The Italian’s ruthless vow:

He will claim his one-night baby!

Looking up from the table she’s serving, waitress Maisie Dobson is horrified to meet the intense gaze of Antonio Rossi, merciless billionaire and father of her child! Rejected after one mind-blowing night, Maisie kept her unexpected pregnancy a secret. Antonio’s determined to claim his daughter, but their connection reminds Maisie that she still has to protect her heart—because billionaires don’t wed waitresses...do they?

Be swept away by this passionate secret baby story!

After spending three years as a die-hard New Yorker, KATE HEWITT now lives in a small village in the English Lake District with her husband, their five children and a golden retriever. In addition to writing intensely emotional stories she loves reading, baking and playing chess with her son—she has yet to win against him, but she continues to try. Learn more about Kate at kate-hewitt.com.

Also by Kate Hewitt

Inherited by Ferranti

Moretti’s Marriage Command

Demetriou Demands His Child

A Di Sione for the Greek’s Pleasure

Engaged for Her Enemy’s Heir

The Innocent’s One-Night Surrender

Desert Prince’s Stolen Bride

Princess’s Nine-Month Secret

Seduced by a Sheikh miniseries

The Secret Heir of Alazar

The Forced Bride of Alazar

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Secret Kept from the Italian

Kate Hewitt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08726-1

THE SECRET KEPT FROM THE ITALIAN

© 2018 Kate Hewitt

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

THE THIRTY-SECOND FLOOR of the office building was dark as Maisie Dobson pushed her trolley of cleaning supplies down the hallway, the squeak of the wheels the only sound in the ghostly building. After six months of night cleaning she should be used to the other-worldliness of the experience, but it still freaked her out a little. Although there were half a dozen cleaners in the building, they were all on separate floors, the rooms silent and shadowy, the lights of Manhattan glittering from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

It was two o’clock in the morning and her body ached with fatigue. She had a nine o’clock performance tutorial tomorrow, and she was likely to fall asleep in the middle of it. That had always been her dream—music school, not cleaning. But one meant the other, and that was fine. Maisie was used to working hard for what she wanted.

She paused as a light gleamed from an office down the hallway. Someone had left the light on, she supposed, and yet she couldn’t keep a flicker of unease from rippling through her, the little hairs on the nape of her neck prickling. No one had ever left their light on before; most of them were on automatic timers. By the time the team of cleaners arrived at eleven o’clock at night, the high-rise in Manhattan’s midtown was completely dark, everyone having gone home. Maisie pushed the trolley onward, the squeak of its wheels sounding even louder in the empty corridor, her heart beginning to thud.

Don’t be such a baby, she scolded herself. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s a light, nothing more.

She stopped the trolley in front of the lit-up office and then, taking a quick breath, she poked her head around the half-open door... and saw a man.

Maisie stilled, every sense flaring. This wasn’t just any man, the usual paunchy corporate stiff staying late. No, this man was... Her mind spun emptily, trying to think of words to describe him. Ink-dark hair flopped over his forehead, and strong, slanted brows were drawn over lowered eyes, so his spiky eyelashes fanned his high, blade-like cheekbones. His mouth was twisted in a grimace as he contemplated the half-empty glass of whisky dangling from his long, lean fingers.

He’d taken off his tie and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, so a sliver of bronzed, muscular chest was visible between the crisp folds of cotton. He fairly pulsated with charismatic, rakish power, so much so that Maisie had taken a step into the room before she even realised what she was doing.

Then he looked up. Piercing blue eyes pinned her to the spot. ‘Well, hello,’ he drawled, his mouth twisting into a smile that wasn’t quite a smile. His voice was low and honeyed, with the trace of an accent. ‘How are you this very fine evening?’

Maisie would have felt alarmed or even afraid, except in that moment she saw such anguish in his eyes, in the harsh lines of his face, that her heart twisted inside her and she took another step into the room.

