Читать книгу The Brides of Bella Rosa: Beauty and the Reclusive Prince - Rebecca Winters - Страница 9

UNPLANNED passion like this was taboo, unacceptable—and, once ignited, completely irresistible. Max’s lips touched Isabella’s once, twice, and then again, as though he’d suddenly developed a raving hunger for the taste of her, and then the moist warmth of her mouth was there, open and inviting and his kiss grew in sweet, silky intensity. And he was lost in the moment.

It was hard to know how long the kiss lasted. When he finally revived, feeling like a swimmer coming up for air, she was trying to push him away and murmuring, “No, no. I didn’t come here for this.”

He pulled his face back, but his fingers were still tangled in her hair. He looked down at her and shook his head almost sadly.

“Neither did I,” he told her, his gaze ranging over her pretty face. It took all his strength to keep from kissing her again. “But I won’t say I’m sorry it happened,” he added, his voice husky with the lingering sense of how tempting she was.

Their eyes met. He saw wonder there, and questions. She was a woman who deserved more than he was allowing her. He groaned, then shrugged in bittersweet surrender.

“All right, Isabella. I’m ready to sample your sauce and hear your entire presentation.”

Suddenly her face was shining. “That’s all I ask,” she said, blooming like a flower that had just found the sun. “Just give me half an hour.”

He nodded, reluctantly smiling at the picture she made. “You’ve got it. Hit me with your best shot.” He gave her a warning look. “And then I will tell you ‘no’ and send you home again.”

She nodded happily. “I’ll convince you. You just wait.”

He released her slowly, wishing he could pull her back into his arms and hold her again. Somehow he doubted her cooking was going to captivate him more strongly than her kisses had.

He went back to his room to put on a shirt and she got busy cooking the pasta. She’d actually talked him into hearing her out. She could hardly believe it.

The fact that he’d kissed her didn’t mean a thing, she told herself. It had thrilled her and she was still tingling. Her heart was racing, skittering around like a happy bird in her chest. But she knew she shouldn’t have let it happen and now she had to get over it. She had work to do.

But she also knew that she would be remembering how her cheek had felt against his naked chest for the rest of her life. The smoothness of his skin, the strength of his arms, the sound of his heartbeat, had sent her into a tailspin. She had to push those thoughts away, save them for later, or she wouldn’t be able to do what she’d set out to.

He was more beautiful, more manly, more exciting than any man she’d ever known, but, still, she hadn’t let it completely drag her under, and she was proud of that. She’d been the one to pull away. And she had definitely not come here scheming to use any feminine wiles or anything of the sort. The kiss hadn’t been planned by either of them and it didn’t count.

At least, she hoped it didn’t. Because she wasn’t going to let it happen again. She couldn’t.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded. Never again. That was the route to ruin and she was too smart to go that way. She had something to accomplish here, and she got down to it.

Max sat at the head of the long mahogany table that had been in his family for over two hundred years. Before him lay a mat of ivory lace that was set with heavy sterling silver flatware in an exceptionally beautiful baroque pattern. Two crystal goblets of wine had been added, one reflecting a golden hue, the other taking in sunlight and translating it into a deep, rich, royal red. There was a silver fingerbowl as well, deeply engraved with a bucolic scene, and a fine, creamy-white, linen napkin.

He surveyed it all and shook his head, wondering how she’d found everything so quickly. It had been almost thirty years since he’d seen these pieces laid out this way—when his mother was alive.

It came to him that he ought to do this more often. Just seeing these things here, touching them, brought up feelings of attachment, memories of ancestors, connections to his family and his past that he didn’t think about often enough. It all touched a chord deep inside him, a link to eternity.

He swallowed his smile quickly as Isabella entered the room. Sunlight slanted in from the tall windows that lined the space, setting her dark hair aflame with golden highlights. Her cheeks were red from time over a hot stove and she was carrying a steaming pot with hot pads protecting her hands. As she approached, the scent of something extraordinary filled the room.

