She quelled the little burst of butterflies that stirred in her belly, refusing to admire anything about her very reluctant saviour.
“You are quite safe, Isabella. I have no interest in taking advantage of you.”
The bottom seemed to fall out of her stomach once more. It didn’t matter how used to rejection she was, it still stung. Rejection? What the hell? Was she actually wishing he’d seduce her? Crap. She was out of her mind.
“But if you are worried, there is a bolt on the other side of the door. Lock it, I don’t care.”
She tilted her chin defiantly, her green eyes spitting towards his. “I will.”
Another half-smile. “Good night, Isabella Moss.”
She watched his retreating back with a sense of intense irritation. What had she been expecting? What had she wanted?
Something to eat, her tummy prompted a second later, as she realised she hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. But pride kept her silent – she absolutely refused to ask him for another thing. She slipped into the room, flicking the light switch on to find it was like stepping into one of the fairy tales her adoptive mother had read her as a child. A wrought iron four poster bed stood in the centre of the room with a gold quilt cover and several plush pillows. The furniture was all French art nouveau, with turned legs and cream faces, gold rims on each. Two bedside tables, a rolltop desk, and a mirrored dressing table, as well as a little pile of clothes folded at the foot of the bed.
His clothes, she realised with a gasp as she unfolded them. Pants that were far too big, and a long-sleeved shirt, that, if he was anyone else, she’d have made do with as a nightgown of sorts. But the same spirit that made it impossible for her to ask him for food made her unwilling to accept his clothing. It was only one night – she’d be fine in what she was wearing. She paced to the window, staring out at the swirling snow, the vista different from here – fewer trees, and something dark and looming. It took her eyes a moment to adjust and realise it was the side of a mountain, a cliff face, just across from this side of the castle.
She retrieved her phone from her pocket; still no signal, and she knew asking for the wifi password fell into the same category as food and clothing – no go. A door across the room revealed a bathroom. She ran warm water and splashed her face and hands, finger-combing her hair over one shoulder until a knock sounded at the bedroom door. She hadn’t bolted it, despite what she’d said, but the door stayed shut. Curiously, she padded towards it, wondering at her shaking nerves as she drew the door inwards.
He was gone, but a tray sat on the floor, and the aroma of whatever was under the aluminium foil had her stomach clenching with hunger.
Looking down the corridor, there was no sign of him. She gripped the tray with both hands, kicking the door shut with her foot and carrying the food to the dressing table. Peeling off the foil, steam burst into the room. She frowned quizzically, wondering at the dish.
Tomatoes, bread, basil, cheese.
Her professional instincts took over, pushing everything else aside. She armed herself with the spoon, stirring the meal to release some of the heat before lifting a small amount to her lips. She groaned as she tasted it, the wholesome, heart warming flavour like something for the depths of her soul. She closed her eyes, savouring the delight, the unexpected deliciousness in that little bowl.
It didn’t occur to her to wonder who’d made it. Nor did it occur to Isabella to care. She was hungry and this was food – the kind of food she’d come to Italy to discover, to bring to her millions of YouTube followers around the world. She ate it quickly, scraping the bowl clean for every last little morsel of flavour.
Forgetting anything that had happened that evening, she scrambled to her backpack, pulling out her notebook and scrawling in quickly-written words, her impressions of the thick soup, the way it tasted and felt, the flavours she could notice, the fact it looked messy but was one of the most delicious things she’d ever had. A small glass of wine sat beside the bowl. She took a sip, then carried the glass to the bathroom, tipped it out and replaced it with water.
She didn’t believe the man next door represented any true danger, but she’d still prefer to have some wits about her, and the Cointreau had already made her a little more relaxed than she liked.
Isabella readied herself for bed, flicking the light off, crawling beneath the thick, warm covers, nestling into the soft pillow and closing her eyes. She faced the door – just in case – and assured herself that it was just this one night. In the morning he’d fly her somewhere, just as he’d said, or she’d call for help from the authorities. One way or another, she’d leave The Birds’ Nest in the morning, and be very glad not to see it – or him – ever again.
“I hate you. I’ll always hate you.” Her eyes were fiercely blue, just like her mother’s had been. Eyes that had glittered all the time, until the end, when they’d clouded over and closed for the last time, as Gabe had held her hand and promised she’d be okay. The last thing Carmen had heard was a lie.
She wasn’t okay.
He stood there, listening to Avery berate him, telling him she hated him, that it was all his fault, and he let her hatred rain down on him because he deserved it. Because after everything he’d taken from Carmen’s daughter, the least he could do was weather her insults, and bear the brunt of her anger.
He woke as he always did from these dreams, with a splitting headache and a sense of bile rising in his throat. He threw the covers off, sweat on his forehead, disorientated and with a brief sense of something in the back of his mind, something calling his attention. His heart was slamming into his ribs, his stomach in knots – a sensation two different doctors had diagnosed as an anxiety response. Gabe had dismissed them both.
Perhaps they were right.
He knew only that he deserved to feel that too, so had rejected their suggestions for help, anything they’d offered to alleviate his symptoms impossible to contemplate. A lifetime of gut-wrenching felt like a very small price to pay for having killed someone.
He stalked to the window, glancing at his wristwatch as he went. It was just after four. The snow was falling heavier now, so much so that he suspected the front door would be half-way to being covered.
Good. That would make it even harder for anyone to find him. He would be, as he wanted, alone.
Except – the thought in the back of his mind burst forward, forcing him to stand straighter and take notice.
He wasn’t alone.
In the room just next door to his, an Australian woman was sleeping, a guest in his house, albeit not at his invitation. That changed nothing.
She was here, and he had no godforsaken idea how he could get rid of her.