sure we can make an exception,” Angela said with a wave of her hand, giving her brother a look as though to remind him to be polite to the little people. “To complete the introductions, this is Prince Maximilliano Di Rossi, who owns this palazzo, and I am his sister, Angela. If you live in Monta Correnti, I’m sure you know that.”
Isabella didn’t answer. It took a moment to get all this in focus. Of course, she’d known there was a Rossi prince living here in the castle from time to time, but, except for stories and the one sighting at the springs, she’d never actually given him much thought. He wasn’t a regular presence in the village or around the countryside, so if she’d ever known his name, she’d forgotten it long since.
When she’d been young, there had been a Prince Bartholomew who had lived here. If she remembered correctly, he’d had a beautiful film-star wife who had seldom come here with him, and three teenaged children who had come occasionally. She’d seen them every now and then, but they were years older than she was and she hadn’t paid much attention. The family hadn’t mixed with their neighbors then, either, and no one knew much about them. The castle on the top of the steep hill was dark and imposing and pretty scary-looking, which was part of the reason legends about strange goings-on there were rife. People tended to give it a wide berth.
She thought now that Prince Bartholomew must have been this prince’s father.
“And that brings us back to the question of why you were on the grounds,” Max said coolly. “Since you live here in the area, I’m sure you understand that you were trespassing.”
Isabella’s chin rose again and she looked at him defiantly. “Yes, I know that.”
He shrugged extravagantly, a clear response to her bravado. “And so…?” he asked, pinning her down with his direct gaze.
She drew her breath in sharply. She was caught, wasn’t she? What could she do but tell him the truth?
That meant talking about the unique basil that grew on his hillside, and she really didn’t want to do that. Very few people knew the identity of their special ingredient and they had kept it that way to discourage copycat trouble.
“If I could patent the Monta Rosa Basil, I would do so,” her father was always muttering. “Just don’t talk about it to others. We don’t want anyone to know where we get it. If others started to use it, we would be in big trouble.”
“No one else would make sauces as good as yours, even with the basil,” Isabella would respond loyally.
“Bah,” he would say. “It’s our secret. Without it, we’re doomed.”
So she didn’t want to tell the Rossi family what she’d come for. But now, she felt she had to. Besides, there was very little chance that they would care or tell other chefs anything about it. So she tried to explain. “I…I came because I had to. You see, there is a certain herb that only seems to grow on the southern-facing hill above your river.” She shrugged, all innocence. At least, she hoped it was coming off that way. “I need it for our signature recipe at the restaurant.”
“You need it?” Angela sniffed. “That’s stealing, you know.”
Isabella frowned. How could she explain to them that stealing from the prince’s estate was considered a time-honored tradition in the village?
“I wouldn’t call it that exactly,” she hedged, but Max gave a cold laugh, dismissing her excuse out of hand.
“What would you call it, then?” he demanded.
She shrugged again, searching for a proper term. “Sharing?”
She looked at him hopefully. He looked right into her eyes and suddenly a hint of that connection that had sparked between them before was hovering there, just out of reach.
“Sharing?” he repeated softly.
She nodded, searching his eyes for signs that the coldness in his gaze might melt if she said the right things, but there wasn’t much there to give her hope.
“Doesn’t that require the consent of those ‘shared’with?”
“I…well, you could give your consent,” she suggested. “If only you would.” She was still held by those huge dark eyes. Her heart was beating quickly again, as though something were happening here. But nothing was. No, she was sure of it. Nothing at all.
“Never,” he said flatly, his gaze as cool as ever. “Never,” he said more softly. “The river is too dangerous.”
She stared up at him, captivated by the impression of energy she sensed from him. It felt as though he had a certain sort of power trapped and controlled inside him, just waiting for a release. What would it take to free him? Could she do it? Did she dare try?
When Angela’s voice, saying goodnight, snapped her out of her reverie again, she had to shake herself and wonder just how long it had lasted. For some reason, she felt almost as though she knew him now. Almost as though they had always known each other. Not friends, exactly. Maybe lovers? Her breath caught in her throat at that brazen thought.
But Max was hardly thinking along those lines himself. He obviously wanted to get on with it. “If you’ll just take a seat,” he began impatiently, but his sister, halfway out of the room, turned back and let out a rude exclamation.
“She’s soggy,” she stated flatly.
Exactly what Isabella had said herself, but somehow the way this woman said it carried a bit of a sting. She bit her lip. Why was she letting these people play with her emotions like this? She was out of place here, in way above her head. She needed to leave. Quickly, she spun on her heel and started for the door.
“I’ll just get out of your way,” she snapped, glancing at the prince as she tried to pass him. “I should be getting home anyway…”
His hand shot out and curled around her upper arm. “Not until Marcello takes a look,” he said, pulling her a bit too close. She gasped softly, then shook her head, ready to object. But the prince’s sister beat her to the punch.
“As you can see, her condition is unacceptable,” Angela said briskly. “We need to get her cleaned up before she sees Marcello.” She made a face in her brother’s direction. “It will only take a moment. I’ll run her under a quick shower and have her back here in no time.”
She gestured toward Isabella as she might have toward a servant. “Come along with me,” she ordered.
Rebellion rose in Isabella’s throat. She was beginning to feel like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady. Shades of the little peasant girl being cleaned up and prepared to meet with her betters. No, thanks. She didn’t really care for that role. It didn’t suit her. She’d considered the options and decided against it.
She was regaining her bearings and beginning to feel a bit foolish. She’d been caught red-handed, so to speak, and deserved to get a little guff for it. But this was getting out of hand. After all, if the man didn’t want her on his property, why didn’t he just let her go? Why had he forced her to come back here to the house? She was certainly in a wet, bedraggled condition, but still…
“Why don’t I just go?” she began, turning toward the door again.
“You
