Clara hadn’t thought to suspect his sister of sabotage and that seemed extreme to even consider. She ignored the wayward thought and hoped to get alone with his sister to understand her. “Well, that backfired. The minute, literally, that Max met me, Astorre changed his tune and decided that he wanted to marry me.”
“My sister had already turned him down,” Astorre said.
Her mind buzzed. Maybe there was more to the story that she hadn’t been told.
Or not.
She wanted to trust Astorre and decided not to pursue her questions.
He squeezed her hand and they peered into one another's eyes. For a second she forgot where she was until Rossie said, “Well, when you get home, if you need our help, I’m not afraid to go to Montelino Bay.”
“Montelino Bay?” Clara blinked.
Astorre pressed his shoulder into hers. “That’s my horrible house’s name. Are you ready to go now, Clara?”
Guess dessert was for another day. Or never. She didn’t need any more sweets so she stood. “Yes, I’m really curious now.”
He nodded.
Their friends walked them to the door and the waiting limo. Clara thanked them for their fast lunch. Rossie and Stephano waved goodbye and headed inside.
Once the door closed, Clara heard the click and knew they were heading to her new home.
It was time to show Astorre that he could trust her, and that she believed he was a good man.
The rest of their lives started now, so it was best to find out what she was up against…and how they might work their way to being happy, together, forever.
Chapter 8
To Clara, Montelino Bay seemed like a name out of a suspense story where in the end the maid tried to kill the new wife. That was an old black and white movie plot and one of the few books she had a hard time reading. As they approached the house, serious fog from the sea made it impossible to see anything.
The stone path and black gates seemed covered by gray clouds.
Until they came close enough and she saw the gray-stoned castle walls--it was medieval and made her think of a lair where dragons might land in a fantasy novel.
If she was going to visually paint a house where murder had happened, she couldn't have found one more suitable.
Had his father gone mad because of lack of electricity?
The windows were all dark like no one was there.
Beside her Astorre was quiet, unusually so. He radiated tension.
Clara understood why and didn’t ask questions. As the car pulled to a stop before the entrance, he sat in the back like he didn’t want to go in. She fixed the line of her fancy black dress. “If you want, we can go somewhere else.”
“No, we need to get out.” It was clear the words hurt him and he really, really didn't want to.
She swallowed, but didn’t argue. When he was ready, they scooted out and she stared straight up.
There was no door. Instead there were turrets in the four corners, arrow slits, a barbican outside for defense in case of a siege, battlements, machicolation on the battlements to pour hot oil or water down, and the front door wasn’t open as there was a portcullis, a metal gate, complete with grooves in the ground that needed to be lifted.
Montelino Bay didn’t seem like a home at all. It was living history in every rock.
Astorre and Rossie’s two-hundred room house, Haron Hall, was more like a palace in comparison, with gilded walls and crystal chandeliers.
The portcullis wound slowly and screeched as it was raised for them.
Astorre’s face was white.
