style="font-size:15px;"> Renzo averted his gaze, bowed deeply, and gave in. “Very well, sir.” Turning on his heel, he left the room.
And at the same time Max’s sister, Angela, appeared in the opening. She took in the scene and her eyebrows arched even higher than usual.
“Well, Max,” she said, starting into the room at last. “Who’s this?”
The sound of her voice snapped them both to attention as though a spell had been broken. They turned to look at her. She came closer, circling and gazing with wonder at the two of them.
“Where on earth did you find her?”
Max drew in a sharp breath and stepped away from Isabella as though she’d suddenly grown too hot to touch. She reached out to steady herself against the back of the couch, not sure if she was reacting to general dizziness, or to the man himself. She was still in a muddle, but at least her head was clear enough by now to fully understand whom she was dealing with. After all, if you trespassed on a prince’s property, you were likely to run into the prince at some point. And maybe even a princess or two.
“I found her wandering around down by the river,” this particular prince was saying. “The dogs were loose and I was afraid they might attack her.” He made a gesture and looked down at Isabella, still swaying next to the couch, then back at his sister. “I must have startled her. She fell down the hill.”
Angela nodded, looking her over, then glanced sharply at Max. “Right into the water, I see.”
“Yes.”
“And you…you rescued her?”
His hands curled around the back of a chair and gripped so hard his knuckles were white. “Yes, Angela. I rescued her.” He turned to stare at his sister with a measure of hostility.
“I see.” She stared back, but looked away first, looking Isabella over again. “That still doesn’t tell me who she is.”
He turned to look at her, too, his large dark eyes dispassionate. All sense of a special tension between them seemed to have melted away.
“True,” Max agreed. “Nor what she was doing on the property.” He hesitated, then added, almost to himself, “And so close to the river.”
Isabella drew herself up. Now that she was coming back down to earth, she was getting tired of being treated like a rather stupid child and talked about as though it didn’t matter if she understood or not. For one trembling moment, she’d actually thought she and this man had a special connection of sorts, something quick and searing that was going to change her life. But now she could see that she’d been fooling herself—as usual.
First he’d terrified her, then beguiled her with his tenderness and his scarred face. Now he was acting as if she were a wet cat who shouldn’t have been let inside. The disappointment she felt was real. She noticed he was avoiding her gaze again, turning his head so that the scarred side was hidden by shadows. Her chin rose and she looked at them both defiantly, her pride returning.
“My name is Isabella Casali. I help my father Luca run the restaurant in the square. Rosa? Perhaps you’ve eaten there.”
Angela gave a careless shrug. Dressed in a flowing robe, she’d obviously been preparing for bed when the sounds of Isabella’s arrival had drawn her back downstairs. In her midthirties, she had a cool, blonde beauty that was slightly marred by just a touch too much arrogance for comfort.
“I know it though we’ve never eaten there.” Her smile was perfunctory. “We will have to try your food someday.”
Isabella was surprised. Everyone ate at Rosa. “You’ve never had anything from our restaurant?” Isabella asked, incredulous.
“No.”
She looked from the handsome woman to the incredible man. Despite her newfound annoyance with him, she had to admit he was a striking figure with the sort of presence that demanded more than simple respect. Tall and muscular in a slender way that bespoke strength along with graceful movement, he was the sort of man you couldn’t take your eyes off once you’d seen him. And that scar…she’d never seen anything like it before.
“Perhaps my aunt’s restaurant, Sorella, is more to your liking,” she commented. “She has things that are very international and trendy. It’s right next door to Rosa.”
He shook his head. “We have our own cooks,” he said simply. “We don’t eat in restaurants.”
Her head went back. That certainly put her in her place.
“Oh,” she said faintly. “Of course.”
“I’m 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.
