Beauty and the Reclusive Prince / Executive: Expecting Tiny Twins: Beauty and the Reclusive Prince. Raye Morgan
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like to take a look and see how they are healing.”
She glanced around the restaurant. It wasn’t packed by any means but half the tables were filled with people she’d known all her life. Every one of them was watching with rapt attention.
“Too public?” he asked as he followed her train of thought. She threw another quick look at the audience, then turned with a toss of her head.
“Let them talk,” she said blithely. “TV is mostly reruns this week. They need some fresh entertainment.”
He laughed and followed her to the storeroom where he looked her over and quickly pronounced her healing nicely. They chatted in the kitchen for a few minutes. She enjoyed being with him, but wasn’t sure how to deal with that. He was so good-looking, but it was as if there was a special ingredient missing—just like the Rosa sauce without the Monta Rosa Basil. The prince had an element of fire in him that she found lacking in his cousin. There was no doubt about it—something about the Rossi prince appealed to her like no other man she’d ever seen.
“I want to ask you a question about your cousin,” she told him at one point, a little hesitant. She knew it was going to be a touchy subject.
“Shoot,” he said casually, cradling the glass of golden wine she’d poured for him.
“It’s about his scars. I understand he was badly injured in a car accident. Is that true?”
Marcello nodded.
She frowned. “Why doesn’t anyone seem to know anything about it here in the village?”
He shrugged. “People like the Rossi family have ways of keeping things quiet,” he said. “And there were certain elements about that accident they didn’t want the world to know about.”
She drew her breath in. “Like what?” she asked.
He smiled. “Sorry, Isabella. That is not something I’m at liberty to talk about.”
She leaned back, disappointed but intrigued. What could it possibly be?
But she had a more important question. How could she get his cousin to let her back on the royal property?
“If I could just talk to him,” she said, searching Marcello’s eyes for ideas. “If I could just explain how important this is.”
He shrugged, draining the last drop of golden liquid from his glass. “Go on over and confront the lion in his lair,” he suggested with a casual gesture appealing to the fates.
She scrunched up her face, a picture of doubt. “I don’t think I’d better do that. I don’t think that would really work. Besides, how would I get in?”
He shrugged again and straightened from his place at the counter. “Your call.”
She sighed and gave him a significant look. “If only I had the number for his mobile.”
“Ah.” He bit back a grin, his eyes sparkling with laughter. “You’re not the first to hint around for that number.”
She leaned closer, trying to look persuasive but not sure how to do that with a man like this. “I’m sure you know what it is.”
He nodded, looking her over with barely leashed pity. “I do. And I’m sworn to secrecy, just as you’d expect.”
“Oh.” She straightened and frowned, her heart sinking.
“I’m not allowed to tell anyone.”
She nodded, feeling tragic and hopeless. “I was afraid of that.”
He looked as tragic as she felt. “I’m sorry. It would be a betrayal of trust for me to tell you what it is.”
She nodded again, leaning against the tall counter with her chin in her hand. “I understand,” she said sadly.
He reached past her to take a pencil from a cup full of them. “It’s a fairly easy number to remember,” he said as he pulled a piece of paper from a stack of them on the counter. “I think I could probably recreate it right now, just doodling here.” And he began to do just that. “But I would never tell you what it is.”
Her eyes widened. Had he just done what she thought he’d done? “Of course not,” she said faintly, hope rekindled.
They chatted for another few seconds. Isabella was on tenterhooks but she studiously avoided looking at the paper in front of him, which he was filling with doodles. Still, she noticed out of the corner of her eye when he turned to leave and crushed it into a ball. Very deliberately, he tossed it into a nearby trash can.
“Take care, Isabella,” he said. Giving her a big smile, he winked and headed for the door.
She waited until he was out of the room, then whirled and grabbed the paper from the trash can. She pressed it flat against the counter, and there it was—a telephone number, the figures embellished wildly, but still legible. Just the thought of calling it sent her pulse soaring. Thanks to Marcello, she had what she’d wanted, a connection to the prince. Now, how was she going to work up the courage to use it?
Max jerked upright when he heard his mobile chime. For just a moment, he wondered what the noise was. He’d only heard it a few times before. Almost no one had his number, and those who did usually called on the landline or sent him an e-mail. He frowned as he fumbled through his stack of books and papers, looking for the blasted thing and ready to bark at whoever was calling and interrupting a good idea flow he’d got into on this lazy, sunny afternoon.
His frown deepened as he realized he didn’t recognize the caller’s ID. Probably a wrong number. He dropped the phone back onto his desk and turned away, ready to let it ring itself silly. But it didn’t stop and he swore sharply and reached for it again, prepared to turn it off. But this time something about the caller ID caught his attention. He hesitated. Why not give it a try? After all, what could it hurt? With a grimace, he clicked on and put it to his ear.
“Ciao.”
There was a soft exhalation of breath and a feminine voice said, “Is this Max?”
He blinked. “Yes. Who’s this?” But in a flash, he knew.
“Isabella Casali. I…we met the other night when I…”
Letting his head fall back, he closed his eyes. He really didn’t need this. Life as he’d grown to know it was boring but placid. Not too many highs and lows—if you didn’t count the midnight agonies of a guilty conscience. And then, this woman had inserted herself into his sphere. And it came to this—just the sound of her voice did strange and mystical things to him.
“I remember,” he said gruffly. “How did you get this number?”
“It wasn’t easy.” She hesitated, then went on. “Listen, I don’t mean to be a bother, but I need to talk to you.”
His hand tightened on the small device. “It’s that damned basil, isn’t it?”
She sputtered for a few seconds, then got herself together again in time to be coherent. “Well, yes, it is. You see, this is a matter of such importance—”
He stopped her with a rude word. He was angry with himself, angry with her. The way she’d barged into his life a few nights before had affected him more than he wanted to admit. He told himself it was just her femaleness that had sent him into a tailspin for a couple of days.
It could have been any woman, anyone at all. Despite everything, he did feel a real lack of the feminine presence in his life. He missed having someone around who put flowers in a glass and plunked them in the middle of the table at breakfast. He missed the flow of shiny hair spilling over a smooth, silky shoulder, the soft pout of red, swollen lips, the cheerful voice that sounded like sunshine, the way a pair of breasts filled out a sweater and pulled the fabric in that tightly entrancing way that just knocked him out. All these things shouted femininity to him. Having a woman around