Perhaps they were right.
He knew only that he deserved to feel that too, so had rejected their suggestions for help, anything they’d offered to alleviate his symptoms impossible to contemplate. A lifetime of gut-wrenching felt like a very small price to pay for having killed someone.
He stalked to the window, glancing at his wristwatch as he went. It was just after four. The snow was falling heavier now, so much so that he suspected the front door would be half-way to being covered.
Good. That would make it even harder for anyone to find him. He would be, as he wanted, alone.
Except – the thought in the back of his mind burst forward, forcing him to stand straighter and take notice.
He wasn’t alone.
In the room just next door to his, an Australian woman was sleeping, a guest in his house, albeit not at his invitation. That changed nothing.
She was here, and he had no godforsaken idea how he could get rid of her.
Perhaps by morning, the weather would have cleared sufficiently to take the helicopter out.
And pigs could very well fly, he conceded with a low groan. He was stuck with her, at least for the next day or so. Which was in many ways, Gabe’s idea of hell.
Isabella couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so comfortable! The mattress was softer than clouds, the pillows the perfect thickness to rest against. She lay on the brink of sleep for quite some time, enjoying that lovely, slow sense of satiation and comfort before memories of the night before dragged her fully into alertness.
She sat bolt upright, turning immediately towards the window. She’d forgotten to draw the blinds the night before, and the first thing she saw was white. Just white – everywhere. In the sky, the colour of the clouds, and on the ground. She pushed back the covers fully and moved to the window, her face instantly chilled by the glass.
It wasn’t all white. There was green too, in the trees she could see to the left, and to the right, grey – the grey of the cliff she’d suspected might be there. But even that was broken with lines of white, demarcating the ridges and shelves that were grooved into its side. She leaned further forward, until her forehead pressed into the glass. It was like ice. There was no sign beneath her of human habitation. No cars. And no footprints. Nothing to show that she’d approached this castle – birdnest – last night. Nothing to show anyone at all had ever lived here.
The thought chilled her for some reason and she jumped back from the window, fidgeting her fingers at her sides. As she looked around the room, more memories from the night before throbbed in her mind. The tray of food he’d left – the delicious soup, undoubtedly cooked by some servant or other.
Servants!
Yes, of course.
In a place like this there must surely be an army of staff.
The thought was instantly reassuring. Why hadn’t it occurred to her the night before?
Because the house had been deathly quiet. Besides the flickering of flames and his scowling disapproval, there hadn’t been a single noise in the ancient home. Not the flurry of footsteps that a silent army might invoke. Not the quiet mutterings of a housekeeper asking if there was anything she could do to help.
Nothing but the watchful, unwelcoming eyes of her reluctant, billionaire tycoon host.
Another shiver ran down her spine, apprehension and unease making her tummy flutter. She reached for her phone, well aware she wouldn’t have any cell service, but checking the time because she didn’t wear a watch. It was still early – not yet eight. Perhaps he’d be sleeping and she could explore a little on her own? The thought of a cup of steaming hot coffee was all the incentive she needed. Taking a quick minute to freshen up, she opened the door slowly, then backtracked to the dressing table, lifting up the plate and bringing it with her.
Everything looked so different in the daytime!
She caught herself in the thought and smiled. This time, she hadn’t meant the observation as a reassuring platitude, but as a truism. The castle had taken on a distinctly gothic flavour the night before, all dark except for the eery light cast by the enormous fire. Now she saw it for its beauty – the ornately carved banister of the stairs, the stunning works of art, fittings that were, for the most part, quite original. Even the electric lamps on the walls looked as though they had at one time held candles.
Tiptoeing past his room, Isabella quickened her pace as she approached the stairs. They were marble, just as she’d guessed last night, and beneath her bare feet, they were icy cold. Yet the kitchen must surely be down on the first floor somewhere? She had to brave the cold to reach coffee. After coffee, she’d feel more human.
Moving quickly, she took a guess and turned left at the bottom of the steps, making her way across the enormous entranceway, ignoring the artwork she’d glimpsed the night before. She wanted to look at it properly, but she felt too exposed in the cavernous space. She wasn’t yet ready to deal with her grumpy billionaire benefactor.
She wracked her brain for everything she could think of about the Montebellos, but there wasn’t much. Theirs was simply a name that ensured global recognition; their publishing house printed some of her favourite culinary magazines, but beyond that, their business empire straddled many industries. She knew there were several children. Grandchildren? Many boys, all of whom had been in the tabloid press for one scandal or another, at some point, but that kind of thing had never really held much interest for Isabella
