The Brides of Bella Rosa: Beauty and the Reclusive Prince

“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 have no choice in the matter,” the prince said calmly. “For the good of all, you need to be clean and dry.”

“But—”

“Go with my sister,” the prince said. His voice was low and composed, but something in it made Isabella look up, surprised at how coolly he could give an order that made you want to do exactly what he said. “You fell on our land, into our river. We are responsible for your condition. It’s only right that we make you whole again.”

That didn’t make any sense at all. She’d been trespassing, not visiting. But somehow she found herself followingAngela down the hall. She looked back. The prince was watching her go, half leaning against the couch, his head lowered. For some crazy reason, that made her heart lurch in her chest. She turned away quickly and followed where Angela led, but the shivers his look had given her lingered on.

Max stayed where he was, listening as their footsteps faded down the hall, staring into the darkness where she’d just been. He was drawn to her and he hadn’t been attracted to a woman for a long, long time. A picture of his beautiful wife, Laura, swam into his head and he closed his eyes as though to capture it there. Instead, it melted away and another face drifted into its place.

His eyes snapped open and he swore softly. This girl, this Isabella, was nothing like Laura. Why would he see her in his mind’s eye? It was ridiculous to even begin comparing them. She was just a girl from the village. She meant nothing to him and never could.

Slowly, his hand rose until he touched the scar on his face. He wanted to feel what she had felt with her fingertips. What an odd young woman. Oddly compelling. Her reaction had been different from that of anyone he’d ever met and it still puzzled and intrigued him. Had she seen something no one else had? What had she found that had interested her that way? Had anything changed while he hadn’t been paying attention?

No. Same old face. Same old scars. Cursing softly, he jerked his hand away and turned toward the fire. For a moment, he almost hated her.

And why not? She represented the world he’d given up almost ten years ago, the world he had to deny himself. He’d done a damn good job of keeping that world at bay. Now it seemed to have come looking for him. For his own sanity, he knew he had to resist its temptations. This dark, gloomy palazzo was his reality. There was no other way.

Isabella looked around her as she emerged from the steamy shower. It was an antiquated room with antiquated plumbing, but luxurious in an old-fashioned way, with high ceilings and a huge claw-footed tub in the middle of the room. She dried quickly and then stepped before a full-length mirror to check herself for damage.

What she saw made her gasp, then laugh softly. The area around her right eye was looking as if she’d smudged it with soot. A black eye! How was she going to explain that to her customers? She groaned, then began to check out the rest of her body. There was a large painful bruise on her hip and a rather deep cut on her right leg, just below the knee. Most of the blood had been soaked up by her running pants, but there was still some seeping out. Other than a few places that felt a bit achy, that seemed to be it.

Turning, she looked at the clothes Angela had set out for her—a lacy cream-colored sweater and tan stretch pants. They were very close to things she might have picked for herself, so she put them on without hesitation, covering her still bleeding wound with a wad of tissue.

“Are you decent?” Angela called as she was combing and fluffing her hair. She came in after Isabella invited her, handing her a bag with her wet clothes.

“Here you go. Marcello ought to be with Max by now. They’ll be waiting in the Blue Room.” She yawned. “I’m going back to bed. Goodnight, my dear.”

“Wait.” Isabella turned and hesitated, then went ahead and asked, “What happened to his face?”

Angela stared at her for a long moment before answering.

“There was a terrible car accident. It was almost ten years ago, the same night that…” She stopped herself and shook her head. “It was a very bad accident. For days, we were sure that he would die.”

Isabella frowned, taking that in. She had a feeling there was more to it than that. There was a weird, moody undercurrent to everything that went on here. She wanted to know more, but she could hardly ask many questions now.

“But he survived.”

“Obviously. But his face…” Throwing out her hands, she turned away. “He was quite handsome, you know,” she said softly.

Isabella shrugged. “He still is.”

She turned to stare at Isabella. “You think so, do you?”

“Oh, yes.”