LITMIR.BIZ

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a fuss. What was a birthday, anyway? Just a day. Nothing special. All the celebrating was just a pretence that something had actually happened, something had actually changed, a milestone had been set down. And actually, it was all much ado about nothing.

      A memory floated into his mind, how his birthday had been when Laura was still with him. She’d slipped out of bed early in the morning and taken little gifts and hidden them all over the castle. It had taken him the entire day to find them all. How she’d laughed when he’d looked in all the wrong places. He could almost hear her musical voice now.

      But he shook it away. Thinking of Laura was still too painful. Would there ever come a time when he could remember her without that dull, hopeless, agonizing pain of guilt in his gut?

      Finally he was ready to put a stop to this and get on with his day. He turned off the water and stood there for a moment, feeling the mist around him turn into clear air, the warmth turn into refreshing coolness, the moisture evaporate on his skin. For some reason his senses seemed especially acute today. He was feeling things he never noticed, hearing birds outside, feeling a breeze, enjoying the rays of the sun that came in through the open window. As usual, he avoided looking in the mirror while he dried himself with a huge fluffy towel, glancing out the window at the beautiful day instead.

      “There’s no place like Italy,” he murmured to himself. “And in Italy, there’s no place like Monta Correnti.”

      He stretched in the warm sunlight, smelling the clean scent of his soap. And…something else.

      He stopped, frowning, and sniffed the air again. There was something else in the wind—or, more likely, wafting up from the kitchen. Someone was cooking. How could someone be cooking? There was no one here. Even Renzo was gone, making his weekly trip to see his daughter an hour’s drive away.

      Was it his imagination?

      No, it got stronger. Garlic, tomatoes, olive oil, and something else.

      It was a wonderful smell. A slow smile began to transform his face. It seemed someone had remembered his birthday after all and had come back to surprise him. It had to be Renzo.

      Much as the old sourpuss tended to be a dour figure, he had his moments. Max pulled on a pair of jeans, suddenly in a hurry to find out what was going on. He turned to the stairway, bounding down, barefooted and shirtless, feeling happier than he’d felt in a long time. Funny how the fact that someone had remembered his birthday after all seemed to buoy him. He was smiling as he pushed in through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

      “So you did remember my birthday after all,” he said, and then he stopped dead, shocked to the core. It wasn’t Renzo who turned to greet him.

      “You!” He stared at her. “How did you get in here?”

      Isabella was opening her mouth, and as she did so she thought she had words to say. But somehow they never made it out past her lips. For the moment, she couldn’t speak.

      It was all too much. She was startled by the way he’d come barging into the room, but, more than that, she was stunned at the beauty of the man she saw before her. His bare chest, his strong shoulders and muscular arms, the way his worn jeans rode low on his hips, revealing a tanned stomach that was smooth and tight as a trampoline canvas, all combined to present a picture of raw, candid masculinity that took her breath away.

      “Oh! I…I…”

      His jaw was hard as stone and his eyes blazed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

      “Uh…” She gestured toward the stove. “Cooking?”

      His head went back. That part was obvious. He was tensed, every muscle hardening, as though ready to pick her up physically and throw her out onto the front walkway.

      “That’s not what I mean,” he said through teeth that were close to clenched.

      “I know. I know.”

      She shook her head, trying to clear it. She’d never responded to a man like this before. She was swooning like a young girl in the sixties at a Beatles concert. She had to get a grip.

      But something about him had hit her hard, right in the emotions. He had come barging into the kitchen and as she’d turned to greet him she’d seen this beautifully sculptured image of a man, backlit by the golden light coming in from the high windows. Michelangelo’s creation in the flesh. She had that feeling she sometimes got when her favorite tenor reached an impossibly high note and held it forever. She even had tears stinging in her eyes—he was just so beautiful.

      She turned from him and leaned against the counter, her hand over her mouth. Staring into the red sauce bubbling on the stove, she fought for stability. What was she going to do? She couldn’t seem to stay sane around this man.

      And she had to. This was not what she’d come for. She didn’t want to be mesmerized by his male appeal. She had a case to make and she had to stay on her toes to make it. But somehow sanity and the prince didn’t seem to go together well.

      Too bad, she told herself sternly. You’ve got to do this right.

      Taking a deep breath, she turned back to face him. Resolutely, she lifted her gaze and stared at him hard.

      “Okay, here’s the deal,” she said, and somehow she managed to sound strong. “You are denying me access to something I need in order to survive. Something my family traditionally has had access to. We have to find a way to compromise on this.”

      He stared back at her. She was looking up at him, her eyes very wide, and he realized he hadn’t even thought to shield his face from her gaze. Here he was in broad daylight with none of the protective shadows of the other night. And there she was, staring straight at him. And yet, once again he felt no overwhelming need to turn away as he felt so often with others. Her gaze was open and natural. She might be scared of something about him, but it wasn’t his face.

      But it was her face that drew his attention. He took a step closer and reached out to take her chin in his hand and tilt her head so that he could examine her. And then he swore softly.

      “Isabella, you still have a bad bruise,” he said, a touch of outrage in his voice as he studied her black eye.

      “Oh,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Yes, I’ve been told it will take a while to fade.”

      He swore softly, shaking his head, then pulled away from her and looked at the items she’d spread out all over the kitchen.

      “You’re going to have to pack all this up and get out of here,” he said tersely.

      She took a step back away from him. She knew he was angry at finding her here. What confused her a bit, though, was why her black eye seemed to make him even angrier. As though it were her fault or something!

      “Why?”

      He looked back at her. “Because, once again, you’re trespassing. You’re going to have to go.”

      She shook her head. She wasn’t going to be bowled over so easily. She lifted her chin. “Not until you try the sauce.”

      A look of surprise flashed in his dark eyes. He turned to glance at the brew simmering in the pot. “Is this your special sauce?”

      “Yes.”

      He turned back and met her defiant eyes.

      “I don’t want to try your sauce, Isabella. I’m sure it’s a fine sauce. But, no matter how good it is, it won’t change anything. The special quality of your sauce is not at issue here. It’s the access to the hillside, and I can’t allow you to go there.”

      He was like a stone wall. Her hope began to flag.

      “Max, please.” She winced and drew back a bit. “Don’t you understand?” she said, trying hard to be calm and reasonable. “I have to go there.”

      He shrugged as though he just didn’t care. “I’m going to go and finish dressing,” he said

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