An Inheritance of Shame

Not even for one night.

Even more restless now, that old anger surging through him, Angelo jerked open the buttons of his shirt. He’d take a long, hot shower. Sometimes that helped with the headaches, and at least it was something to do.

He was in the process of shedding his shirt as he came into the bedroom and to an abrupt halt. A bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne chilling inside was by the bed—and so was a woman.

Lucia froze at the sight of the half-dressed man in front of her, three freshly laundered towels pressed to her hard-beating heart.

Angelo.

She knew, had always known, that she would see him again, and occasionally she’d embroidered ridiculous, romantic fantasies about how it would happen. Stupid, schoolgirl dreams. She hadn’t done that for years though, and she’d never imagined this.

Running into him without a second’s notice, totally unprepared—

She’d heard whispers that he was back in Sicily but she had assumed they were, as they’d always been, mere rumours, and she’d never expected to see him here.

From just one shocked glimpse of him standing there, his hair rumpled and his shirt half undone, she knew he didn’t recognise her. Meanwhile in the space of a few seconds she was reliving every glorious and agonising moment she’d spent with him that one night seven years ago, the feel of his satiny skin, the desperate press of his lips against hers.

Such thoughts were clearly the furthest from his mind. His eyes had narrowed, his lips thinned, and he looked angry. She recognised that look, for God knew she’d seen it enough over the fraught years of their childhood. Yet even angry he was beautiful, the most beautiful man she’d ever known.

Known and loved.

Swallowing, she pushed that most unhelpful thought away. She hadn’t seen Angelo in seven years. She didn’t love him any more, and she absolutely knew he’d never loved her.

Which, of course, shouldn’t hurt all this time later, yet in that unguarded moment as she stared at him, his shirt hanging open to reveal the taut, golden expanse of his chest, she knew it did.

Angelo arched an eyebrow, obviously annoyed, clearly waiting. For what? An apology? Did he expect her to do the little chambermaid stammering act and scurry away?

Two desires, both deep-seated, warred within her. On one hand she felt like telling Angelo Corretti exactly what she thought of him for sneaking out of her bed seven years ago. Except she didn’t even know what that was, because she thought of Angelo in so many ways. Desire and despair. Hope and hatred. Love and loss.

In any case, the far more sensible impulse she had was to leave this room before he recognised her, before any awful, awkward reunion scenarios could play out. They may have been childhood friends, he may have been her first and only lover, but she was next to nothing to him, and always had been—a shaming fact she did not need reminding of tonight.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, lowering her head just a little so her hair fell in front of her face. ‘I was just getting your room ready for the night. I’ll be out of your way.’

She started to move past him, her head still lowered, hating the ache this simple, terrible exchange opened up inside her. It was an ache she’d had for so long that she’d become numb to it, learned to live with it the way you might a missing limb or a permanent scar. Yet now, in Angelo’s uncaring presence, she felt it throb painfully to life and for a second, furious with herself, she had to blink back tears.

She was just about to slip past him when his hand curled around her arm, jolting her so hard and deep she almost stumbled.

‘Wait.’

She stilled, her heart hammering, her breath caught in her chest. Angelo let go of her arm and walked towards the bed.

‘I’m celebrating, you know,’ he said, but he didn’t sound like he was. He sounded as sardonic and cynical as he’d ever been. Lucia tensed, her back to him, her face angled away. He still didn’t recognise her, and that realisation gave her equal parts relief and deep disappointment.

‘Why don’t you celebrate with me,’ he continued, clearly a command, and she stiffened. Was this what he’d become? The kind of man who solicited the housekeeping? ‘Just a drink,’ he clarified, and now he sounded coolly amused as he popped the cork on the complimentary bottle of champagne that always came with the penthouse suite. ‘Since nobody else is here.’

Lucia turned around slowly, her whole body rigid. She had no idea how to act. What to say. This had gone on way too long for her to keep pretending she was a stranger, and yet—

Maybe that’s what she was to him now. A stranger.