‘I’m all right,’ she said quietly, taking in the bottle of whisky planted on his desk that was mostly empty. ‘I think the real question is, how are you?’

The man tilted his head back, revealing even more of his throat and chest, the glass nearly slipping from his fingers. ‘How am I?’ he repeated. ‘That is a good question. A very good question.’

‘Is it?’ Maisie said. Something about the man’s intense sadness reached in and grabbed hold of her heart. She’d always had a lot of love to give, and so few people to give it to. Her brother, Max, had been the main recipient, but he was independent now, wanting to make his own way. That was a good thing. Of course it was. She just had to keep telling herself that.

‘Yes, it is,’ the man answered, sitting up and flinging his arms wide so glinting drops of whisky sparkled in the air and then splashed on the floor. ‘Because I should be fine, shouldn’t I? I should be fantastic.’

Maisie folded her arms. ‘Oh? Why should you?’ She was intrigued now, as well as empathetic. Who was this man? She didn’t think he worked here; she’d been cleaning this office building for six months and she’d never seen him. Of course, she hadn’t seen many of the men and women who worked here, coming in late as she did, and yet she couldn’t escape the sense that this man didn’t belong here, in a corner office on a middle floor of an anonymous building. He seemed too different, too powerful, too charismatic. Even drunk, as he had to be, he exuded both charm and strength, making Maisie’s stomach fizz in a way it hadn’t in a long time, if ever.

She pushed those feelings aside as she waited for his answer, for beyond this man’s potent sexual charisma he exuded a pain that reached out to her, inside her, and made her remember her own pain. Her own grief.

‘Why should I be fantastic?’ The man raised one dark slash of an eyebrow, an amused smile curving his mobile mouth. ‘For any number of reasons. I’m wealthy, powerful, at the top of my career, and I can have any woman I want.’ He laced his fingers together and stretched them over his head as he stared at the ceiling, a pose that seemed strangely sad and even vulnerable. ‘I have homes in Milan, London and Crete. I have a forty-foot pleasure yacht, a private jet...’ He lifted his head to laser her with a sardonic, bright blue gaze. ‘Should I go on?’

‘No.’ Maisie swallowed hard, daunted by that oh-so-impressive list. This man definitely didn’t belong here. He should be on the top floor with the vice-presidents and CEO, or have a whole floor to himself. Who on earth was he? ‘But I’ve lived long enough to know those kinds of things don’t make you happy,’ she told him, although she thought they probably helped a little. She couldn’t remember a time when money hadn’t been tight, the wolf panting and clawing at the door as she struggled to keep her and Max afloat.

‘You’ve lived long enough?’ Amusement flashed in the man’s eyes, along with a deeper interest. ‘You don’t look old enough to have left school.’

‘I’m twenty-four,’ Maisie answered with dignity. ‘And I am in school. Cleaning offices is my night job.’

‘It is night, isn’t it?’ He turned to stare out of the window, the lights of the Chrysler Building glittering against a dark and fathomless sky. ‘It is a dark, cold, black night.’

His flat voice, the utter bleakness of his tone, sent a ripple of apprehension through Maisie. She was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the weather.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked softly. ‘Drinking alone in an empty office building?’

He didn’t answer for a long moment, his gaze still on the dark view outside. Then, like a dog shaking its wet coat, he turned to her with a sudden smile, bright and hard. ‘But this building isn’t empty, and I’m not alone.’ He fumbled for the glass he’d left on the table. ‘Why should I drink by myself?’ he challenged as he poured a full measure of whisky into the glass and thrust it towards her.

‘I can’t...’ Maisie said, taking a step back as if he’d forced the glass to her lips. ‘I’m working.’

He glanced around the room, that amused quirk lifting his lips once more. ‘Working?’

‘I clean this office building,’ Maisie said a bit stiffly. ‘This is the last office on the floor.’

‘Ah, then you’re almost done.’

She was, but it didn’t matter. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning and she had school tomorrow. ‘I still can’t drink,’ she said firmly. ‘And I really should get on with cleaning...’

