The Secret Kept From The Italian

He rolled onto his side, pulling Maisie with him, and buried his head in the warm, soft curve of her neck. He was still trying to hold on to his composure, even though he knew it was a lost cause; he’d given it up when he’d buried himself in her body, when she’d put her arms around him and drawn him in even deeper, and he’d felt whole and lost at the same time.

Now shudders racked his body and his arms tightened around her, holding on to her as if she was his anchor. And she did anchor him, wrapping her arms around him, her fingers stroking his hair, whispering words of endearment and comfort as if he were a child.

It was so weak, so shaming, and yet so necessary. He couldn’t hold it together any more. He just couldn’t. And he hated that even as he burrowed against her, seeking the comfort only she could provide.

‘You loved him very much,’ Maisie said softly, after a few moments when the only sound had been Antonio’s ragged breathing.

‘Yes.’ He practically gasped the word out, his eyes shut. ‘Yes, I did. And...’ Somehow he felt compelled to speak, to let her know the awful, unvarnished truth, or at least some of it. ‘It was my fault he died.’

Her hands stilled on his hair and he held his breath, waiting for her verdict. Her condemnation. ‘Did you kill him?’ she asked quietly, and he nearly jerked back in shock at the bold, bald question.

‘No! Not like that—’

‘Then it wasn’t your fault.’

His breath came out in a low, defeated rush. If only it were so easy. He’d accept her absolution and walk away a free man. But Antonio knew better than that, and if he told Maisie the full truth, so would she. ‘You can’t say that.’

‘And you can’t say you killed him.’ Her soft hand slid down to frame his face and she tilted his chin up so he was forced to look at her. Her eyes, sparkling with tears, were the colour of moss as she held his face in her hands and spoke words of tenderness. ‘That’s why you looked so sad tonight,’ she said softly, more a statement than a question. ‘Because you are bearing the guilt of his death, and no one can carry that kind of weight.’

‘You don’t know—’

‘Then tell me.’

He shook his head, unwilling even now. Especially now. She would hate him then, especially considering her own loss. As little as they had shared, he wanted—needed—to preserve it. Preserve the memory of this night, for it would sustain him for a long time to come.

‘Oh, Antonio.’ She brushed a kiss across his lips and he closed his eyes, receiving it as the balm he knew it was. ‘Grieving is hard enough without adding blame.’

‘You don’t know,’ he said again. It was all he had to offer.

‘I know enough,’ Maisie told him, her lips a breath away from his. ‘I feel enough. I see enough in your eyes.’ She kissed him again, and then she kissed both of his closed eyes, and Antonio lay there, aching and open, accepting her caresses even though each one broke something inside him. Chipped another piece off his ossified heart, until at some point there would be nothing left.

Her hair fanned across his chest as she continued to kiss him, her mouth moving lower, her lips pressing softly against his chest, as if she was learning every inch of his body. Amidst the ache of sorrow and grief, he felt desire stir, not the insistent, urgent thing it had been moments ago, but something far deeper and more tender, something more alarming and far more wonderful. He knew he couldn’t resist.

She rolled on top of him, her hair like a fiery blanket covering them both. Antonio slid his hands down to her hips, both anchoring and guiding her. Her breath hitched and he knew she felt it too, not just the desire but the depth of emotion. They’d shared so much more than their bodies tonight. They’d given each other glimpses of their souls.

They came together slowly this time, naturally, with her straddling his hips, her hands braced on his shoulders as she enveloped him in her body. The sense of completion and rightness nearly took his breath away. He’d had plenty of sexual encounters in his lifetime, but he’d never felt anything like this. Everything had ratcheted up to an exquisite degree, the intensity and the emotion and the pleasure.

Antonio gazed up at her as they moved together in sensuous rhythm, and she looked back, her eyes full of compassion and sorrow as well as desire. As they climbed towards that dizzying peak of sensation together he felt as if she were part of him, as if she’d imbued herself right into his skin, his soul. He clung to her, and she clung back, acting as one as they went over the precipice.

Afterwards she curled into him, her palm resting over his thudding heart, and he wrapped a tendril of her hair around his wrist, as if he could anchor her there. Their breath came in ragged draws and tears; neither of them spoke, but then they didn’t need to speak. Words were superfluous to the purest form of communication they’d just shared.

They must have dozed briefly, for Antonio woke suddenly to a cramp in his neck and a noise in the hall. The room felt cold, the sweat dried on his skin. Maisie was still sleeping next to him.

He lay there, trying to process everything, but the peace and pleasure that had flooded him earlier were replaced by a cold, creeping trickle of horror—and shame. What on earth had he been thinking? What had he done?

He remembered the way he’d shuddered in her arms, the words he’d choked out, the weakness and need he’d shown, and everything in him cringed. He’d spent his entire life, and especially the last ten years, keeping himself distant, cutting off his emotions and certainly his heart from anyone and everyone. It was better that way, safer for him, safer for others. And in the space of one evening, no more than an hour, Maisie had cracked him open like an egg.

He felt horribly exposed, as if she’d peeled back his skin, so that every tender nerve was laid open and stinging. He couldn’t stand it, and he couldn’t account for it, either. Why had she reached him when no one else had?