He shook his head. As he watched her a sense of her beauty overwhelmed him, despite her bruised eye, and he felt an intense need to hold her again that filled him with an aching regret.

How had he gotten here? It was insane. Over the last few years, he’d lived his whole life to keep people away. Isabella had somehow crept right through his barriers and found the center of his being in ways no one else had done. He wasn’t really sure how she’d accomplished that, but he knew she had. And he knew he had to resist it.

She turned an impish smile his way as she placed the pot onto the trivet in the middle of the table.

“There you are,” she told him, ladling the sublime sauce out into a porcelain bowl, which she’d already filled with freshly made pasta. “I hope you’ll deem this fit for a king,” she said with another grin. “Or, at any rate, a prince.”

He looked down into the bowl. The sauce was the color of a late summer sunset and swimming with beautiful vegetables he couldn’t name. “It smells wonderful.”

She nodded and didn’t waste time on false modesty. “It tastes wonderful, too.”

He managed to maintain a skeptical look, just for dignity’s sake. “We’ll see.”

And he began to eat.

She was right. The sauce filled his mouth with a feeling like ecstasy. He’d never had anything quite like it. Amazing how one little herb could make such a difference.

“Well?” she asked, watching him like a hawk.

He looked at her. He could hardly keep his eyes off her. She was so alive, so vibrant, so expressive. There was something real about her, something basic and decent and appealing in a new way. He felt a pull toward her, a definite attraction, something he couldn’t deny.

But how could that be? She was so different from the wife he had loved so much. The woman he still missed so much.

Laura had been blonde, ethereal, slender and light as a bird. She had looked very much in life like the angel she had surely become since. But this woman was very different—full and round and earthy. And, to his eternal regret, he ached for her right now as he’d seldom ached for a woman before.

He looked back down at the bowl, avoiding her bright gaze. It was insane to let her stay. He had to get her out of here before he lost control and did something crazy.

The worst of it was, it was quite evident that she had not come here to seduce him at all. She was dressed modestly in a simple peasant blouse and full skirt. There was no cleavage showing, no revealing exposure of skin. She was honest and straightforward and she wasn’t playing games. He liked her for that. It showed a certain respect for him and for the dilemma between them. The fact that he could detect the beauty of her body beneath all the swishing fabric was beside the point. She wasn’t using it as a trump card—even though she probably sensed it wouldn’t be hard to do.

Resolutely he lifted his gaze and met hers.

“Magnifico, Isabella,” he told her. “This is spectacular. I can fully understand why your cuisine is famous and people come from miles around to enjoy it.”

She brightened with happiness at his words. “You’ve heard of it, then?”

“Oh, yes,” he admitted.

She radiated joy. “I knew once you tried it—”

“And I understand how important it is to you,” he interrupted before she could have a chance to make assumptions his admission didn’t quite warrant. “But that doesn’t change the danger that you would face every time you went across that divide above the river.” His hand swept out in a royal gesture. “If I had a house full of servants, I could have one of them go and harvest the weed for you. But at present, Renzo and I live here alone. There is no one to help out.”

Isabella bit down hard on her lower lip, keeping herself under tight control. His constant emphasis on the danger of going near the river was clearly overstated and there had to be a reason for it. She was pretty sure it had something to do with the death of his wife. What had happened that had made him so sure the place wasn’t safe for her? She wanted to know, but she didn’t want to push him. A horrible vision of tractors mowing down the hillside if he got annoyed enough did the trick.

Back to the plan.

“We can talk about that later,” she said quickly. “Right now I just want you to enjoy this.”

He gave her a faint, reluctant smile, his eyes glowing. “I do, Isabella. More than you know.”

She flushed. It was odd to watch how he still tended to turn his face away from her, as though trying to keep her from seeing the scars. No matter what he did, he looked gorgeous to her. How could it be otherwise when he was blessed with those huge, emotional dark eyes and that wide, sensual mouth?