He glanced around the room, with its desk, a couple of chairs and a leather sofa against the wall. ‘How much can there be to clean?’

‘I need to spray all the surfaces, empty the bins, vacuum...’ For some unfathomable reason Maisie felt herself blushing as she listed her humble duties.

‘Then let me help you,’ the man said. ‘And then we’ll have a drink.’

She stared at him in surprise, his suggestion completely unexpected. ‘You don’t—’

‘I want to.’ He sprang up from his chair with surprising alacrity, considering he had to have drunk most of a bottle of whisky, and plucked a spray bottle of cleaning fluid and a cloth from the bucket of supplies Maisie had left by the door. ‘Right, here we are.’ He swept his papers into a pile and then sprayed the surface of the desk while Maisie watched gormlessly. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before.

Occasionally she’d stumbled across men or women who were pulling a late night at the office, and more often than not they allowed her to work around them while occasionally emitting deep sighs to indicate the inconvenience she was causing. She’d scurry around and then leave as quickly as she could, murmuring an apology.

The man had already finished wiping the desk and was now cleaning the coffee table in front of the sofa. He glanced at her, his eyes full of surprising laughter. ‘I’m starting to think you’re lazy.’

‘Who are you?’ Maisie blurted.

‘Antonio Rossi.’ He finished the table and then reached for the waste-paper basket under the desk and emptied it into the garbage bag hanging from her trolley. ‘And who are you?’

‘Maisie.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Maisie.’ He nodded at the vacuum cleaner behind her. ‘All that’s left to do is a quick vacuum and then we can have that drink.’

She was lovely. Antonio stared at the woman—Maisie, she’d said—in expectation. She looked stunned by his help, and he supposed he was a bit surprised, too. He didn’t normally help the cleaning staff, although there was certainly no shame in it. He’d had worse and lower-paid jobs in his lifetime.

But he liked the look of Maisie, with her tumbling auburn curls and wide green eyes, her curvy figure only partially hidden by the shapeless blue coverall she wore as some kind of uniform. He wanted to have a drink with her. He needed to keep forgetting, and over the years he’d found that alcohol was the best way to do that. Sex wasn’t far behind.

Slowly, still looking a bit shell-shocked, Maisie turned and reached for the vacuum. She plugged it in and then, impatient, Antonio reached for the handle. Her head jerked up in surprise, curls bouncing around her heart-shaped face. Freckles were scattered across her nose like gold dust.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said, and he whipped around with the vacuum, the noise filling the space and vibrating in his chest, only for the silence they were plunged into when he cut the power to feel expectant and hushed.

Slowly Antonio wrapped the cord around the handle while Maisie simply stared. He wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t feel a flicker of guilty unease at seducing a cleaner in an empty office building in the middle of the night. But then, she would either be a willing partner or she would walk away; was there really anything to atone for here? He already had enough sins to deal with.

Besides, it might not even go that way. Maybe she was married, or had a serious boyfriend. Except he didn’t think he was imagining the spark that had snapped to life between them when their eyes had met. Just to test it, he brushed her fingers with his as he put the vacuum away, and he felt a leap inside him as he saw her pupils flare. Yes, it was there. It was definitely there.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Shall we have that drink?’

‘I really shouldn’t...’

Already her willpower was starting to crumble. Antonio fished another tumbler from the desk drawer and poured a generous measure.

‘Shouldn’t is such a dull word, don’t you think? We shouldn’t let our lives be ruled by shouldn’ts.’

‘Isn’t that an oxymoron?’

He laughed, impressed by her quick wit. ‘Exactly,’ he said, and handed her a glass. She took it, her pale, slender fingers wrapping around it as she studied him.

‘Why are you here?’

‘I suppose it depends what you mean by here.’ He took a sip of whisky, willing her to taste her own. The burn of alcohol at the back of his throat and the ensuing fire in his belly were a welcome comfort.

