The Secret Kept from the Italian

Maisie let out a shuddering sigh and then turned to him resolutely, as if facing a firing squad, the execution of all her hopes. ‘Yes, Antonio,’ she said, her voice sounding a note of defeat. ‘The baby is yours. You have a daughter.’

CHAPTER SIX

MAISIE WATCHED THE emotions flash across Antonio’s face—disbelief, shock, and then, surprisingly, wonder. Maybe even joy. A smile bloomed and then, quite suddenly, withered. His lips compressed and he folded his arms, back to being the autocratic stranger whom Maisie could fully believe was responsible for dismantling companies and destroying dreams, at least according to the reports she’d read.

‘You should have told me.’

‘I tried.’ Surely he couldn’t blame her for that. She wouldn’t let him. ‘You seem to have selective amnesia, don’t you?’ Maisie added, her indignation turning her uncharacteristically caustic. ‘I came to your office, I asked if we could talk. You didn’t want to know.’

‘I would have agreed to a discussion if I’d known—’

‘Sorry I wasn’t willing to drop that bombshell in the middle of a crowded lobby,’ Maisie fired back, properly furious now. ‘If you’d had the barest modicum of decency, you would have given me a hearing. Two seconds of your time, at least. But maybe that’s more than you give most women. It certainly seems so, based on the articles I’ve seen in the tabloids.’

Antonio’s lips curled, his eyes flashing fire. ‘You shouldn’t read tabloids. They’re nothing but rubbish.’

‘A lot of rubbish is written about you, then.’

He shrugged his powerful shoulders. ‘I don’t read those rags.’

‘I didn’t either, until they proved to be the only way to find out what kind of man you are.’

His lips compressed, his whole body stilling. ‘And you decided what kind of man I am from gossip magazines?’

‘And from your own actions. Nothing you did or said made me think you’d welcome a child, Antonio.’

‘But I still should have known.’

Maisie shrugged back at him, refusing to apologise for his own lamentable shortcomings. ‘Like I said, I tried.’

‘You should have tried harder,’ Antonio flashed back. He took a steadying breath and squared his shoulders. ‘But that doesn’t matter now. What matters is the future. Our future.’

Maisie didn’t miss the emphasis, and it sent a clear, cold note of fear twanging through her. ‘What do you mean, our future?’

‘Do you think now that I know I have a child, a daughter, I’m going to turn my back on her? Walk away as if nothing has changed?’

‘Frankly I don’t know what you’re going to do,’ Maisie said, struggling to keep her voice even. What was Antonio going to want? Demand? Because her life was just about on a steady keel, and she really couldn’t stand the boat being rocked. Yet in that moment she feared Antonio was going to tip it right over and capsize her fledgling happiness.

‘Then I’ll tell you,’ Antonio said, his voice turning inexorable. ‘I’m going to be involved in my child’s life.’

‘How?’ A headache had begun to flicker at Maisie’s temples. She wasn’t emotionally ready to have this conversation. Less than an hour ago she hadn’t thought she’d ever see Antonio Rossi again, and now she was in his hotel suite while he made demands.

And demands they definitely were, because everything about Antonio radiated power. Authority. Charisma. She knew so much about him that she hated, from his business dealings to his bedroom ones, and yet even now she could not deny the magnetic pull he had on her. Even now she couldn’t keep from noticing the ice-blue of his eyes, the strong line of his jaw, the ink-dark hair that flopped over his forehead and made her remember how she’d run her fingers through it.

She couldn’t keep her gaze from dropping to that long, lithe body that she’d felt against her own. His crisp white tuxedo shirt was the perfect foil for his bronzed skin and blue eyes. He looked magnificent, intimidating, and totally out of her league. She could hardly believe he’d been hers for a night, although of course he hadn’t been. Not really. And what did he want with her now?

Nothing, she quickly found out. ‘We’ll have joint custody,’ Antonio informed her curtly, as if it was a simple and glaringly obvious matter. Maisie gaped.

‘Joint? How? You live in Milan and I live in New York. I’m her mother, Antonio. She’s only three months old—’

‘And I’ve missed those first three months. I won’t miss any more.’

Maisie had had no idea what to expect from Antonio, but

it definitely hadn’t been this. ‘You don’t seem like someone who wants a child,’ she remarked numbly.

‘This isn’t a question of want, it’s one of duty. Responsibility.’

‘Ella is not just a duty—’