The Secret Kept from the Italian Page 2

  ‘Oh.’ Her tense shoulders slumped a little in relief. ‘Good.’

  ‘Shall we toast to that?’ Antonio suggested lightly. ‘Yours are some of the only jobs that won’t be affected.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her mouth, lush and pink, turned down at the corners. ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘But not for you.’

  ‘No...’

  He raised his glass. ‘Cincin.’

  Slowly, so slowly, she took a sip of whisky, wrinkling her nose at the taste of the alcohol, but swallowing it without a splutter.

  ‘What does cincin mean?’

  ‘It’s a common toast in Italy.’

  ‘Ah.’ She nodded. ‘Is that where you’re from?’

  ‘Guilty.’ The word sprang to his lips and soured his gut. Guilty. He was so guilty, and not simply for his heritage. For so much more. Things he could never undo. Things he could never forget, even if he tried to let himself.

  ‘I’ve never been to Italy.’ She sounded wistful. ‘Is it beautiful?’

  ‘Parts are very beautiful.’

  Maisie looked down, and then took another sip of whisky, shuddering a little as the liquor went down. ‘It tastes like fire.’

  ‘Feels like it, too.’ Antonio tossed back the last of his drink, savouring the burn, craving the oblivion. If he closed his eyes he’d see his brother’s face, the smile curving his mouth, his eyes sparkling, everything in him young and carefree for a moment. If he kept his eyes closed that face would change, turn lifeless and pale, the pavement beneath his head wine-red with blood even though he’d never seen his brother like that. Never had the chance.

  That was why he needed to keep drinking. So he could close his eyes.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Maisie asked softly. She’d lowered her glass and was giving him a searching look, her eyes wide and so very green. ‘I don’t mean work. I mean drinking alone late at night.’ Antonio shrugged, about to say something dismissive about needing to work late, but then she skewered him with her next sorrowful observation. ‘You looked so sad. As sad as I’ve felt.’

  The quiet admission pierced him right through. ‘You’ve felt...?’

  Her lips twisted, her lashes sweeping down to hide her gaze. ‘My parents died when I was nineteen. When I looked at you, that’s what I thought about. You looked...you looked the way I felt then. Sometimes the way I still feel.’

  Her honesty felled him. He’d never encountered such raw, simple truth, unvarnished, unafraid. It humbled him and it left him speechless. Finally he found some words, but they weren’t the ones he’d expected. ‘That’s because I’ve lost someone as well, and I was thinking about him tonight.’

  What? He never talked about Paolo. Not to anyone. Certainly not to a stranger. He tried not to think about him, but of course he always did. Paolo was always on the fringes of his mind, in the corners of his soul. Haunting him. Accusing him. Making him remember.

  ‘Who did you lose?’ Her eyes were sad and yet full of compassion, her face so heartbreakingly lovely. Her auburn hair framed her face in a curly, fiery nimbus, and her mouth was lush, her expression open. Antonio wanted to sweep her into his arms, but more than that he wanted to talk to her. He wanted to tell her the truth, or at least as much of the truth as he could bear to reveal.

  ‘My brother,’ he said quietly. ‘My little brother.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘OH.’ THE WORD was a soft gasp as Maisie looked at this man, this beautiful man, who was so obviously still grieving. Her heart ached for him. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He jerked one powerful shoulder in a shrug. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I have a little brother. I can’t imagine...’ She couldn’t bear to lose Max. Not after everything else. He was all she had, and now that he’d finished university he was living his own life, claiming an independence that made her feel both proud and sad. It was finally time to chase her own dreams, but sometimes that was a lonely occupation.

  ‘Yet you lost your parents.’ Antonio shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled towards the window, his shuttered gaze on the city skyline. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘A car accident.’

  His shoulders tensed and he stilled. ‘A drunk driver?’

  ‘No, just someone going too fast. Ran a red light and ploughed head-on into their car.’ She took a quick, steadying breath. Five years later it still hurt. It was no longer the fresh, stinging, open wound, but more the ache of an old but deep injury that would always be a part of her. ‘The mercy was they both died instantly.’

