small silver rivers over his tanned shoulders and through the dark thatch on his chest. It felt so damn good. He was pure appetite today, appetite for pleasure.

And what the hell? It was his birthday.

It was his birthday and no one had remembered.

That was okay. In fact, it was exactly as he wanted it to be. He hated people making a fuss. What was a birthday, anyway? Just a day. Nothing special. All the celebrating was just a pretence that something had actually happened, something had actually changed, a milestone had been set down. And actually, it was all much ado about nothing.

A memory floated into his mind, how his birthday had been when Laura was still with him. She’d slipped out of bed early in the morning and taken little gifts and hidden them all over the castle. It had taken him the entire day to find them all. How she’d laughed when he’d looked in all the wrong places. He could almost hear her musical voice now.

But he shook it away. Thinking of Laura was still too painful. Would there ever come a time when he could remember her without that dull, hopeless, agonizing pain of guilt in his gut?

Finally he was ready to put a stop to this and get on with his day. He turned off the water and stood there for a moment, feeling the mist around him turn into clear air, the warmth turn into refreshing coolness, the moisture evaporate on his skin. For some reason his senses seemed especially acute today. He was feeling things he never noticed, hearing birds outside, feeling a breeze, enjoying the rays of the sun that came in through the open window. As usual, he avoided looking in the mirror while he dried himself with a huge fluffy towel, glancing out the window at the beautiful day instead.

“There’s no place like Italy,” he murmured to himself. “And in Italy, there’s no place like Monta Correnti.”

He stretched in the warm sunlight, smelling the clean scent of his soap. And…something else.

He stopped, frowning, and sniffed the air again. There was something else in the wind—or, more likely, wafting up from the kitchen. Someone was cooking. How could someone be cooking? There was no one here. Even Renzo was gone, making his weekly trip to see his daughter an hour’s drive away.

Was it his imagination?

No, it got stronger. Garlic, tomatoes, olive oil, and something else.

It was a wonderful smell. A slow smile began to transform his face. It seemed someone had remembered his birthday after all and had come back to surprise him. It had to be Renzo.

Much as the old sourpuss tended to be a dour figure, he had his moments. Max pulled on a pair of jeans, suddenly in a hurry to find out what was going on. He turned to the stairway, bounding down, barefooted and shirtless, feeling happier than he’d felt in a long time. Funny how the fact that someone had remembered his birthday after all seemed to buoy him. He was smiling as he pushed in through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

“So you did remember my birthday after all,” he said, and then he stopped dead, shocked to the core. It wasn’t Renzo who turned to greet him.

“You!” He stared at her. “How did you get in here?”

Isabella was opening her mouth, and as she did so she thought she had words to say. But somehow they never made it out past her lips. For the moment, she couldn’t speak.

It was all too much. She was startled by the way he’d come barging into the room, but, more than that, she was stunned at the beauty of the man she saw before her. His bare chest, his strong shoulders and muscular arms, the way his worn jeans rode low on his hips, revealing a tanned stomach that was smooth and tight as a trampoline canvas, all combined to present a picture of raw, candid masculinity that took her breath away.

“Oh! I…I…”

His jaw was hard as stone and his eyes blazed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Uh…” She gestured toward the stove. “Cooking?”

His head went back. That part was obvious. He was tensed, every muscle hardening, as though ready to pick her up physically and throw her out onto the front walkway.

“That’s not what I mean,” he said through teeth that were close to clenched.

“I know. I know.”

She shook her head, trying to clear it. She’d never responded to a man like this before. She was swooning like a young girl in the sixties at a Beatles concert. She had to get a grip.

But something about him had hit her hard, right in the emotions. He had come barging into the kitchen and as she’d turned to greet him she’d seen this beautifully sculptured image of a man, backlit by the golden light coming in from the high windows. Michelangelo’s creation in the flesh. She had that feeling she sometimes got when her favorite tenor reached an impossibly high note and held it forever. She even had tears stinging in her eyes—he was just so beautiful.

She turned from him and leaned against the counter, her hand over her mouth. Staring into the red sauce bubbling on the stove, she fought for stability. What was she going to do? She couldn’t seem to stay sane around this man.

And she had to. This was not what she’d come for. She didn’t want to be mesmerized by his male appeal. She had a case to make and she had to stay on her toes to make it. But somehow sanity and the prince didn’t seem to go together well.

Too bad, she told herself sternly. You’ve got to do this right.

Taking a deep breath, she turned back to face him. Resolutely, she lifted her gaze and stared at him hard.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” she said, and somehow she managed to sound strong. “You are denying me access to something I need in order to survive. Something my family traditionally has had access to. We have to find a way to compromise on this.”

He stared back at her. She was looking up at him, her eyes very wide, and he realized he hadn’t even thought to shield his face from her gaze. Here he was in broad daylight with none of the protective shadows of the other night. And there she was, staring straight at him. And yet, once again he felt no overwhelming need to turn away as he felt so often with others. Her gaze was open and natural. She might be scared of something about him, but it wasn’t his face.

But it was her face that drew his attention. He took a step closer and reached out to take her chin in his hand and tilt her head so that he could examine her. And then he swore softly.

“Isabella, you still have a bad bruise,” he said, a touch of outrage in his voice as he studied her black eye.

“Oh,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Yes, I’ve been told it will take a while to fade.”

He swore softly, shaking his head, then pulled away from her and looked at the items she’d spread out all over the kitchen.

“You’re going to have to pack all this up and get out of here,” he said tersely.