‘In this empty office building, late at night, drinking by yourself.’

‘I was working.’ At least he had been, until the dark memories had started crowding in, taking him over, as they did on this day every year. And so many other days, as well, if he let them.

‘Do you work here?’ She sounded disbelieving.

‘Not as such. I’ve been hired for a certain job.’

‘What’s that?’

He hesitated, because, while the takeover was common knowledge, he didn’t want to encourage gossip. But then he decided she was harmless, and she probably didn’t know anyone who worked here anyway.

‘I assess the risks involved in a corporate takeover,’ he said. ‘And try to minimise loss and damage during the hand-over of power.’

Her eyes widened. ‘This company’s being taken over?’

‘Yes.’ He cocked his head, noting her look of alarm. ‘Do you know anyone who works here?’

‘Only the other cleaners. Will...will our jobs be at risk?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. Offices will always need to be cleaned.’

‘Oh.’ Her tense shoulders slumped a little in relief. ‘Good.’

‘Shall we toast to that?’ Antonio suggested lightly. ‘Yours are some of the only jobs that won’t be affected.’

‘Oh.’ Her mouth, lush and pink, turned down at the corners. ‘That’s sad.’

‘But not for you.’

‘No...’

He raised his glass. ‘Cincin.’

Slowly, so slowly, she took a sip of whisky, wrinkling her nose at the taste of the alcohol, but swallowing it without a splutter.

‘What does cincin mean?’

‘It’s a common toast in Italy.’

‘Ah.’ She nodded. ‘Is that where you’re from?’

‘Guilty.’ The word sprang to his lips and soured his gut. Guilty. He was so guilty, and not simply for his heritage. For so much more. Things he could never undo. Things he could never forget, even if he tried to let himself.

‘I’ve never been to Italy.’ She sounded wistful. ‘Is it beautiful?’

‘Parts are very beautiful.’

Maisie looked down, and then took another sip of whisky, shuddering a little as the liquor went down. ‘It tastes like fire.’

‘Feels like it, too.’ Antonio tossed back the last of his drink, savouring the burn, craving the oblivion. If he closed his eyes he’d see his brother’s face, the smile curving his mouth, his eyes sparkling, everything in him young and carefree for a moment. If he kept his eyes closed that face would change, turn lifeless and pale, the pavement beneath his head wine-red with blood even though he’d never seen his brother like that. Never had the chance.

That was why he needed to keep drinking. So he could close his eyes.

‘Why are you here?’ Maisie asked 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.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘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 that you’re hurting in that way. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.’

‘No.’ He glanced back at her, his gaze heavy-lidded now, turning sensual. ‘You are a very kind person, Maisie. You have a generous heart, to give so much to people and probably receive less in return.’

She laughed uncertainly. ‘That makes me sound a little bit like a doormat,’ she observed.

‘Not at all.’ He cocked his head. ‘Is that how you feel?’

Surprise flared through her at his perception, because the truth was she’d always felt, in the darkest corner of her heart, that she gave more to Max, loved him more, than he did her. But that was the nature of their relationship, wasn’t it? There were only two years between them but she’d become both mother and father to him. She’d had to. And she’d wanted to, but...sometimes her life had felt dreary, thankless. Sometimes she’d wondered if there was anything more, even as she missed his active presence in her life now. ‘Maybe a little,’ she admitted, and then felt wretched. How could she begrudge her brother anything, never mind her own love? ‘Not really...’

‘Shh.’ Antonio pressed his finger to her lips, utterly silencing her. ‘You don’t have to apologise for your feelings. It’s already obvious to me how much you care about your brother, and how much you’ve sacrificed for him.’

‘How could you possibly know that?’ Maisie whispered, her lips brushing his fingers with every syllable. He kept his finger there, pressed to her lips, light as a feather and yet feeling like the most intimate thing she’d ever experienced.

His gaze was dark and hooded as he replied, ‘Because it shines from you. Love and...and goodness.’