He looked like a poet, she decided. A poet with a tender, sensitive soul purposefully disguised by his muscular form and his harsh, cynical manner, all protected by a wall of ice to keep the world at bay. She knew about his physical scars. What had hurt him so deeply that he couldn’t be free? That was the mystery he carried with him.

“Tell me about this place,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows as she watched him eat. “Did you grow up here?”

“Pretty much.” He took another bite, savored it, and sighed with pleasure, then went on. “My father tended to drag us all over the continent, staying at one property after another. He was quite a gambler, you see, and he was always looking for another game. But when I was young we spent a lot of time here. I would ride my pony all over these grounds.”

“Mmm. And you didn’t fall into the river?”

His face darkened. “That is not a matter to joke about,” he said curtly. “Our river is a dangerous place. We didn’t realize how dangerous at the time.” He looked at her face and winced. “I should have caught you before you hit the rocks.”

She marveled at him. He seemed to think it was his job to save the world—or at least all females that came within his purview. That was too big a role to take on for any man. She wished she knew how to tell him so. Instead, she shrugged.

“It will heal. It will be gone in no time at all.”

He heard her blithe words but they didn’t placate him. He couldn’t help but feel that the water had almost claimed another victim that night. If he hadn’t been there to grab her…

He shook his head again and swore softly.

“And as you grew older?” she asked. “Did you still stay here often?”

He pushed away thoughts of the river and let himself look back instead. “Not as often. My mother died when I was young and, after that, I went to live with my aunt, Marcello’s mother.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured about his mother. She hesitated to tell him they had something in common. Was she being presumptuous? Never mind, she told him anyway.

“I lost my mother early, too,” she told him. “I can hardly remember what she looked like.”

“Where were you sent to live?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I stayed right where I was. Someone had to take care of my father, and my two little brothers.”

He stared. “Surely you were a little young for that.”

She smiled. “Yes, much too young. But we didn’t have a choice. We didn’t have the money or the other ‘properties’ like you did. We made do.”

His face twisted. “You mean, you made do. But at least you had your family around you.”

She looked up, surprised. “Where was your father?”

He gazed at her coolly. “He was despondent. My mother’s death hit him hard.” His gaze darkened. “We didn’t see much of him after that.”

“But you had your sister.”

He shook his head. “Not really. She went to live with another aunt. I had a pretty lonely childhood when you come right down to it. You were lucky to stay with your family, even if it did mean you ended up being the support for everyone.” He smiled at her. “That was the way it was, wasn’t it?”

She frowned, feeling bad for him. At least she had her father and had benefited from his love and counsel all her life. She didn’t know how she would have made it without that. Hearing about his experiences gave her a new perspective on what family could mean to a child.

“But I soon went away to school in Switzerland,” he continued, “and then to university in England. And then…then I married.”

The young wife he’d lost tragically. Should she say anything? She wasn’t sure, so she murmured condolences again, and he brushed them aside.

“Never mind all that,” he said crisply, looking at her over the rim of his wine glass. “Tell me more about you, Isabella. Tell me about your hopes and dreams and how many young men you’ve been in love with.”

Here was the opening she’d been waiting for.

“Exactly what I planned to do,” she told him cheerfully. “Well, not counting the boyfriends. They shall remain nameless, if you don’t mind.” She made a face at him. “But while you’re finishing your meal, I’m going to give you a small background about my family and our restaurant.” She gave a little bow. “With your permission,” she added pertly.

He waved a hand her way, his attention back on the delicious food before him.

“Carry on,” he said kindly.

“Thank you.” She settled into the chair that faced his. “First about my father. His name is Luca Casali. His mother, Rosa, started a restaurant here in Monta Correnti after her husband died and left her with a young family to support. She used a special recipe she got from a secret source, and her food was well received.”

He looked up with a slight smile, his gaze skimming over her face. He liked the way she talked. She was so animated.

“So you are from a restaurant family from the beginning, aren’t you?”

