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6

ALESSANDRO

M y gut warns me to be careful, wary. An intruder to my sanctum, in the middle of the night? Alarms go off in my head.

But she’s standing here, so close.

Shivering.

I reach out, slipping out of my robe and pulling her soaked scarf from her in one motion, wrapping her in the soft fabric. She looks terrified for a split second, then confused.

“Come. Sorry I made you wait here for so long.” I gesture toward the den, the roaring fire.

After a few moments, she peels out of her wet coat, settling onto the couch and huddling closer to the fireplace.

“Isabella Bianchi. What is it you do for a living?” I feel odd, awkward in my own skin. I’m not used to small talk or offering comfort to others.

Her eyes light up as she turns to me, her guard dropping slightly. “I’m a photographer. At least, some of the time. I haven’t quite found my true calling yet.”

She’s clever. Answering with some vagueness, not offering me more information than I ask. Always play your cards close to your chest…

Or I am reading into the situation the wrong way? It’s hard for me not to react like an interrogator. She’s probably just some woman, like she said.

“I’ve always loved photography. Not that I’ve ever really indulged in creating art myself.”

“And why not? What do you do with your time, Alessandro?” Her question is leading, loaded.

“Exports.”

Her expression goes blank after a few seconds, and I realize she was expecting some elaboration. “My family owns several exportation enterprises. International shipping, precious metals, specialty engineering, tech, pharmaceuticals. Cargo yards and such.” A pretty way of saying I move guns and drugs.

“Fascinating. I take it your family goes back a long way in Italy?”

“You could say that.”

“Mine too.” She gazes into the fire, lost in thought for a moment. I find myself waiting to hear her speak again, eager to learn more about her.

“Would you like something to drink?” The words are out of my mouth before the thought is fully formed.

“Something hot, please.” A little smile pulls at her full, rosebud lips, making me swallow. It’s the booze. Definitely the booze.

“I think Carla left some mulled wine on the stove. I’ll be right back.” The trip to the kitchen gives me a chance to cool down, clear my head.

The fire and seeing this captivating woman again have my mind wandering, wishing.

Fool.

When I return, she’s wrapped in a blanket, and several of her clothing items and boots are set out in the entryway. She’s sitting on the fur rug, her toes practically in the fire and her smooth, silken legs stretched out beneath my robe.

“Comfortable?”

“Sorry. My clothes were damp and cold.”

“Don’t apologize. Here.” I pass her the steaming mug.

Isabella inhales deeply before taking a sip. “Oh, it tastes just like home.”

“Home?”

“I was born in Trieste. You?”

“We moved around a lot. ‘Home’ was never really part of my vocabulary.”

“We did too. My father moved for work.”

Crackling wood fills the space and the silence in the room for several minutes before she speaks again. “Tell me something about yourself, Alessandro.”

“Sharing isn’t really in my wheelhouse.”

“Really? I would have never guessed,” she snickers. “What is in your wheelhouse?

“I’m good at dealing with people.”

“You don't strike me as a man of many words.”

“No. Not many. But every single word I say has meaning and purpose. My father taught me never to speak flippantly, out of turn. When I speak, it matters.”

Isabella’s gaze clouds, simmering with a shadow of her thoughts. Something I said resonated with her, or she’s taunting me.

“That tells me something, but not much.” She’s fishing.

“Who I am and how I am are more of a tell than what I do.”

“Ah, you are good with words. This will be a challenge,” she says, eyeing me with a smirk.

“Challenge?”

“To get you to reveal your secrets.”

“Hmm. Good luck. I might find it equally challenging to get you to answer me honestly.”

“I've been honest with you thus far.”

“About as honest as I have been with you thus far.” Something about her showing up here in the middle of the night, after our run-in at the bar, itches at my sense of caution.

I find I can’t bring myself to get after her, really demand answers. Our banter is intriguing.

Distracting.

If she is lying, trying to fool me, or con me, she’ll eventually talk herself into a corner and hang herself.

“So, what brings a brooding export magnate up into the mountains to his castle in the Alps this time of year? Isn’t there work to be done?”

“There’s always work to be done. I simply wanted to get away for a bit.”

“Get away from what? Mistresses?”

“I don’t have mistresses,” I snap.

“Your wife nagging you, driving you insane?”

“I’m not married.”

“Hmm. Me neither.”

She’s starting to piss me off, the way she’s rapid-firing her questions at me. Like she’s a fucking reporter.