From someone else it would have sounded like sentimental flattery, but Antonio’s tone was so gentle and sincere, with a touch of sorrow that made Maisie ache. No one had ever said such things to her before. No one had ever even noticed all she’d done for Max. All she’d given up for herself. And somehow this beautiful stranger had.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and Antonio pressed his finger more firmly against her mouth, a caress that Maisie felt to her core. She shuddered, unable to stop herself, and Antonio smiled.

‘So loving,’ he murmured as he traced the outline of her lips with his fingertip. ‘And so lovely.’

Maisie remained transfixed under his touch; the touch of his fingers felt as if he were imprinting himself on her soul. She’d had a few boyfriends over the years, but none of them had been serious—there had been Max to think of, and life was so busy, working full-time and trying to keep up with her music. Those boyfriends’ kisses and clinches hadn’t affected her the way Antonio Rossi did, by simply touching her lips with the tip of his finger. Not remotely.

Some hazy part of her brain was telling her that she needed to stop this nonsense and get back to work. Finish her shift and go home and forget the dangerous magic that was being wrought in this room, making her insides fizz and the air shimmer.

Antonio trailed his finger from her lips to her chin and then down to the hollow in her throat, where her pulse beat frantically. He rested it there, his brows drawn together as he studied her. He glanced at her from underneath heavy-lidded eyes and then he dropped his finger lower, undoing her coverall and skimming under the plain white T-shirt she wore beneath, with the cleaning company’s insignia on the breast pocket.

Shock and desire crashed through Maisie in a double wave and the half-full tumbler of whisky dropped from her nerveless fingers and fell onto the floor, the alcohol soaking into the carpet and filling the air with its pungent scent.

She gasped and looked down in horror. ‘Oh, no...’

‘It doesn’t matter...’

‘It does. I can’t leave a mess in an office I’ve just cleaned.’

‘Then we won’t leave it.’

He smiled, the wry yet intent look in his eyes as good as telling her that this was not going to serve as a distraction from his true purpose, or at least not for long. Yet what did he, magnetic sexy billionaire that he was, want with her?

Of course, the answer was glaringly obvious. Maisie blinked, rooted to the spot, as Antonio fetched a cloth and some carpet cleaner and began to scrub the stain.

He wanted sex. That was what rich, powerful men wanted with women like her. The only thing. Yet here he was, cleaning the carpet for her. She didn’t understand him. She didn’t understand herself, and how she could actually be tempted by such a sordid proposition.

Sex with a stranger. That was what she was actually thinking about right now. Yet perhaps Antonio wasn’t thinking of sex at all; perhaps he was just being kind, a little flirty, humouring the housekeeper. Pure mortification shot through her, turning her insides to ice and her face fiery. Hot and cold, that was how she felt. Hot and cold right through.

Antonio tossed the cleaning supplies back onto her trolley and then straightened, turning to her with a wickedly sexy smile.

‘Now, then,’ he said. ‘Where were we?’

She was blushing, right to the roots of her hair. Antonio noted her change in colour with interest, just as he’d noted the way she’d responded to his finger against her lips. And he’d responded, desire arrowing through him along with something deeper. He’d meant what he said when he’d told her she was loving and good. She seemed, at that moment, like the most uncomplicated, honest and kind person he’d ever encountered, and he craved that as much as he craved her body. Well, almost.

Maisie tilted her chin a little, her eyes flashing emerald fire. ‘Where were we, exactly?’ she asked, her voice a little croaky yet full of challenge and bravado.

Antonio smiled. ‘I think,’ he murmured as he skimmed his fingers along her cheek, her skin like warm satin under their tips, ‘we were right here.’

Maisie closed her eyes, gritting her teeth as if she had to endure his touch and yet Antonio knew better. Her whole body trembled as if she was strung through with a wire and he was plucking it. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she whispered.

‘I haven’t even kissed you yet.’