She scrunched up her face a bit. “More or less. My father and his sister, Lisa, took over my grandmother’s restaurant when she died, but they don’t get along very well, so they split up. My father had a roadside stand for years before he moved to our current location. My aunt still runs Sorella, which is basically my grandmother’s place updated for modern times.”

She pulled a scrapbook out of her bag and put it on the table, close to his mat. She’d put it together, using the computer to blow up pictures that would illustrate her family history and help Max understand what Rosa, and the special herb, meant to them all.

“Here is a picture of my father as a young man when he had the food stand on the Via Roma. And the next picture was taken when he was finally able to open a real restaurant, the place we call Rosa, after my grandmother, the culmination of all his hard work.”

Max turned and leaned forward, taking the book from her and frowning at the first picture she’d turned to.

“This is your father?” he asked.

“Yes. Luca Casali.”

He nodded slowly. “I remember him. He used to come here when I was a child.”

Isabella stared at him. This was the first she’d heard of such a thing. “Here? To the Rossi palazzo?”

“Yes.” He looked at her, noting an element or two of resemblance to the man. “I think he cooked for us occasionally.”

She suddenly felt a bit smaller than before, reminded that she was from a different world than the one this man was from.

“Oh,” she said, looking around the cavernous room and trying unsuccessfully to picture her father here. But she took a deep breath and went back to her story.

“Here is a picture of my aunt Lisa. Do you know her, too?”

He looked at the picture and shook his head. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”

For some reason, that was a huge relief to her.

“Good,” she muttered, turning pages. “Here are my brothers, Cristiano and Valentino.”

Max nodded, his interest only barely retained. “Nicelooking young men,” he murmured, looking back at what was left of his pasta.

“Very nice-looking young men,” she corrected. She was crazy about her brothers. “They are both away. Cristiano is a firefighter. He’s in Australia right now, helping them with their terrible brush fires. And Valentino is a race-car driver. He’s always somewhere racing around trying to challenge death at every turn.”

He raised his head in surprise at the bitterness of her tone, and she smiled quickly to take the edge off it.

“So neither one is here helping run the restaurant,” he noted.

“That’s what my father has me for,” she maintained stoutly. “But I do wish they would come home more often.”

“Of course.”

“And finally, here is a picture of Rosa as it was two months ago, when we still had a plentiful stock of the basil. See how crowded it is? Doesn’t everyone look well fed and happy?”

He laughed softly at her characterization. “Yes,” he admitted. “I see what you mean.”

“And here is the restaurant now.” She plunked down a picture of the half-empty room and threw out her hands to emphasize how overwhelming the situation was. “Without the basil, no one is happy anymore.”

He groaned, turning his head and refusing to study that last picture. “Isabella, I get the point. You don’t have to rub my nose in it.”

“It seems I do.” She gazed at him fiercely. “I want you to understand how important this is. How it means everything to my father.”

“And to you.”

“To me?” She pressed her lips together and thought about it. Hearing his words surprised her, but what surprised her even more was that he might be right.

For years she’d chafed at being the one everybody depended on, the one who had to stay behind and help with the restaurant while her brothers went off in search of adventurous lives and her cousins went off to explore places like England and Australia. Isabella was the one who stayed home and kept the flames going. Sometimes it didn’t seem fair. She’d had daydreams about leaving a note pinned to her pillow and slipping out into the night, getting on a train to Rome, flying to Singapore or Brazil, or maybe even New York. Meeting a dark, handsome stranger in an elevator. Talking over a drink in a hotel bar. Walking city streets in the rain, sharing an umbrella. All scenes snatched from romantic movies, all scenes folded into her momentary fantasies. What seemed hopeful at first eventually mutated into melancholy as it aged.

And lately, even those dreams had faded. She’d been as wrapped up in finding ways to save the restaurant as her father was. So maybe Max was right. Maybe it did mean everything to her, too.

“Maybe,” she said faintly.

What did it mean when you gave up your dreams? Did they grow mellow and rich, like fine wine, warming you even as they faded? Or did they dry up and turn to powder that blew away with the wind?

