Beauty and the Reclusive Prince by Raye Morgan Page A

We didn’t have the money or the other ‘properties’ like you did. We made do.”
    His face twisted. “You mean, you made do. But at least you had your family around you.”
    She looked up, surprised. “Where was your father?”
    He gazed at her coolly. “He was despondent. My mother’s death hit him hard.” His gaze darkened. “We didn’t see much of him after that.”
    “But you had your sister.”
    He shook his head. “Not really. She went to live with another aunt. I had a pretty lonely childhood when you come right down to it. You were lucky to stay with your family, even if it did mean you ended up being the support for everyone.” He smiled at her. “That was the way it was, wasn’t it?”
    She frowned, feeling bad for him. At least she had her father and had benefited from his love and counsel all her life. She didn’t know how she would have made it without that. Hearing about his experiences gave her a new perspective on what family could mean to a child.
    “But I soon went away to school in Switzerland,” he continued, “and then to university in England. And then…then I married.”
    The young wife he’d lost tragically. Should she say anything? She wasn’t sure, so she murmured condolences again, and he brushed them aside.
    “Never mind all that,” he said crisply, looking at her over the rim of his wine glass. “Tell me more about you, Isabella. Tell me about your hopes and dreams and how many young men you’ve been in love with.”
    Here was the opening she’d been waiting for.
    “Exactly what I planned to do,” she told him cheerfully. “Well, not counting the boyfriends. They shall remain nameless, if you don’t mind.” She made a face at him. “But while you’re finishing your meal, I’m going to give you a small background about my family and our restaurant.” She gave a little bow. “With your permission,” she added pertly.
    He waved a hand her way, his attention back on the delicious food before him.
    “Carry on,” he said kindly.
    “Thank you.” She settled into the chair that faced his. “First about my father. His name is Luca Casali. His mother, Rosa, started a restaurant here in Monta Correnti after her husband died and left her with a young family to support. She used a special recipe she got from a secret source, and her food was well received.”
    He looked up with a slight smile, his gaze skimming over her face. He liked the way she talked. She was so animated.
    “So you are from a restaurant family from the beginning, aren’t you?”
    She scrunched up her face a bit. “More or less. My father and his sister, Lisa, took over my grandmother’s restaurant when she died, but they don’t get along very well, so they split up. My father had a roadside stand for years before he moved to our current location. My aunt still runs Sorella, which is basically my grandmother’s place updated for modern times.”
    She pulled a scrapbook out of her bag and put it on thetable, close to his mat. She’d put it together, using the computer to blow up pictures that would illustrate her family history and help Max understand what Rosa, and the special herb, meant to them all.
    “Here is a picture of my father as a young man when he had the food stand on the Via Roma. And the next picture was taken when he was finally able to open a real restaurant, the place we call Rosa, after my grandmother, the culmination of all his hard work.”
    Max turned and leaned forward, taking the book from her and frowning at the first picture she’d turned to.
    “This is your father?” he asked.
    “Yes. Luca Casali.”
    He nodded slowly. “I remember him. He used to come here when I was a child.”
    Isabella stared at him. This was the first she’d heard of such a thing. “Here? To the Rossi palazzo?”
    “Yes.” He looked at her, noting an element or two of resemblance to the man. “I think he cooked for us occasionally.”
    She suddenly felt a bit smaller than before,