“Didn’t plan on the blizzard, though?” she asks.

“No. You clearly didn’t either. Or any mountain weather. Almost like you came here on a whim. Or in a hurry.”

She looks away smoothly, making it look natural, not like I hit the nail on the head. I really can’t tell. She’s treating this like she’s a fox and I’m the hound. Poking me, nipping at me, then springing away, leaving me chasing. Wanting more.

I hate how much I like it.

“Who else is here with you?” she asks.

“Staff.”

“And?”

“And none of your business.”

“All alone on a vacation? That seems so lonely.”

“Says the woman traveling alone.”

“The man at the pub, was he your brother?” A flash passes through her eyes, like she bested me.

“Yes. Everyone says we look alike, at least in the eyes.” I won’t give her an inch.

“What’s his name?”

“You won’t meet him, so it hardly matters. He keeps to himself.”

The encounter is wearing thin, trying my patience. I’m getting too tired to play this back and forth, as much as I want to find out more. She’s going to make me slip, say too much.

“Then your shipping company name? I’m sure I would have heard of it?”

“Probably.”

“A hint?”

“Not a chance.” My hackles rise and I see her back off, visibly shrinking at my irritation. “Do you always grill your host when you stay somewhere uninvited?”

“Only when they wear disguises to go out in public and slip away to a mountain hideaway.”

“You sit so close to the fire, you’ll get burned.”

“I’ve always had a tolerance for heat,” she snipes back. I can tell she sees me as a threat. Which means there’s a chance she knows exactly who I am.

Or am I just drunk and imagining things?

She's a woman alone at night in a strange place at some guy's house she had no choice but to stay at or die in the cold. I’d be cautious too.

I could be a psychopath killer for all she knows.

Little does she know…

It makes sense she would want to feel me out. I’d certainly like to feel her writhing underneath me.

She meets my gaze. Her eyes unflinching, like she can read my thoughts. Woman’s got balls bigger than some of my men.

And it riles up something deep inside me, turning me on like few things can.

She's asked me questions that nobody else would dare ask, just based on my demeanor and attitude. Probably because she really has no clue who I am.

But she can clearly tell how dangerous I am. Not that I would hurt her for no reason.

As if in response to my thoughts, she lets the blanket slip open, displaying just a hint more of her skin, the edge of her bra.

I catch myself gaping, staring openly. Gazing right there between those perfect, creamy smooth orbs of her breasts.

She's only wearing her slip under that robe and blanket.

I could tear it off in a heartbeat. Have my way with her. The look in her eyes tells me she’d let me. There’s a heat there, behind the guarded, searching expression.

She’s trapped here, though.

And I’m trapped with her, at least until tomorrow. The thought has me backpedaling, retreating.

Maybe it's just the fact that she's trapped here in my house.

Standing, I clear our glasses and the cutting board of snacks from earlier.

“It’s late. I need to get to bed.”

“What’s wrong? Missing your girlfriend?” The implication is there, too. That I was eye fucking her right here in the den, and she noticed. She’s calling me out.

“No girlfriend.”

“Oh, I see. You’re one of those rich guys. Hopping from girl to girl.”

“Enough. It’s time for bed. I’ll show you to your room.”

I wait until she’s standing before I stomp off across the foyer toward the hallway where my bedroom and the guestrooms are located. She follows closely through the dark lodge, staying silent behind me as we pass the east wing door.

“Do not go up to the attic. Do not go down into my office on the landing below. And do not under any circumstances go into the east wing. My brother is far less inviting than me.”

“I’ll be sure and abide by your rules as long as I’m here. Why would I go wandering around in the dark anyway?”

“True. You won’t be wandering anywhere. If you need anything, use the intercom to call one of the maids for assistance. They’ll have breakfast ready whenever you wake up.”

“And where will you be?”

“There. My room. Knock if you need me. And do not?—”

“Go into your room under any circumstances. I get it.” I can practically hear her eye roll. Years of living with Ciro have trained me to notice that tone.

“This is your room.” Flicking on the lamp, I point to the linen closet, the bathroom. “Make yourself at home.”

“Alessandro…” She follows me to the doorway, her arm slipping up the frame. The blanket slips off her shoulders as she looks up at me. “Thank you.”

Light, hazel eyes bore into me, just like they did back at the pub.

Our bodies are painfully close together, her body heat mingling with mine.

“Good night, Isabella.”

“Good night.”

Before I can second guess myself, I shut the door in her face, locking it from the outside.