sat at the head of the long mahogany table that had been in his family for over two hundred years. Before him lay a mat of ivory lace that was set with heavy sterling silver flatware in an exceptionally beautiful baroque pattern. Two crystal goblets of wine had been added, one reflecting a golden hue, the other taking in sunlight and translating it into a deep, rich, royal red. There was a silver fingerbowl as well, deeply engraved with a bucolic scene, and a fine, creamy-white, linen napkin.
He surveyed it all and shook his head, wondering how she’d found everything so quickly. It had been almost thirty years since he’d seen these pieces laid out this way—when his mother was alive.
It came to him that he ought to do this more often. Just seeing these things here, touching them, brought up feelings of attachment, memories of ancestors, connections to his family and his past that he didn’t think about often enough. It all touched a chord deep inside him, a link to eternity.
He swallowed his smile quickly as Isabella entered the room. Sunlight slanted in from the tall windows that lined the space, setting her dark hair aflame with golden highlights. Her cheeks were red from time over a hot stove and she was carrying a steaming pot with hot pads protecting her hands. As she approached, the scent of something extraordinary filled the room.
He shook his head. As he watched her a sense of her beauty overwhelmed him, despite her bruised eye, and he felt an intense need to hold her again that filled him with an aching regret.
How had he gotten here? It was insane. Over the last few years, he’d lived his whole life to keep people away. Isabella had somehow crept right through his barriers and found the center of his being in ways no one else had done. He wasn’t really sure how she’d accomplished that, but he knew she had. And he knew he had to resist it.
She turned an impish smile his way as she placed the pot onto the trivet in the middle of the table.
“There you are,” she told him, ladling the sublime sauce out into a porcelain bowl, which she’d already filled with freshly made pasta. “I hope you’ll deem this fit for a king,” she said with another grin. “Or, at any rate, a prince.”
He looked down into the bowl. The sauce was the color of a late summer sunset and swimming with beautiful vegetables he couldn’t name. “It smells wonderful.”
She nodded and didn’t waste time on false modesty. “It tastes wonderful, too.”
He managed to maintain a skeptical look, just for dignity’s sake. “We’ll see.”
And he began to eat.
She was right. The sauce filled his mouth with a feeling like ecstasy. He’d never had anything quite like it. Amazing how one little herb could make such a difference.
“Well?” she asked, watching him like a hawk.
He looked at her. He could hardly keep his eyes off her. She was so alive, so vibrant, so expressive. There was something real about her, something basic and decent and appealing in a new way. He felt a pull toward her, a definite attraction, something he couldn’t deny.
But how could that be? She was so different from the wife he had loved so much. The woman he still missed so much.
Laura had been blonde, ethereal, slender and light as a bird. She had looked very much in life like the angel she had surely become since. But this woman was very different—full and round and earthy. And, to his eternal regret, he ached for her right now as he’d seldom ached for a woman before.
He looked back down at the bowl, avoiding her bright gaze. It was insane to let her stay. He had to get her out of here before he lost control and did something crazy.
The worst of it was, it was quite evident that she had not come here to seduce him at all. She was dressed modestly in a simple peasant blouse and full skirt. There was no cleavage showing, no revealing exposure of skin. She was honest and straightforward and she wasn’t playing games. He liked her for that. It showed a certain respect for him and for the dilemma between them. The fact that he could detect the beauty of her body beneath all the swishing fabric was beside the point. She wasn’t using it as a trump card—even though she probably sensed it wouldn’t be hard to do.
Resolutely he lifted his gaze and met hers.
“Magnifico, Isabella,” he told her. “This is spectacular. I can fully understand why your cuisine is famous and people come from miles around to enjoy it.”
She brightened with happiness at his words. “You’ve heard of it, then?”
“Oh, yes,” he admitted.
She radiated joy. “I knew once you tried it—”
“And I understand how important it is to you,” he interrupted before she could have a chance to make assumptions his admission didn’t quite warrant. “But that doesn’t change the danger that you would face every time you went across that divide above the river.” His hand swept out in a royal gesture. “If I had a house full of servants, I could have one of them go and harvest the weed for you. But at present, Renzo and I live here alone. There is no one to help out.”
Isabella bit down hard on her lower lip, keeping herself under tight control. His constant emphasis on the danger of going near the river was clearly overstated and there had to be a reason for it. She was pretty sure it had something to do with the death of his wife. What had happened that had made him so sure the place wasn’t safe for her? She wanted to know, but she didn’t want to push him. A horrible vision of tractors mowing down the hillside if he got annoyed enough did the trick.
Back to the plan.
“We can talk about that later,” she said quickly. “Right now I just want you to enjoy this.”
He gave her a faint, reluctant smile, his eyes glowing. “I do, Isabella. More than you know.”
She flushed. It was odd to watch how he still tended to turn his face away from her, as though trying to keep her from seeing the scars. No matter what he did, he looked gorgeous to her. How could it be otherwise when he was blessed with those huge, emotional dark eyes and that wide, sensual mouth?
He looked like a poet, she decided. A poet with a tender, sensitive soul purposefully disguised by his muscular form and his harsh, cynical manner, all protected by a wall of ice to keep the world at bay. She knew about his physical scars. What had hurt him so deeply that he couldn’t be free? That was the mystery he carried with him.
“Tell me about this place,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows as she watched him eat. “Did you grow up here?”
“Pretty much.” He took another bite, savored it, and sighed with pleasure, then went on. “My father tended to drag us all over the continent, staying at one property after another. He was quite a gambler, you see, and he was always looking for another game. But when I was young we spent a lot of time here. I would ride my pony all over these grounds.”
“Mmm. And you didn’t fall into the river?”
His face darkened. “That is not a matter to joke about,” he said curtly. “Our river is a dangerous place. We didn’t realize how dangerous at the time.” He looked at her face and winced. “I should have caught you before you hit the rocks.”
She marveled at him. He seemed to think it was his