“Maybe.”

Snapping back into the moment, she looked at Max, trying to see if he’d come around yet. She grimaced lightly. It certainly didn’t look like it. Those gorgeous dark eyes with their long, sweeping lashes were as cool and skeptical as ever.

She sighed. He’d finished eating and he’d finished looking at her scrapbook and listening to her point of view. She had only one weapon left in her arsenal. Slipping away, she hurried back to the kitchen where she pulled a large portion of a beautiful tiramisu out of the refrigerator. Rummaging in a drawer, she found a candle, which she lit and put atop it. She smiled with satisfaction, then carried it back out into the dining room, singing “Tanti auguri a te,” as she went. She stopped, put the blazing pastry down before him, and added, “Buon compleanno!”

He was laughing again, only this time it was with her, not at her.

“How did you know it was my birthday?” he asked her, letting her see, for just a moment, how pleased he was.

She shrugged grandly. “You told me.”

He frowned. “When?”

“It was the first thing you said when you came into the kitchen, before you realized it was me instead of Renzo.”

“Oh, of course.”

He looked into the flame as though it fascinated him. She watched him. In the afternoon light, his scar looked like a ribbon of silver across his face. She wondered if it gave him any pain. She knew it gave him heartache. And because of that, it gave her heartache, too.

“Make a wish and blow out the candle,” she told him.

He looked at her and almost smiled. “What shall I wish for?”

She shook her head. “It’s your wish. And don’t tell me, or else it won’t come true.”

His face took on a hint of an attitude, teasing her. “Okay. I know what I’m going to wish for.”

She knew he didn’t mean anything by it; still, the implication was there, hovering in the air between them. She felt herself flushing and turned away, biting her lip.

“Go ahead. Blow it out. I won’t watch.”

“Why not?” He blew out the small fire and picked up a fork. “Anyone can watch. It’s not much of an event, you know.”

He broke off a bit of the pastry onto his fork, and, instead of taking the bite himself, he waited until she’d turned back and then popped it between her lips and left it there.

“Hey!” She ate it quickly, half laughing. “That was for you. I ate enough of it myself when I was making the thing.”

He stopped, staring at her. The tiramisu was a thing of beauty, the dark of the coffee flavor and the cocoa topping a striking contrast to the light-as-a-feather, rich, creamy layers. It was a mystery to him how anyone made such a thing, and the thought that she had created it on her own was a revelation. Her talents were legion, it seemed.

“You made it yourself?”

She nodded. Yes, she had, thinking of him the whole time and warding off Susa, who’d wanted to take over.

Max shook his head as he studied her face, searching her eyes, sketching a trail of interest along the line of her chin. “You made me that delicious pasta and you made me my birthday dessert with your own hands.” His eyes seemed to glow with a special light and his voice was so quiet, she could hardly hear him. “What can I do for you in return, Isabella?”

She met his gaze and held it. “You know what I want,” she said, almost as softly as he had spoken.

He stared into her eyes a moment longer, then his face took on an expression she couldn’t translate into anything but regret. Looking down, he began to eat and he didn’t speak again until he had finished.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “I appreciate this.”

She waited. Was he going to relent? Was he going to tell her she could have another try at his hillside? She waited another moment, but he didn’t seem to have anything else to say, so she sighed and rose, beginning to clear the plates away.

“I suppose I’d better get all this cleaned up,” she said, wondering if she’d actually made any impression on him at all. “I’m sure you have people coming over to help you celebrate tonight.”

He looked up at her with a frown. “I don’t see visitors. Not ever. I thought you understood that.”

She stopped, staring at him. “Not anyone?”

“No. Not anyone.”

Her blue eyes betrayed her bewilderment. “Why not?”

He sighed and threw down his napkin, then said in a clipped tone, “I think that’s self-evident.”

She sank back into her chair and gaped at him. She remembered suddenly what Susa had said about his having lost his young wife years ago. She’d implied that the pain of losing her had brought on his lonely existence, but surely there was more to it than that. “You mean, because of your face?”

