Thoughts vaporised from her brain as she went room to room, the sheer beauty of the magnificent castle overtaking her thoughts completely. It was in close to original condition. The floors, the walls, the artwork, all appeared to be largely sixteenth or seventeenth century, though the electrics had clearly been overhauled at some point and everything had likely been very thoroughly restored, going by the exceptional state of the décor. She passed one room that was like a princess’s salon, all stunning floral wallpaper and gold furniture, with fairy tale windows overlooking the ravine. With a racing heart, and a sense she was intruding, she crept inside, quickly tiptoeing to the window and peering through it. The glass was all rippled, suggesting it was very old, but that only gave the Italian alps a dreamy look.
The snow was falling again now, swirling past the window in incredible whirls, like mini tornadoes just beyond her. She pressed her fingertips to the glass and shuddered at the remembered sense of cold from the night before. For a girl who was more used to the beaches of the Australian Gold Coast, she’d never known anything like that!
Remorseful to leave the beautiful space, she was more anxious to find the kitchen – always an anchor point for Isabella. Carrying the tray, she poked her head into several more rooms, regretting the fact she wouldn’t get a chance to explore the castle to her heart’s content. Still, that would mean staying here longer, and after the chilly reception she’d received, Isabella knew that to be impossible.
Finally, at the end of the long, wide corridor, there were three steps down and a double set of doors. She had a hunch they must lead to the kitchen – partly by a process of elimination – she’d tried everywhere else! – and partly because the doors looked more utilitarian and functional than the prettily carved doors marking entrances to the other rooms.
Shouldering one inward, she smiled at the first glimpse of stainless steel, immediately recognising her familiar environs. It was a caterer’s kitchen, with huge benches, industrial equipment, and yet the stunning windows that framed endless views of the dramatic snow-covered landscape gave the kitchen an awe-inspiring beauty. How she would have loved to prepare meals in this space! Her video views would go through the roof! A whole series on northern Italian food, she posited, starting with that delicious bread soup she’d had for supper.
But the thoughts were scuppered as she rounded the door fully and realised she wasn’t the only one in the kitchen. A small gasp escaped her lips without her consent and she fumbled the tray, very nearly dropping it. Her ears felt hot.
Gabrielle ‘everyone calls me Gabe’ Montebello was about six feet away from her, shirt off, and just a pair of running shorts hanging low on his hips. His hair was damp, his brow covered in a hint of perspiration, his muscled chest a canvas of artwork, ink covering his flesh. He had an iPad loaded up with a newspaper – the New York Times – and a glass of juice to his left. At her gasp, he looked up, his eyes locking to hers with that same sense of coldness that had been tunnelling into her all night.
Out of nowhere, a bundle of nerves tightened in her stomach. She crossed to the bench and placed the tray down, rubbing her hands over her hips in a gesture of anxiety.
“Hi.” Her voice was croaky.
“Good morning.” He returned his attention to the paper, his face a study in concentration. He flicked to the next page, then sipped his juice.
“I take it you don’t feel the cold,” she murmured.
He continued to read. “I’ve just been for a run.”
Isabella looked towards the windows, frowning. “Outside? How, in all that snow? And without a shirt?”
He fixed her with a mocking gaze. “On a treadmill. Inside. And si, without a shirt.”
Her mouth was inexplicably dry, and for some reason she found it almost impossible not to let her eyes drop to his broad chest. There were tattoos there too, the ink that covered his biceps stretching across taut pectoral muscles, so that curiosity inspired her temptation. That was all – she was a reader, and always had been. If there were words printed on a surface, Isabella liked to understand them. His body was a tapestry of information she wanted to decode, but it would be highly weird – and inappropriate – to start gawking at his chest.
She kept her gaze trained on his face, though it required a gargantuan effort.
“I don’t have any mobile reception here,” she said quietly, lifting her phone from her pocket. “But if you log me into the wifi, I’ll email my accommodation and let them know what happened.”
His eyes scanned her face, his expression analytical.
“So that I can tell them to expect me later today,” she tacked on, in case he didn’t understand her meaning.
He continued to stare for another second or two then returned his attention to the iPad. “You won’t be leaving today.”
“I thought you said you’d fly me out this morning?”
“This is not safe flying weather,” he gestured towards the windows.
Isabella’s lips parted on an exhalation. She hadn’t even thought of that. “But surely – we can fly above it?”
“In a jet, yes, but not a helicopter. It’s too dangerous; I won’t risk it.” He looked back at the iPad, as though that were the end of it.
Impatience zipped through Isabella. “Hold on a second.” She moved to the other side of the bench in an attempt to draw his attention. “I can’t stay here.”
His nostrils flared as he sighed, making a pointed display of putting the iPad aside and
