to murder somebody and for an elderly lady detective to show up and try to solve the crime.
“Excellent. We will discuss business over the next week. And until then we will just enjoy the dinner.”
STANDING IN A hotel room and looking down at the magnificent views of Isolo D’Oro had been a magical moment for Gabriella. But it hadn’t truly hit her until the limousine sent by Prime Minister Colletti rolled up to the grand estate that this was her home.
At least, in heritage. These magnificent, sprawling grounds should have belonged to her family. The beautifully appointed house with the magnificent stonework around the windows, the grand pillars and the arched doorway had been property of the royal family once. Until they had been driven out, banished from the nation that was in their blood.
For centuries, her ancestors had ruled. For centuries, they had inhabited these walls, walked through the gardens. Now, her grandmother couldn’t even return to fetch a painting that held value to her that went far beyond money. Far beyond the attached history.
That was what struck her so hard, so deeply, as she walked through the front door, as they were led through the halls to the quarters in which they would be staying. This wasn’t just history in the broad sense of the word. This was her history. Her family history. The blood of her ancestors might as well be in the stonework. Babies had been born here, the elderly had died here. Her people. Her ancestors.
It felt very personal. Almost painful.
And yet, at the same time, her heart felt swollen. She felt so connected to this place around her that it emboldened her. Filled her with a sense of confidence. Of belonging.
She had never felt so right before. As if this place was woven through her, a part of her she hadn’t known she’d been missing.
All of that lasted for a spare few moments before they were shown to a magnificent suite with a small room off to the left. The tiny quarters belonged to her, the proximity of her room to Alex’s of course intended to allow him easy access to her when he might need her to...assist him with whatever she was meant to be assisting him with.
Once the staff who had ushered them in was gone, Alex smiled. “It is comforting to know that if I have need of your services, you will be nearby,” he said, looming large in the small doorway of her humble living quarters.
Her cheeks flamed. She knew that he didn’t mean it in any kind of lecherous way, but for some reason her body insisted on interpreting it that way.
“After all,” he continued, “you are my assistant. And I may well be in need of some assistance in the middle of the night.”
She gritted her teeth, well aware that her cheeks were glowing an incandescent pink. He could not be in denial about her thoughts. And she had a feeling that now he was just trying to wind her up.
“In case you need a glass of milk?”
“Yes.” A wicked smile curved his lips. “I do often enjoy a glass of warm milk in the middle of the night. I find it helps me sleep.”
“I’ll be sure to give it to you early. The middle of the night for someone your age is what...eight o’clock?” She almost regretted taking that cheap shot. Almost. If only because it revealed the fact that she found him very disconcerting.
“Yes,” he said, arching a brow. “Do bring it to me along with my vitamins.”
Drat him. He wasn’t even perturbed by that.
“I will do so, as you have requested, sir.”
“I like that,” he said, his voice a low rumble that rolled through her like thunder.
He had the ability to touch her, all through her body, without ever getting near her, and she couldn’t quite understand how he managed it.
She wrenched her focus from him and looked around the modest room. Really, it wasn’t bad. Everything was clean, and elegant. The walls were a mint green with white molding adding texture to them. There was no art in this room, but there was a lovely view of the gardens. And that, in her estimation, counted as art.
Alex moved away from the door and she followed him through, not quite sure why. She only knew that he seemed to draw her to him, like he was pulling her on a string.
She was too fascinated by it to fight it.
In contrast to her room, Alex’s was sumptuously appointed. The walls had dark wood paneling and a great deal of classical art. There were floor-to-ceiling windows, but she couldn’t tell what the view might be because the rich, velvet drapes were drawn over them. Then, in the back corner, there was a large bed with lots of fabric hanging from the ceiling, promising to seclude the sleeper from any unwanted light or noise.
“I don’t think they’ve redecorated since the turn of the century. Last century,” Alex said.
“Yes, I suppose this is all original. But that’s part of the charm.”
“Do you think? I find your perspective on things quite fascinating. You are a romantic.”
She frowned. She had never thought of herself as a romantic before. She didn’t think he was right. “I’m rather more invested in fact than fancy.”
“So you say. But you are always delighted by the beauty around you. There is nothing terribly practical about beauty. And it isn’t absolute. One person can find something beautiful when someone else finds it wholly unremarkable. Similarly,” he said, speaking slowly, his dark eyes lingering on her in a manner that left her feeling hot, that left her feeling like he had touched her, “one can look at something every day for quite some time and never notice the beauty of it. Then suddenly, one day it might become beautiful to them. Beauty is strange that way. It hides in plain sight.”
She swallowed hard, not quite sure why she felt like she was on fire. “I suppose the reverse is also true. Beauty can be obvious. And as it proves itself to be nothing more than pale vanity it can lessen.”
“Speaking of your mother and father?” he asked, the question bold and insensitive.
She supposed he was entitled, as she had been rather bold and insensitive herself when they had discussed his parents. “Yes. Does it remind you of yours, as well?”
“Very much.”
“All right, I will concede then that maybe you’re correct about me. I do like art. I do like frivolous things. Just not...the same kinds of frivolous things as some in my family.”
“There is nothing wrong with enjoying the frivolous. I’m not even sure I would call it frivolous. Many people would argue that it is the beauty around us that makes life rich, don’t you think?”
She nodded slowly. “I do agree. My life is very quiet compared to most people in my family. Really, it’s very quiet compared to most people in my age group, I know. I live with an old woman and I suppose my habits are more reflective of hers than the average twenty-three-year-old. But I like it. I like to read. I like to listen to the sound of the rain on the roof. I like to watch the drops roll down the windowpane. I enjoy the quiet. I enjoy art for all that it doesn’t tell
