The Secret Kept From The Italian. Кейт Хьюит
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.’
‘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 finished 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