  He let out a huff of utterly humourless laughter. ‘Some mercy.’

  ‘It’s something,’ Maisie said quietly. Sometimes it had felt like all she had. ‘How did your younger brother die?’

  Antonio didn’t answer for a moment; Maisie felt instinctively he was wondering how much to say. Debating how much to tell her. ‘The same,’ he finally answered tonelessly. ‘A car accident.’ He paused. ‘Just like your parents.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He nodded in acknowledgement, his jaw tight. ‘It’s hard, sometimes, to think someone’s recklessness caused the death of someone you love, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Antonio said, his voice flat. ‘Very hard.’

  ‘Was it someone going too fast, or—?’

  ‘Yes.’ He cut her off, his voice terse and flat. ‘Someone was going too fast.’

  Belatedly Maisie realised he might not want to rake over such details. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and impulsively she crossed to him and laid one hand on his arm. He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves and her fingers curled over his bare forearm, the skin warm and taut beneath her palm. An arrow of sensation pierced her core, surprising her with its intensity. She nearly snatched her hand away, and yet for some reason she didn’t. Couldn’t.

  They remained that way, both frozen, for a few taut seconds and then Antonio slowly turned. Maisie saw the heat in his piercing blue eyes, and she felt it in herself, a flood of warmth and need that doused all rational thought. She stared at him, knowing she couldn’t hide her expression, her desire. She’d been wanting only to comfort him; at least she thought she had, but now she felt something else entirely. Something overwhelming.

  She drew a breath and it hitched audibly. Antonio’s eyes flared again. Maisie stared at him, feeling trapped, but in a wonderful way. An exciting way.

  ‘How old is your younger brother?’ Antonio asked quietly, and the exquisite tension didn’t break, but it lessened. Maisie took another careful breath and removed her hand from his arm; already she missed the warmth of his skin.

  ‘He’s twenty-two now.’

  ‘So he was seventeen when your parents died.’

  Surprise and a strange kind of gratification rippled through her at his swift recall. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you do? Without your parents?’

  ‘Worked.’ She didn’t want to get into the whole tedious sob story of her parents’ sudden death, the ensuing shock that they had no savings and her family home had been double-mortgaged. Money had always been a concern in Maisie’s childhood, but she hadn’t realised what an overwhelming fear it could be until after her parents’ death. But surely a man like Antonio Rossi, with his yacht and his houses and his glittering career, didn’t want to hear about that.

  ‘Worked,’ Antonio repeated slowly, his gaze searching her face. ‘Did you take care of your brother?’

  ‘Yes.’ Maisie couldn’t keep the ferocity from her tone. Max had been everything to her after her parents had died. She was still finding it hard not to have him at the centre of her world. Even with her new life in the city, she missed him. She missed him needing her, but of course he hadn’t needed her for a while. Not emotionally, anyway.

  ‘What’s his name?’ Antonio asked softly, and for some reason his interest nearly undid her.

  ‘Max,’ she whispered. ‘He just finishe
d university in the spring. He’s doing an internship on Wall Street.’

  ‘Wall Street.’ Antonio gave a low whistle. ‘Sounds like you’ve done a good job.’

  ‘I tried.’ Maisie dragged her gaze away from Antonio’s eyes with effort. ‘But we were talking about you.’

  ‘Were we?’

  ‘What was your brother’s name?’

  Antonio hesitated, and Maisie realised it was an intimate, even invasive question. She understood instinctively that he didn’t talk about his brother; that already she was privileged to know as much, or really as little, as she did. ‘Paolo,’ he finally said, and the word escaped from him on a reluctant sigh. ‘He was five years younger than me. He died ten years ago today.’

  ‘Today...’

  ‘Hence the whisky.’ He let out a humourless laugh. ‘I always find January sixteenth one of the hardest days of the year.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He shrugged, his gaze sliding away from hers. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘I know that.’ She smiled sadly, wanting to touch him again, to offer him that basic comfort, and yet afraid of his response—and hers. ‘But I also know how much it hurts. And I’m sorry that you’re hurting in that way. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.’