He was pouring the champagne into two crystal flutes, his mouth twisted downwards, and something in the shuttered bleakness of his expression called to that ache deep inside her, the ache she’d been trying so hard and for so long to ignore. When he looked like that it reminded her of when he’d shown up on her doorstep seven years ago, when he’d stared at her so bleakly, so blankly, and his voice had broken as he’d confessed, ‘He’s dead, Lucia. And I don’t feel anything.’

She hadn’t thought then; she’d just drawn him inside by the hand, led him to the shabby little living room of the house she’d grown up in and where she then lived alone.

And started something—a single night—that had changed her life for ever.

She swallowed now, forced herself to lift her chin and look him in the eye. She saw him tense, felt it, one hand still outstretched, a flute of fizzing champagne clasped between his long, lean fingers.

‘All right, Angelo,’ she said, and thankfully her voice remained steady. ‘I’ll have a drink with you.’

Angelo stood completely motionless, his hand still outstretched. The only sound in the room was the gentle fizz of the champagne’s bubbles popping against the sides of the crystal flute and his own suddenly ragged breathing.

Lucia.

How could he not have recognised her? How could he have not known her from the moment he’d seen her in his suite? The first thought that seared his brain now was the completely irrelevant realisation of how blue her eyes were, so startling against her dark hair and olive skin. How wide and clear and open they’d always been, open to him.

Then chasing the heels of that poignant memory was a far more bitter realisation—and with it a dawning fury.

‘You work for them? Those sciacalli?’

Her chin tilted up a notch and those blue, blue eyes flashed even bluer. ‘If you mean am I employed at this hotel, then the answer is yes.’

Another thing he’d forgotten: the low, husky timbre of her voice, sounding sensual and smoky and still so tender and sweet. He had a sudden, painfully clear recollection of her asking him in that same low voice what he’d expected to feel that night, the night of his father’s funeral, what he’d wanted to feel. He’d answered in a ragged gulp that just stopped short of a sob, ‘Satisfaction. Happiness. Something. I just feel empty.’

She hadn’t replied, just put her arms around him, and he’d turned into her embrace, burying his head in the sweet curve of her neck before his lips had found hers, seeking and needing the total acceptance and understanding she’d always so freely given.

And now she worked for the Correttis? The family who had made his childhood a living hell? He shook his head slowly, his head throbbing so hard his vision blurred. ‘So what, you’re on your knees for them? Scrubbing their filth, bobbing a curtsey when they come by? What happened to your promise, Lucia?’

‘My promise,’ she repeated, her voice completely expressionless.

He pressed one fist against his temple, closed his eyes briefly against the pain that thundered in his head—and in his heart. ‘Do you not even remember? You promised me you’d never even talk to them—’

‘As a matter of fact, Angelo, I don’t talk to them. I’m a chambermaid, one of dozens. They don’t even know my name.’

‘So that excuses—’

‘Do you really want to talk about excuses?’ she asked levelly, and he opened his eyes, pressed his fist harder against his temple. Damn it, his head hurt. And even in the midst of his shock and pain he recognised how ridiculous he was being. She’d made those silly promises when she was a child, a girl of no more than eleven or twelve. He remembered the moment, stupidly. He’d been jumped on his way back to school, beaten bloody but he’d come up swinging as always. She’d been waiting on her doorstep, her heart in her eyes. She’d tried to comfort him, and in his hurt pride and anger he’d shrugged her off.

But she kept trying—she’d always kept trying—and he’d let her press an ice pack to his eye and wipe the blood away. He’d caught her looking at him, her eyes so wide and serious, and he’d grabbed her wrist and demanded roughly, ‘Promise. Promise you’ll never speak to them, or like them, or even work for them—’

She’d blinked once, twice, and then answered in a voice that was low and husky even then. ‘I promise.’

No, he didn’t want to talk about excuses now. He knew he didn’t have any. Seven years since he’d left her in bed and he still felt that needling pinprick of guilt when he allowed himself to feel it—or anything.

Not that he’d allowed himself to think of her often. By eight o’clock the morning after they’d slept together he’d already been on a plane back to New York, having resolutely shoved her out of his mind.

And now she was back, and the memories cascaded over him, a tidal wave of unexpected emotion he had no desire to feel.

He shut his eyes again, his fist still pressed to his temple.