“It’s takeaway, lass, I’ve got things to do,” Prentice murmured, hitting the kitchen that opened to the great room, separated by a long, wide, v-shaped counter with stools and on its other side, floor to cathedral ceiling windows that faced the sea.
He picked up the post.
“I’ll cook,” Isabella offered and Prentice’s head snapped up.
Earlier, he’d been incorrect. It was more hateful having Isabella in Fiona’s kitchen cooking than it was simply having Isabella in Fiona’s house. Or, more to the point, cooking better than Fiona in Fiona’s kitchen.
Fiona was a damn fine cook however, if memory served, Isabella was an excellent one. Her cooking was a delicious mixture of home-cooking and gourmet. When she’d been there twenty years ago, both summers, she did it often for him, his family, their friends and she’d cooked and served fabulous tasting meals like it was second nature.
Sally’s head tilted back excitedly to look at her new idol.
“You cook and wear high heels?” she asked as if this was an act akin to negotiating world peace with global socialized healthcare thrown in.
“We don’t have any food in the house,” Prentice cut in and Isabella’s eyes moved to him.
“I’ll go to the store.”
Sally jumped up and down. “Can I go to the store with Bel… I mean, Mrs. Evangahlala? Can I, can I, can I?”
“I said takeaway,” Prentice replied.
“Daddeeeeeee!” Sally whined.
“Takeaway,” Prentice repeated and Sally’s face fell.
Fucking, bloody, hell.
He gave in.
He couldn’t help it. He hated it when Sally’s face fell.
However, he needed time to adjust to the idea. He also needed time with Jason to see how his son was faring with movie star glamorous Isabella Evangelista in the house.
“Perhaps Mrs. Evangelista will cook for us tomorrow night,” he suggested.
Sally jumped up and down, clapping and whirling toward Isabella.
“Will you? Will you, will you, will you?”
Isabella smiled down at his daughter and said softly, “Of course, sweetheart.”
Sally stopped jumping and clapping and stared in bright-eyed, happy wonder at Isabella.
At the same time Prentice felt like someone had hit him in the gut with a sledgehammer.
Then he felt his temper flare.
This woman was not going to turn her considerable charm on his children then walk out of their lives without a second thought.
He started to move around the kitchen counter saying, “Isabella, I’ll show you to your room.”
“I’ll go too!” Sally announced, grasping Isabella’s hand.
“No, baby, you go put your books in your room,” Prentice ordered.
“Daddy,” Sally whined.
“Now, Sally. I need a word with Isabella.”
Sally sighed with aggrieved exaggeration and then stomped to the stairs.
Prentice headed to the back hall that led to the backstairs that led to the guest suite that was removed from the family areas. It was a suite he’d designed because Fiona said guests needed privacy and when she’d been alive, with her many friends and huge family, it had been occupied frequently.
Since her funeral, it had never been occupied.
Isabella followed.
When she walked into the room, she looked around and Prentice closed the door.
Then she turned to Prentice.
“You have a beautiful home,” she said softly.
Prentice ignored the compliment.
“There are sheets in the wardrobe in the bedroom. Towels in the cupboard in the bathroom. This room,” he indicated the small but welcoming and cozy (Fiona had made it the latter two) sitting room, “has its own phone line, broadband and television so you can have privacy.”
“Thank you.”
Prentice decided it was best if he made his wishes very clear and he didn’t delay.
“I expect you to be in here as often as possible when you’re in my house.”
He could swear he saw her body lock.
“Sorry?” she asked, again with that odd, soft voice.
“I think you heard me,” he replied.
“Prentice –” she started but stopped when he shook his head.
“I’m sure you’re aware that my children lost their mother a year ago. Sally’s obviously looking for anyone to fill that feminine gap and it isn’t going to be you.”
Her face didn’t lose any of its composure as her eyes stayed unwavering on his.
“Prentice –” she started again but he kept talking.
“This is a holiday for you but it’s their life.”
“I wouldn’t do –”
Prentice cut her off and his tone was biting. “Wouldn’t you?”
She looked to the floor immediately and stated, “I deserved that.”
Christ, she was a piece of work.
His temper, already at the surface, boiled over.
“You’ve said that already but you didn’t mean it when you said it to Debs and you don’t mean it now.”
Her eyes shot back to his and she opened her mouth but he didn’t let her speak.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing this time but I reckon you know I’m no’ playing it. What you need to know is, you aren’t playing it with my children.”
“I’m not playing a game,” she returned coolly.
“That’s good then,” he replied but it was impossible to miss the way he said it meant he didn’t believe one word out of her mouth.
And Isabella didn’t miss it.
She leaned forward slightly. “I lost my mother when I was young too. I would never play games with any children, especially not yours.”
“I’ve no idea what a woman like you does for fun,” Prentice shot back. “I just want you to understand whatever fun you intend to have, it will no’ involve my family.”
She crossed her arms and hugged her elbows, whispering, “I don’t deserve this.”
Prentice was silent.
She held his gaze.
Then, as if unable to stop herself, she asked, “What kind of woman do you think I am?”
She shouldn’t have asked it. She knew it and so did he.
He should have let it go.
He didn’t let it go.
Instead, he answered, “The kind of woman who’d play with a man’s heart without a second thought then leave her best friend in a hospital bed for months without lowering herself for that first goddamned visit.”
Prentice watched with detached fascination as her composure slipped for a split second, exposing pain, before she regained it.
Her face softened slightly. “Perhaps I should explain.”
“I don’t want an explanation,” he returned and he didn’t, he was twenty years and a dead wife away from explanations. “I want to know we understand each other.”
Isabella was silent for a moment.
Then she whispered, “Sally likes me.”
“Sally likes everyone.”
Isabella pressed her lips together for a brief moment and he could swear it was an effort to hide her genuine reaction. This was an effort that worked; she gave not that first thing away.
Then she nodded.
“Of course, Prentice,” she gave in quietly. “I’ll stay in these rooms.”
“Except when you cook Sally dinner tomorrow night. That’s one promise you’re going to keep.”
He didn’t wait for her to agree.
He left.
And he put her out of his mind while he called for takeaway.
To Sally’s dismay and Prentice’s relief, Isabella didn’t join them for dinner.
Fiona
Fiona knew she should not hang out in the guest suite but she did mainly because she’d been there when Prentice had told Isabella off and since she couldn’t verbally crow, she wanted to ethereally crow.