  ‘No.’ He glanced back at her, his gaze heavy-lidded now, turning sensual. ‘You are a very kind person, Maisie. You have a generous heart, to give so much to people and probably receive less in return.’

  She laughed uncertainly. ‘That makes me sound a little bit like a doormat,’ she observed.

  ‘Not at all.’ He cocked his head. ‘Is that how you feel?’

  Surprise flared through her at his perception, because the truth was she’d always felt, in the darkest corner of her heart, that she gave more to Max, loved him more, than he did her. But that was the nature of their relationship, wasn’t it? There were only two years between them but she’d become both mother and father to him. She’d had to. And she’d wanted to, but...sometimes her life had felt dreary, thankless. Sometimes she’d wondered if there was anything more, even as she missed his active presence in her life now. ‘Maybe a little,’ she admitted, and then felt wretched. How could she begrudge her brother anything, never mind her own love? ‘Not really...’

  ‘Shh.’ Antonio pressed his finger to her lips, utterly silencing her. ‘You don’t have to apologise for your feelings. It’s already obvious to me how much you care about your brother, and how much you’ve sacrificed for him.’

  ‘How could you possibly know that?’ Maisie whispered, her lips brushing his fingers with every syllable. He kept his finger there, pressed to her lips, light as a feather and yet feeling like the most intimate thing she’d ever experienced.

  His gaze was dark and hooded as he replied, ‘Because it shines from you. Love and...and goodness.’

  From someone else it would have sounded like sentimental flattery, but Antonio’s tone was so gentle and sincere, with a touch of sorrow that made Maisie ache. No one had ever said such things to her before. No one had ever even noticed all she’d done for Max. All she’d given up for herself. And somehow this beautiful stranger had.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and Antonio pressed his finger more firmly against her mouth, a caress that Maisie felt to her core. She shuddered, unable to stop herself, and Antonio smiled.

  ‘So loving,’ he murmured as he traced the outline of her lips with his fingertip. ‘And so lovely.’

  Maisie remained transfixed under his touch; the touch of his fingers felt as if he were imprinting himself on her soul. She’d had a few boyfriends over the years, but none of them had been serious—there had been Max to think of, and life was so busy, working full-time and trying to keep up with her music. Those boyfriends’ kisses and clinches hadn’t affected her the way Antonio Rossi did, by simply touching her lips with the tip of his finger. Not remotely.

  Some hazy part of her brain was telling her that she needed to stop this nonsense and get back to work. Finish her shift and go home and forget the dangerous magic that was being wrought in this room, making her insides fizz and the air shimmer.

  Antonio trailed his finger from her lips to her chin and then down to the hollow in her throat, where her pulse beat frantically. He rested it there, his brows drawn together as he studied her. He glanced at her from underneath heavy-lidded eyes and then he dropped his finger lower, undoing her coverall and skimming under the plain white T-shirt she wore beneath, with the cleaning company’s insignia on the breast pocket.

  Shock and desire crashed through Maisie in a double wave and the half-full tumbler of whisky dropped from her nerveless fingers and fell onto the floor, the alcohol soaking into the carpet and filling the air with its pungent scent.

  She gasped and looked down in horror. ‘Oh, no...’

  ‘It doesn’t matter...’

  ‘It does. I can’t leave a mess in an office I’ve just cleaned.’

  ‘Then we won’t leave it.’

  He smiled, the wry yet intent look in his eyes as good as telling her that this was not going to serve as a distraction from his true purpose, or at least not for long. Yet what did he, magnetic sexy billionaire that he was, want with her?

  Of course, the answer was glaringly obvious. Maisie blinked, rooted to the spot, as Antonio fetched a cloth and some carpet cleaner and began to scrub the stain.

  He wanted sex. That was what rich, powerful men wanted with women like her. The only thing. Yet here he was, cleaning the carpet for her. She didn’t understand him. She didn’t understand herself, and how she could actually be tempted by such a sordid proposition.