He merely stared at her, confirming her suspicions.

“But…” She choked, unable to comprehend his motives. “Why would you let something like that ruin your life? You need people around you, you need…”

She stopped before she said something ill-advised. He needed love. That much was obvious. He needed a woman, someone to care for him and make him happy. Every man needed that.

But did she have any business saying such a thing? Of course not. Especially since she needed a man just as badly, and look how she’d been unable to take care of that little problem for years now. She didn’t even have the excuses he had. So who was she to talk?

But she couldn’t leave the subject alone.

“If I were like you,” she said, pointing to her own injured eye, “I would have hidden myself away and we would have had to close down the restaurant for the last week and a half.”

He half smiled at her characterization and he looked at her black eye almost affectionately.

“Did you get any reaction from your customers?”

“Of course.” She stared at him again. He was a prince, rich and probably famous in certain circles, powerful, with resources she could only dream of. So how had he let this happen? How had others around him let it go this far? How had he become such a recluse, and how could he stand it for so long?

“I get plenty of reaction,” she continued slowly, “lots of double takes, people turning back to have another look at me. Then I get the opposite, people who notice, then look away quickly as though thinking I must have been beaten up and would be embarrassed if they acknowledged seeing the evidence of it.”

He nodded, recognizing the experience from his own ventures out into the world.

“I even have little children making fun of me in the street.” She tossed her hair back with a defiant snap of her head. “But who cares? That’s their problem.”

He gazed at her in complete admiration. She was a tough one. She could handle what life threw at her in ways he didn’t seem capable of. But there was so much more to his situation that she didn’t know about. “Our conditions are not comparable,” he said.

She shook her head. “Maybe not to the degree, but the basics are very much the same.”

He frowned, beginning to feel a bit of backlash against her attitude. “You don’t understand.” He glanced at her, then away. “You don’t know why this happened.”

She leaned forward, her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand, ready to hear, ready to understand. “So tell me.”

His gaze darkened. For just a moment he saw it all again, the trees rushing past his window, the huge old bridge standing right in his path, the flash as they hit, the flames, the fire, the horrible sound of metal against concrete. They said no one should have lived through that crash. And there were times when he’d cursed his own powers of survival.

Looking up, he spoke dismissively. “No.”

Her eyes widened. “Why not?”

His own eyes were as cold as they’d ever been as he turned to gaze at her again. “It’s none of your business.”

He was right, of course, but she drew back as though he’d slapped her.

“Oh.”

She rose again and turned toward the door. He’d hurt her with those words, with that manner. She’d thought they were becoming friends and he’d shown her just how far from that they really were. She was not allowed into his real life. Of course, what had she expected? This was a cold, cruel world, after all.

“I’ll just get out of your way, then,” she said stiffly. She walked firmly out of the room, waiting at each step for him to call her back. But he didn’t say a word.

It only took her a few minutes to get her things washed up and ready to go, but she banged the pots a bit more than necessary. She was angry. There was no denying it. After all she’d done, all she’d said, and he still didn’t understand!

She was packing her supplies away in her backpack when he came into the kitchen again. She looked up hopefully, but his eyes were still cold as ice.

“Where did you park your car?” he asked.

She went back to putting her full attention on what she was doing, stuffing the last of her utensils into the bag. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

He erased the distance between them and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look up at him. “I’ve told you I won’t have you wandering around the grounds on your own,” he reminded her sternly. “I’ll drive you to your car.”

A captive, she stared back at him without saying anything. She wasn’t fooled. He wanted to see where it was that she was sneaking in. Good thing she’d parked a distance away from the chink in the wall. If he was going to find her secret, he was going to have to survey the wall himself, brick by brick.

“I’ll do fine on my own,” she said again.

“I’m going to drive you. I brought my car around while you were cleaning up.”

Slowly, deliberately, she pushed his hand away from her chin. “If you insist,” she said coldly.

