Beauty and the Reclusive Prince / Executive: Expecting Tiny Twins: Beauty and the Reclusive Prince. Raye Morgan
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you want to do is run this restaurant and make your father happy. You’ll never have children. You’ll be content to be an old maid, clucking like an old hen over your aging chicks, those worthless brothers and your old, sick father.”
She could dismiss Gino with no effort at all, but his words didn’t fade away quite so easily. The things he’d said echoed in her mind all the time lately. Was it true? Was she really so wrapped up in her little family that she’d lost the knack of feeling like a desirable woman? Would she never have room for a man in her life? What if he was right? What if there was something wrong with her?
But the things she’d been through tonight were relieving some of those doubts. She was all right. She could relate to men, on the level of friendship at the very least. Marcello obviously liked her and they got along famously.
And Max…He’d kissed her, hadn’t he? It had been a light, gentle gesture of healing, but still…A kiss was a kiss. Even in her ugly, bruised condition, he’d felt a pull in her direction. And she’d felt it too.
And that was just the problem. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt such a thrill at a man’s touch. It had been years. But was there any promise there? Of course not.
Come on, Isabella, she chided herself a bit sadly. He’s a prince. You work in a restaurant. So what if there seems to be a sensual connection that flares between the two of you every time your eyes meet? He may find you amusing for the moment—though evidence of that is pretty skimpy—but there is no way anything real can happen between the two of you. So you might as well forget it.
Marcello finished up giving her stitches and began to pack his equipment away in his little black doctor bag. He and Max talked back and forth for a moment, and then the prince said something that chilled her.
“We’re going to have to beef up security around here,” he was saying, not even looking her way. “I don’t want anyone near the river.”
She turned to look at him. Whenever the river was brought up, there was some undercurrent of emotion that she couldn’t quite pin down. What was it about the river that had so spooked this family?
“The dogs don’t do the trick?” Marcello said.
Max shrugged. “The dogs can’t be everywhere all the time. And they have to sleep. They’re dogs.”
Marcello grinned. “That they are. Have you thought of hiring guards?”
“No.” He flashed a warning look at his cousin. “You know I can’t do that.”
Marcello shrugged with resignation. “Of course.”
“We’ll put in an alarm service, with cameras. We’ll get state-of-the-art security going around here. No one will be able to slip through the cracks again.” He shrugged. “We should have done it long ago.”
Isabella sighed. That meant she wouldn’t get a second chance. What was she going to do? Hire James Bond? It didn’t seem likely.
Marcello headed back to his room to get some sleep. Isabella felt a flutter of nerves at being alone with Max again, but he treated her with distant politeness, making her sit closer to the fire to dry her hair while he dispatched poor Renzo off to get her car and bring it up for her. And then he began to pace the room again, staying as far away from her as he could manage.
Her conversational gambits seemed to have dried up with Marcello out of the room. She fluffed her hair in the warmth of the fire and racked her brain for a subject as the silence between the two of them got louder.
“I like your cousin,” she said at last, risking a quick look his way. “And I appreciate the medical attention.” She threw him a quick smile and made an attempt at a light joke. “You treat trespassers well around here.”
He gave her a piercing look, then turned back to stare into the fire. She noted he was getting less and less protective of the right side of his face. Did that mean he was getting less self-conscious? Or that he cared less what she thought?
“Yes,” he said at last, speaking slowly. “Marcello is my friend as well as my cousin.” He glanced her way. “He and I once looked very much alike,” he added softly, almost as though musing to himself. “People took us for brothers.”
She nodded. She could tell that, despite the scar. “He’s very handsome,” she said before she thought, then colored slightly as she realized how he might take that.
He glanced at her, eyebrow raised, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t speak again right away. She wanted to. She wanted to tell him his own face was so much more interesting than his cousin’s. It had all the beauty Marcello had, but it had something more—character, history, a hard and cruel story to tell. Just what that story was, she didn’t know, but there was passion there, and mystery, and heartbreak. It was a face for the ages, a map of human tragedy, a work of art.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized she preferred it. In fact, she found it beautiful in a rare and special way. But she couldn’t say those things—could she? He would think she was flattering him, perhaps even trying to get something from him.
“You are both very handsome,” she said at last, feeling a bit brave to say that much.
He shrugged, looking away. “My face is what it is. It is what I made it. My burden to bear.”
She sat back, biting her tongue and wondering if she dared say any of the things she was thinking. He was wonderful to look at. Didn’t he realize that?
Or was it her? Was she strange?
That was a loaded question and she didn’t want to answer it. But she had to say something.
“You know what I think?” she began. “I think you should come to my restaurant. You need to get out and…”
He swore softly but it was enough to stop the words in her throat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he told her roughly. “You don’t have a clue.”
Of course she didn’t. She knew that. But he didn’t have to be so rude. She was only trying to help.
She bit her lip, considering the situation. For some reason, when he ordered her about, she often found herself wanting to do what he said. It was time to nip that in the bud. He was beginning to think of her as a pushover, wasn’t he? Sure, he was a prince and she was a nobody—but that didn’t matter. She’d never been the amenable one in any relationship. Why let it get started now? She had to fight this drift toward subservience. Rising from her seat on the couch, she faced him with her hands on her hips, her head cocked at a challenging angle.
“I thought I should let you know that I don’t really think you’re a vampire,” she said as an opening.
He nodded, looking at her coolly. “I was pretty sure about that all along.”
“But you do have cruel tendencies,” she said, looking at him earnestly. “Listen, about the herbs I need from your hillside—”
“No.” He said it with utter finality.
She pulled her head back, startled by his vehemence. “But…”
He held a hand up to stop her in her tracks. “If keeping you off a dangerous hillside is cruel, I’m a monster. Sorry, but that is the way it is.”
“But—”
“No. You’re to stay away. And that’s final.”
He rose as if to add emphasis to his words. She looked up at him and swallowed hard. He looked tall and stern and unyielding, and his shoulders were wide as the horizon. There was no humor in his face, no softness at all. His scars were vivid and his hard eyes made the breath catch in her throat and her heart beat just a little faster. Just that quickly she was back to being a timid petitioner, and he was once again a prince. His gaze met hers and held. She couldn’t say a thing.
And then, breaking the spell,