  Sex with a stranger. That was what she was actually thinking about right now. Yet perhaps Antonio wasn’t thinking of sex at all; perhaps he was just being kind, a little flirty, humouring the housekeeper. Pure mortification shot through her, turning her insides to ice and her face fiery. Hot and cold, that was how she felt. Hot and cold right through.

  Antonio tossed the cleaning supplies back onto her trolley and then straightened, turning to her with a wickedly sexy smile.

  ‘Now, then,’ he said. ‘Where were we?’

  * * *

  She was blushing, right to the roots of her hair. Antonio noted her change in colour with interest, just as he’d noted the way she’d responded to his finger against her lips. And he’d responded, desire arrowing through him along with something deeper. He’d meant what he said when he’d told her she was loving and good. She seemed, at that moment, like the most uncomplicated, honest and kind person he’d ever encountered, and he craved that as much as he craved her body. Well, almost.

  Maisie tilted her chin a little, her eyes flashing emerald fire. ‘Where were we, exactly?’ she asked, her voice a little croaky yet full of challenge and bravado.

  Antonio smiled. ‘I think,’ he murmured as he skimmed his fingers along her cheek, her skin like warm satin under their tips, ‘we were right here.’

  Maisie closed her eyes, gritting her teeth as if she had to endure his touch and yet Antonio knew better. Her whole body trembled as if she was strung through with a wire and he was plucking it. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she whispered.

  ‘I haven’t even kissed you yet.’

  She opened her eyes, shocked despite everything that had already happened, the tension crackling in the air. ‘Yet?’

  ‘Yet,’ Antonio confirmed. ‘Surely, Maisie, you know it’s only a matter of time? You want me and I want you. Very much. I want to forget all the grief and sadness, and I want to remember...this.’ Gently, so she could pull away if she really wanted to, he drew her towards him. Their hips bumped and her breasts brushed his chest. Her body quivered and her eyes looked like huge, glassy pools, the colour of ferns.

  Part of him, a large part, wanted to drive his hands through her wild, auburn hair and plunder her mouth, lose himself in the obliv
ion of lust with no thought to the wide-eyed woman before him.

  But of course he couldn’t do that. Maisie was too lovely for such coarse treatment. So he took his time, letting his gaze move slowly over her as she adjusted to being so near to him, the shift in their bodies as well as the shift in the air. Flirtation had turned to anticipation. Expectation.

  ‘You’re very lovely,’ he murmured as he wound a reddish curl around his finger, tugging it gently so she had to come even closer. ‘Very, very lovely.’

  ‘So are you,’ she returned on a shaky laugh. ‘But you must know how handsome you are.’

  He laughed, because there was something so delightfully refreshing about her artless candour. ‘Maybe you could show me.’

  She sucked in a breath and then shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t know how.’

  He tugged that curl again. ‘You could kiss me.’

  A lovely pink blush washed over her face in a tide of colour. ‘I...couldn’t.’

  ‘You could.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know how,’ she repeated, her face even fierier now.

  ‘So I’m meant to do all the work and seduce you?’ he teased gently, and she bit her lip.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she muttered, looking away. ‘It’s not like I’m asking.’

  He laughed softly, enjoying the repartee as much as the delicious anticipation of her kiss. ‘I’m asking,’ he told her. ‘In fact, I’m demanding.’

  ‘Demanding...?’

  ‘Kiss me, Maisie.’

  She turned back to him with wide, shocked eyes. He would have thought she was offended except for the flare of excitement in their emerald-bright depths, the way her teeth sank into her lower lip as she considered his request—no, his demand.

  ‘You’re looking at my mouth like it’s a mountain to climb,’ he observed wryly. They’d barely touched and he was finding it hard to hold on to his light, laughing manner. The need was growing inside him—a torrent, a torment, and soon it would be overwhelming.

  ‘It feels like it,’ Maisie admitted. ‘I’m not... I’m not adventurous.’