His mouth twitched, but he managed not to smile at the fierce picture she made.

“I do,” he responded. “Shall we go?”

He helped her carry her things outside and there was a slinky little BMW Roadster.

“Nice car,” she allowed, refusing to meet his gaze.

“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” he agreed, stowing her things behind the seat and holding the door for her. “It seems like something of a waste. I almost never get to drive it.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “The only place I go is to my home on the coast, and I travel in a limousine for that.”

“With darkened windows. I know.” Susa had told her all about it. “All so others won’t see your face?” she asked, troubled by such a denial of life.

“There’s more to it than that,” he said, sliding behind the wheel.

“Of course. And it’s none of my business.” She stared out the side window.

He twitched and gave her a look, then started the car and eased it out onto the driveway.

“I don’t know why you think you should be let in on every little aspect of my interior life,” he said gruffly. “Believe me, the nuances are not all that interesting.”

She whipped her head around. “I didn’t ask just because I was snoopy,” she said indignantly. “I actually care—” she stopped dead, realizing what she was saying “—uh…about you,” she ended softly and lamely, looking away again as quickly as she could.

He didn’t answer.As they cruised down the two-lane road he wondered why her admitting that she cared sent warmth careening through his system. It wasn’t as though women hadn’t cared for him in the past. What made her so special?

“Is that your car?” he asked as they closed in on a silver-blue compact sitting by the side of the road.

“That’s it,” she admitted.

He pulled up behind it and frowned as he studied the wall of his own property. “This isn’t where you go in,” he noted.

She flashed him a triumphant smile.

“You’re right. This isn’t it.”

She began to gather her things for her great escape, slipping out of the Roadster and reaching for her bag before he had a chance to get out and help her.

“Bye,” she said, not meeting his gaze and turning for her car.

“Hey.” He got out on his side and followed her. “Wait a minute.”

Throwing her bags into the backseat of her car, she turned to look at him, though she was poised to jump behind the wheel and race off.

“What is it?” she asked guardedly.

He stood facing her, his legs wide apart, his hands hooked on the belt of his jeans. For a moment, he seemed lost in the depths of her eyes. Then he shrugged and looked almost bored with it all.

“I think I’ve come up with a way for you to get your precious herb,” he said casually.

Her jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide. “What? How?”

“It’s simple really.”

“You mean you’ll trust me to go alone?”

Darkness flashed across his face.

“No, of course not. I’ve told you, I will not allow you to go there unattended.”

“Unattended?” Her frustration was plain on her face. She obviously felt they were just going around in circles. “But who would be available to go with me?”

He shrugged, his head cocked at a rather arrogant angle. “I’ll do it,” he said.

For just a moment, she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “What?” she said. But she could tell he meant what he’d said by the look on his face. Joy swept through her. “You!” And then spontaneous happiness catapulted her right up against his chest.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek again and again. “Thank you so much!”

He laughed softly, holding her loosely, resisting the impulse to take advantage of her giddiness.

“Can we go right now?” she cried, looking as though she could fly all the way on her own.

“Today it’s too late,” he said sensibly. “Come tomorrow.”

“Yes.” She knew he was right. “Yes, I will.”

He stroked her temple with his forefinger, smoothing back the tiny curls that were forming at her hairline. “And when you come tomorrow, you can drive in the front gate.”

She stared at him, clutching his arm. “How am I going to do that?”

“I’ll give you the code.”

That took her breath away. “Why would you do a thing like that?”

His gaze was cool, yet intimate. “Why not? I trust you.” For now, it suited him that she have the code, and that was that. He gave her a quick, quirky smile.

“Besides, I can change the code any time I decide I don’t want you to have it any longer.”

There were tears in her eyes. She’d been so downhearted and now she was so happy. “Why are you being so good to me?” she asked emotionally.

His smile faded. He gazed deeply into her eyes and winced a bit from what he saw there. And then, he told her the truth.

“Because I care about you, too,” he said.