The Secret Kept from the Italian

A cold finger of unease trailed along Antonio’s spine and then clenched his gut. Miss Dobson. He didn’t know anyone named Dobson, but he had an awful feeling who might be waiting for him.

Maisie. Maisie, whom he hadn’t seen for three weeks and, unfortunately, couldn’t get out of his mind. More than one night he’d woken up in a fever of dreams and desire, the scent of her on his skin, the remembered feel of her silken limbs and wild hair haunting his senses. More than one night he’d stayed late at the office, wondering if he’d stumble across her again, only to leave abruptly, knowing it was better for both of them if their paths didn’t cross.

What was she doing here? What did she want from him now?

‘Mr Rossi?’

‘I’m not available,’ Antonio said shortly, suppressing the pang of guilty regret that assailed him. The last thing he needed was Maisie Dobson’s questions or heaven forbid, her tears. He had a job to do, and he needed to do it. Their one night had been simply that—one night. It wasn’t going anywhere. It couldn’t.

‘Very good, Mr Rossi,’ the receptionist said after a tiny pause, and Antonio disconnected the call. It was better this way. It had to be. He didn’t have anything to offer Maisie, and the sooner she forgot him, the better. The sooner he forgot her, the better, as well.

In fact, Antonio told himself grimly as he sat back down at his desk, he already had.

Three hours later he strolled through the lobby, scrolling through the messages on his phone, when a halting voice stopped him in his tracks.

‘Antonio?’

He looked up, amazed to see Maisie standing in front of him. Her hair surrounded her face in a reddish-gold nimbus, and her green eyes were wide and uncertain. She was wearing jeans and a jumper, her hands clutching her bag in front of her chest, almost as if it was a shield.

Everything in Antonio froze in that moment; the last thing he wanted was a scene, but he knew he couldn’t afford to humour Maisie. The shame of their meeting, the way he’d become undone in her arms... No. He couldn’t go there, not even in his own mind.

With that realisation crystallising inside him like a shard of ice, Antonio’s gaze swept over her as he kept his expression dispassionate. ‘I’m sorry...?’

‘Would it be okay if we talked?’ She sounded incredibly nervous, her voice little more than a whisper, her fingers white-knuckled on the strap of her bag. ‘For a few minutes...?’

‘Talk,’ Antonio repeated. Maisie looked as if a breath would blow her away. She looked awful, he realised; her face pale and blotchy, her eyes bloodshot, her whole body seeming to emanate a deep sadness and fear. Had she been obsessing about their night together for the last three weeks? Building it up to more than it was?

He felt a lurch of guilty regret at what he was about to do, and yet he’d already chose

n this route. He couldn’t change it now. He wouldn’t.

Besides, this was the kinder way, really. Antonio knew he could flatten her with a single word; their interaction could take no more than a few seconds and she would be finished. But she looked too fragile and frightened to take that kind of overt rejection, and he couldn’t handle anything more. Taking a steadying breath, he raised his eyebrows in polite enquiry.

‘I’m sorry, but do I know you?’

Maisie’s eyes widened and she stiffened as if absorbing a blow. For a second she looked dazed, unable to speak. ‘Know me...?’

‘Have we met?’ He kept his voice friendly but with the barest hint of impatience.

‘You...you don’t remember?’

He cocked his head to one side, letting his gaze flick over her. ‘Obviously not.’

She gazed up into his face, searching for answers. Antonio kept his expression mild with effort. Perhaps he shouldn’t have decided on this charade, but now he had no choice but to see it through. And, he told himself yet again, it was kinder than rejecting her in public.

‘You don’t remember me at all?’ she said finally, still sounding incredulous.

‘Clearly I don’t. Why is that so difficult to believe?’

She flinched, and he bit back a pointless apology. He was trying not to hurt her, for heaven’s sake, but she seemed insistent on taking everything to heart. ‘I just... I didn’t realise...’ She shook her head slowly, seeming to retreat into herself.

Antonio watched her, battling regret, wanting this to be over. ‘Excuse me, but I have places to be.’ He started to step past her, and she caught his sleeve. Antonio froze. Really, she was too much. Didn’t she recognise a brush-off when she saw one? Didn’t she know when to quit?

‘It’s just... I wanted to tell you something...’ she said, her voice so low and miserable Antonio had to strain to hear it.

‘I cannot imagine what, since we’ve never met.’

She stared at him for a moment, something hardening in her eyes and face. She straightened, dropping her hand from his sleeve. ‘You’re absolutely right,’ she said, her voice touched with both bitterness and wonder. ‘You’re absolutely right. I have nothing to say to you. Nothing.’ She spat the last word, shaking her head as she took a step back. For some reason Antonio found he couldn’t move.