The Secret Kept from the Italian

Ella’s birth, her existence, had blindsided him. He hadn’t been able to think properly, and still couldn’t. His gut reaction, the kneejerk response he hadn’t been able to suppress or moderate, had been that his daughter was his and he wanted her right now. For ever.

The strength and intensity of his emotion surprised him. He’d never wanted children or marriage, because he’d seen first-hand the negative and destructive elements of both. Yet here he was, contemplating at least one of them. The trouble was, he really couldn’t see how it was going to work.

Maisie had pointed out just a few of the complications—the distance between them, and the hectic pace of his work life. Besides, a child, and especially a baby, needed her mother. Still, he’d figure those things out eventually. The most important matter had already been settled; he would be in Ella’s life. He needed to be.

Out in the street, the spring air was balmy, the streets empty of traffic. A limo idled at the kerb, and the driver hopped out as soon as he saw Antonio.

‘Sir.’

‘Thank you, Carl.’ He used the same driver every time he came to New York, which was usually once or twice a year. He hadn’t been back since he’d been with Maisie, something that caused him a flicker of regret and wonder. Would he have run into her, if he’d come back? Sought her out? Perhaps he wouldn’t have missed the first three months of his daughter’s life.

His daughter. The words felled him, flayed him. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe he felt so strongly about it, about his child and his fatherhood, and yet he did. He knew he did.

Maisie slid inside the limo and scooted to the far side, practically pressing herself against the door in her desire to escape him.

Antonio slid in next to her, closing the door behind him. The limo pulled smoothly into the street, and Maisie turned her face to the window.

‘Where do you live?’ Antonio asked.

‘In Inwood, on Two Hundred and Eighth Street.’ She gave him the rest of the address, and he arched an eyebrow.

‘I didn’t realise the street numbers went up that high.’

‘Most people don’t think of it as part of Manhattan,’ Maisie acknowledged, her manner thawing slightly. ‘But the rent is cheap.’

Antonio frowned. He hated the thought that Maisie, and therefore his daughter, had struggled for money while he’d remained ignorant. As the limo sped uptown he realised how little he knew about the mother of his child. He barely knew anything at all.

‘Are you still in school?’ he asked abruptly, and Maisie turned to him, surprised.

‘No. I had to give up my course when I was pregnant with Ella.’

‘What course was it?’

She pressed her lips together, something inside her seeming to shutter. ‘Violin performance at Juilliard.’

That surprised him. He’d been expecting her to be doing some mundane and practical course at a community college, not playing an instrument at one of the best music schools in the world. She’d given up a lot for their child. ‘Will you go back to it?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s too difficult with Ella, and in any case, I’m not sure I’m cut out for that high-pressure environment.’

More things he didn’t know about her. His curiosity suddenly seemed insatiable, and yet also inconvenient. He didn’t want to have some sort of pseudo-relationship with Maisie, simply because they sha

red a child. Even though he was a father now, Antonio knew he wasn’t cut out for marriage, and certainly not for love. So what the hell was he going to do?

They didn’t talk for the rest of the trip uptown, the streets getting more rundown the farther north they went. Finally Maisie indicated that the driver should turn, and a few seconds later Carl pulled up in front of a shabby-looking brick building, the paint peeling from the fire-escape stairs, a drift of take-away menus and junk mail piled up in front of the door.

‘You live here?’ He couldn’t keep the censure from his voice. This was no place to raise a child, or at least his child.

‘Yes.’ Maisie glanced at him, both wary and affronted. ‘It’s fine. There are a lot of families in this neighbourhood.’ She opened the door, about to get out. ‘You don’t have to see me to the door—’

‘I’ll see you all the way to your apartment,’ Antonio returned. ‘I want to know where you live.’

‘It’s late, Antonio—’

‘And we’re already here.’ He slid out his own side, then strode around to help her out of the limo. She looked as if she wanted to refuse to take his hand, but then with a little sigh she did. Even now, with so much going on, Antonio felt the silken slide of her fingers against his palm and his gut tightened with both desire and memory.