She lifted a brow. “I can, can I?”
He laughed. “I meant by decorating the damned thing.” He stopped and turned to face her, his eyes loaded with meaning. “But you can feel free to use your imagination. I am at your disposal.”
Her throat went dry at that simple promise, the idea of Gabe Montebello being her very sexy plaything to do with what she would…her pulse went into overdrive so that, by the time he’d propped the tree against the kitchen wall, it was Isabella who was out of breath.
She busied herself making coffees while he fetched a copper pot for the base, lifting the tree into it then placing a stack of bricks in for balance.
The room smelled like Christmas, and tears of joy filled Isabella’s eyes. It wasn’t the Christmas she’d had planned but everything about this felt perfect and right. She blinked quickly, hoping to clear the tears, but emotions were thick in her throat.
“It’s perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”
“But you’re crying?”
She dashed a tear from her cheek. “I’m not,” she denied, then laughed. “They’re happy tears, I promise.” His dark eyes roamed her face, and her mouth felt dry even as her body began to throb with awareness. “It’s just – this is – I know it’s not how you want to spend Christmas, but for me,” she gestured with her hand to the tree first then the snowy alpine vista beyond the windows, “This is exactly what I imagined when I set off for Italy.”
“Different to what you’re used to,” he said softly, nudging her with his shoulder.
She smiled up at him. “Yes. And everything I’ve imagined. Thank you.”
A frown flickered on his lips for a moment and then he dropped his head, kissing her on the forehead. “My pleasure.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Silence vibrated around them. Isabella felt it weaving through her soul and despite the fact neither spoke, a new awareness was spreading from the pit of her stomach through her arms and legs, and into her soul.
“You made coffee?”
It was the perfect circuit-breaker, a question that dragged her back to the rudimentary. She nodded towards the bench, watching distractedly as he strolled to it and took a sip, before shrugging out of his jacket. He was wearing a soft wool sweater beneath, dark in colour, with faded jeans, and the effect combined to make him look dangerous and tantalising.
“If you continue staring at me like that, cara, I’m going to have to do something about it.”
Her heart stammered. “Oh, yeah?”
A growling noise of agreement emerged from his throat.
“And you think that’s going to make me stop staring?”
His lips twisted in a smile but this time, it was devoid of humour. It was speculative and thoughtful, and a little hesitant.
“You say that like it’s a threat,” she continued, taking a step towards him. “But I see it rather as a promise.”
His eyes darkened so they were almost granite in colour. “I would never threaten you.”
Something popped in the region of her chest; she knew that was true. She felt safe with him. On the first night they’d met, he’d told her he wasn’t kind, but Isabella didn’t think that was true at all.
“And what about promises?” She asked, as she drew close to him, her breath fanning his chest a little.
Something shifted in his face, as though a rope were being tightened around his chest. For a moment, his features drew gaunt and his skin paled, but then he was himself again.
“I don’t make promises.”
Her heart stammered.
She’d been referring to sex, and to this specific moment, when desire was lashing the base of her spine, but his emphatic assertion turned her mind to more. It made her remember his determination to push people away, his insistence on being alone. It made her think of the way he’d kept himself isolated – emotionally and geographically – so as to avoid entanglements. It made her remember that he was yet another person determined to keep her at arm’s length even when they were becoming more intimate with each day that passed.
Sadness curled through her, so she reached past him for her coffee and turned away a little clunkily, needing some breathing space. She focussed on the tree, her back to him, concentrating on regulating her breathing and hoping he wouldn’t notice the abrupt change in her demeanour.
“Okay,” her voice was raspy. “Let’s get started.”
“Isabella.”
His voice cut through her. She bit hard on her lower lip, gripping the coffee cup firmly.
“We should do lights first,” she continued as though she hadn’t heard. Then his hand was curving around her hip, turning her slowly to face him. Oh, God help her. Up close, he was electrifying. Something sparked inside of her at the closeness of him. She tried to look away but couldn’t.
“I hate hurting you.”
Her stomach swooped to her toes. “You’re not,” she insisted, even as her chest felt oddly as though it were being cleaved in two.
He frowned, scanning her eyes far too intently for Isabella’s liking. She blinked up at him then laughed. It sounded hollow to her own ears but she hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Honestly, Gabe, stop worrying about me, would you? Let’s just get this tree decorated.”
She suspected he wasn’t convinced, but that barely mattered to Isabella. He was wrong, anyway. He had made her a promise – a promise that this meant nothing to him. A promise he’d forget about her afterwards. And those were promises she held close to her heart. Not because they brought her pleasure but because it was vital to remember them if she wanted to be sure she didn’t do something stupid and lose her own heart to him.
“You’re in charge,” he said, sounding normal and relaxed. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
“Stop making me laugh,” she warned, an hour later when, atop the ladder, she reached out to hang a ceramic bird from a branch of the tree. It was gleaming white with gold trim, each wing embossed so she’d