The Brides of Bella Rosa: Beauty and the Reclusive Prince

But what the hell was the point of wishing? The more you wanted out of life, the less you got. He was through with wishing. There was a job to be done here and that was all he was prepared to do.

Over and out.

Isabella knew she was talking too much, but she couldn’t help it. The day was so nice and the man she was with was so mesmerizing, she was bubbling with joy just being with him.

And yet, she knew he was troubled. She could sense it in his silence and in the look in his dark eyes. As they got back atop their horses and began the last leg of their trip to the hillside, she ached to help him, if only she knew how.

But that was silly, wasn’t it? He had everything he might want; all he had to do was order it up and it would be there for him. What could she provide that he couldn’t get on his own?

Right behind them in the little courtyard was the evidence of a life that was one of a long line of important people involved in important events. Ordinary people such as she was didn’t find their ancestors memorialized in tombs like this. Here was history, a background to the story of her area. She was a spectator. He was a star of the show.

“What’s it like being an Italian prince?” she asked him at one point.

He shrugged and gave her a look. “You know very well it’s an honorary title these days. The monarchy was abolished in 1946.”

“But you’re still a prince. You still have a special place in history.”

“Bah,” was all he would say.

She smiled. The fact that her own father had been a part, though small, of that background was fascinating to her. She’d wanted to ask her father about his visits to the palazzo in the old days from the moment she’d got home from her visit to Max the day before.

For some reason, she still hadn’t told him that she’d met the prince. She wasn’t sure why she was hesitating, but something told her he wouldn’t necessarily be pleased. So her approach was less direct than usual.

She’d found her father trying to practice using a walker and she’d watched for a while, giving him advice as he’d grown more and more impatient. His ex-friend Fredo had been to see him again and put him in a rotten mood.

“Now he’s threatening me with health violations,” he grumbled. “Me! I’ve always had the cleanest kitchen in the village. And yet he dares to call me a violator!”

She got him calmed down and made him sit in his chair to rest, then brought him a cold lemonade and perched next to him, ready for the inquisition.

“Papa, tell me,” she said, trying to sound casual. “How did you first know about the Monta Rosa Basil? When did you first find it?”

He sat back and slowly he lost the tense look around his eyes as he went into the past with a dreamy look on his face.

“As it happened, I was catering a picnic for the old prince, Prince Bartholomew, and his family, on the top of the hill, just above where the basil grows. I did more catering on my own in those days. I took every side job I could just to keep afloat. Money was very tight. There was hardly enough income to keep my stand going and I had to make some painful sacrifices just to survive.” She nodded encouragement, though at the same time she wondered if he didn’t see that they were close to being in that position again right now.

“There was a young maid who worked for the prince’s family. She showed me the herb. Made me pay a forfeit for some silliness or other by eating a leaf. I put it on my tongue, and I immediately knew it was something I’d never tasted before. At first I thought it strange. But I couldn’t get that taste out of my mind.”

Isabella nodded. Everyone was the same, instantly in love with the magic.

“So the next time I was on the grounds, I went to that hill again and picked some of the herb, took it home and tried it in some recipes.” He snapped his fingers in the air. “Instant success. Everyone loved it.”

How exciting that must have been for him. She smiled, loving him. Growing up without a mother, she’d always felt extra close to her father. His happiness was hers, sometimes too much so.

“Did they have a lot of parties in those days?” she asked, curious to know everything she could about Max’s upbringing.

“Yes. Whole caravans of people would come from Rome or from Naples and stay a week.”

She shook her head with wonder. “Why don’t I remember any of this?”

“These things ended when you were a young child.” Luca sighed. “After Prince Bartholomew’s beautiful wife killed herself, the parties never resumed. In fact, he began to spend all his time in Rome after that.”

“Killed herself!” She sat up straighter and stared at her father. He had to be talking about Max’s mother. An icy hand gripped her heart. “What happened?”

“I don’t know the details. They said she jumped from a balcony.” He shook his head. “Poor thing. She was a film star, you know. She worked with Fellini and Antonioni. She was quite good. It was a tragedy.”

What a series of tragedies in Max’s family if all these stories were true. First his mother commited suicide, then his young wife drowned. And what about his own accident, the one that had done such damage to his face? She still didn’t have the details on that.

It was no wonder he had troubled eyes as they rode across his estate lands. He’d come by them naturally, it seemed. She looked over at him now and found him looking back at her.

“Just a little further,” he called to her from the back of his horse.

She nodded. “Your grounds are so beautiful. You should do something with them.”

He looked out over his hills. “You think so? What do you suggest?”

She wanted to throw out her arms to encompass it all. “I don’t know. You should share this with the world. Maybe put in a hotel, a spa, a destination resort.”

He turned to look at her again, grinning. “Isabella, what a middle-class mind you have. Must everything make you money?”

“No, but…”

She flushed, realizing he was teasing her, and she dropped her defensiveness and returned to a light-hearted mode.

“Hey, it’s the money-making middle class that makes the economy hum for everyone,” she reminded him. “Let’s have none of your upper-class arrogance.”

“The idle rich,” he muttered dismissively.

“Exactly.”

But she was laughing.

“You think I’m lazy, don’t you?” he said, as though it was a revelation to him.

“Not at all. I just think you don’t have an eye out for profit. The spice of life.”

He shook his head. His eyes were warm. For the moment, his troubled look had faded. “Tell me this, Isabella,” he said. “You’ve said your restaurant was in trouble because you couldn’t get the best ingredients. Is this going to make that big a difference? Will all be well now?”

She hesitated, tempted to fudge the truth a little. This was such a subject of frustration for her. But when she looked at his face, she knew she could never be less than frank with him.

“No,” she said simply. “All will not be well. My father is a wonderful man and a good cook, but he can’t run a business to save his life. We are in big trouble financially, and in all sorts of other ways. I’m not sure we’ll last much longer no matter how much good food we cook up.”

He nodded. From what she’d told him and a few things he’d heard from Renzo, he’d had a feeling that was the case.

“Maybe your father should let you take the reins,” he said dryly. “You are the one who seems to have a passion for business.”

That brought her up short, but she realized, very quickly, that he had a point. She had the instincts, though not the training. If only Luca would give her a chance…

“So what could I do to make a profit?” he asked her. “Besides turning my ancestral estate into a…what did you call it? A destination resort.” He gave her a mock glare. “Something, by the way, that I would never do.”