The Secret Kept From The Italian. Кейт Хьюит
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.
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