It must have been the whisky—what else could it have been? He’d been drunk and sentimental and he’d taken liberties with his own emotions, never mind Maisie’s, in the most appalling fashion. All he could do now was claw back what he could.

She stirred next to him and he froze, his eyes clenched shut because he couldn’t stand the thought of looking into her face and seeing pity.

Another sound from the hall, and now that he was fully awake he recognised the squeak of a cleaning trolley. ‘Maisie?’ a woman called.

Maisie stirred again, and then raised her head.

‘Maisie, are you here? Are you finished on this floor?’

‘Oh, no.’ The words came out as a gasp as Maisie rose on one elbow. She glanced at Antonio; he felt it like a scorching mark even though he didn’t open his eyes. It might have been the cowardly thing to do, but as she disentangled herself from him and began hopping around the room, scrambling for her clothes, he pretended he was asleep.

‘Maisie—’

‘I’m here,’ she called back, her voice soft and urgent. ‘Just—just wait.’

Antonio heard the snick and slither of her clothes as she dressed herself. He cracked open an eye and saw her pulling her hair into a ponytail, her movements quick. She glanced back at him, and through his barely open lids he saw a look of indecision flit across her face, quickly followed by sorrow. She scooped up her pail of cleaning supplies and then the door clicked softly shut behind her.

Antonio breathed out a sigh of relief. It was better this way. It had to be.

CHAPTER FOUR (#u15d33414-54e8-57e4-8830-cd8898d60d39)

MAISIE SPENT THE next two weeks in a virtual stupor of shock. She couldn’t believe what she’d done, how she’d acted with Antonio Rossi. It had been some form of madness, almost as if she’d taken some drug that had swept away all her inhibitions, taken all her common sense. What had she been thinking?

Yet beyond that, she couldn’t keep from reliving the tender moments she’d shared with him, an intimacy far beyond anything she’d ever known or even imagined. When he’d cried in her arms...when she’d held him...when she’d taken him inside her body...

Even now, many days later, Maisie felt an ache of longing, a welter of regret and wistfulness. She’d even wondered if he would try to get in touch with her; surely it wouldn’t be difficult for a man as powerful as him to find out who she was or where she lived.

In the next moment she berated herself for such schoolgirl stupidity. Of course he wasn’t going to get in touch with her. It had been a one-night stand; she wasn’t so naïve that she didn’t realise that. And yet. And yet. She hadn’t been the only one blown away by the intensity of the experience. She felt that deeply, had seen the same sense of wonder in his face that she’d felt inside. The intense level of intimacy had been mutual, she was sure of it.

What if she hadn’t scuttled away, scared that she’d be discovered by another one of the cleaners, and perhaps even fired? What if she’d stayed, and they’d talked? What if their one-night stand had bloomed into something greater, and he’d stayed in New York, seen her again...?

It was the stuff of fairy tales and romcoms, and Maisie tried not to think about it too much. She knew how life really worked. It was hard and unfair and didn’t turn out the way you expected or wanted. Yes, there was happiness and love, but you had to fight for them both. Fight hard. They didn’t fall into your lap in the middle of the night in an empty office block.

She needed to chalk it up as an experience, one that was good, bad, phenomenal, life-changing, heartbreaking. And over.

Maisie tried to focus on her studies, which was usually the thing that brought her the most joy. After deferring her entrance to Juilliard by five years, she was finally doing what she most wanted in life. But even as she went to her performance tutorials and studied music theory, even as she accompanied some friends to a concert in a local church, she felt a little lost, a bit empty. It wasn’t a good feeling, and Maisie was annoyed with herself for feeling it.

Most of her friends at college were younger than her, carefree and full of fun, taking one-night stands in their stride. Maisie didn’t think she could ever be like that, but she wished she’d guarded her heart a bit better.

At least she hadn’t descended to the truly desperate—searching for Antonio when she cleaned the office or cyber-stalking him. She’d been tempted, but she kept herself from it because she told herself there was no point. And then, three weeks after she’d walked into that office, she threw up her breakfast. She didn’t think too much of it, chalking it up to an unfortunate stomach bug, until it happened the next morning. And the morning after that. And her period, which was always regular, didn’t come on time. It didn’t come at all.

Even she, innocent that she was, or at least had been, could figure that one out. She was amazed she hadn’t thought of the possibility sooner. They hadn’t used protection, after all, and she wasn’t dumb. Just another sign that she’d been swept away. A dangerous sign.

Maisie bought two pregnancy tests, flushing bright red as she refused to meet the young, pimply cashier’s eye, and then hurried back to her studio apartment in Morningside, so far uptown you could get a nosebleed, but the only place she could afford, since Max had wanted to live with his friends from work and she had to pay the rent on her own.

She crouched in the tiny toilet as she took the first test, her heart somersaulting in her chest. She couldn’t be pregnant. She just couldn’t be. And yet she knew she could. She knew how life could change in a split second, everything you’d been counting on swept away like so many sandcastles.

Sitting there, the test turned over until she’d waited the allotted three minutes, she felt the same surreal sensation she’d felt when her life had changed before—in the emergency room, when the surgeon on call had informed her that her parents hadn’t pulled through, and then, two weeks later, when the lawyer had told her there wasn’t any money, after all.