She opened her eyes, shocked despite everything that had already happened, the tension crackling in the air. ‘Yet?’

‘Yet,’ Antonio confirmed. ‘Surely, Maisie, you know it’s only a matter of time? You want me and I want you. Very much. I want to forget all the grief and sadness, and I want to remember...this.’ Gently, so she could pull away if she really wanted to, he drew her towards him. Their hips bumped and her breasts brushed his chest. Her body quivered and her eyes looked like huge, glassy pools, the colour of ferns.

Part of him, a large part, wanted to drive his hands through her wild, auburn hair and plunder her mouth, lose himself in the oblivion of lust with no thought to the wide-eyed woman before him.

But of course he couldn’t do that. Maisie was too lovely for such coarse treatment. So he took his time, letting his gaze move slowly over her as she adjusted to being so near to him, the shift in their bodies as well as the shift in the air. Flirtation had turned to anticipation. Expectation.

‘You’re very lovely,’ he murmured as he wound a reddish curl around his finger, tugging it gently so she had to come even closer. ‘Very, very lovely.’

‘So are you,’ she returned on a shaky laugh. ‘But you must know how handsome you are.’

He laughed, because there was something so delightfully refreshing about her artless candour. ‘Maybe you could show me.’

She sucked in a breath and then shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t know how.’

He tugged that curl again. ‘You could kiss me.’

A lovely pink blush washed over her face in a tide of colour. ‘I...couldn’t.’

‘You could.’

‘I wouldn’t know how,’ she repeated, her face even fierier now.

‘So I’m meant to do all the work and seduce you?’ he teased gently, and she bit her lip.

‘You don’t have to,’ she muttered, looking away. ‘It’s not like I’m asking.’

He laughed softly, enjoying the repartee as much as the delicious anticipation of her kiss. ‘I’m asking,’ he told her. ‘In fact, I’m demanding.’

‘Demanding...?’

‘Kiss me, Maisie.’

She turned back to him with wide, shocked eyes. He would have thought she was offended except for the flare of excitement in their emerald-bright depths, the way her teeth sank into her lower lip as she considered his request—no, his demand.

‘You’re looking at my mouth like it’s a mountain to climb,’ he observed wryly. They’d barely touched and he was finding it hard to hold on to his light, laughing manner. The need was growing inside him—a torrent, a torment, and soon it would be overwhelming.

‘It feels like it,’ Maisie admitted. ‘I’m not... I’m not adventurous.’

‘But you want to kiss me.’ It was a statement, not a question. He saw and felt her answer in the tremble of her body, the dilation of her pupils, the way her tongue darted out to moisten her plump pink lips.

‘Yes...’

Antonio drew back a little. ‘You sound uncertain.’ But only a little.

‘This is so outside my realm of experience,’ Maisie said on a huff of disbelieving laughter. ‘I feel like I’ve fallen into a fairy tale or down a rabbit hole.’

‘Then enjoy the ride,’ Antonio suggested. He wondered briefly about warning her that this was a one-night stand, a brief moment of pleasure. But he didn’t want to break the mood and surely it was obvious? Relationships didn’t start between strangers on an empty office floor at two o’clock in the morning. Maisie seemed refreshingly honest and artless, but she wasn’t dumb.

‘Enjoy the ride,’ she repeated slowly, savouring each word as if it were a sip of fine wine. ‘Now, that’s something I don’t think I’ve ever done before.’

Antonio raised his eyebrows. ‘No?’

‘No. Definitely not.’

‘Then maybe now is the time.’

Maisie took a deep, slow breath and raised her resolute gaze to his. Antonio felt a blaze of triumph burn through him; he knew that look. She’d made up her mind.

‘Maybe I should,’ she said, and then she stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his, feather-light, whisper-soft. Antonio remained still under her hesitant caress, waiting to see what she would do next. She drew back, frowning a little. ‘Didn’t you...didn’t you like it?’

‘Of course I liked it,’ Antonio was quick to reassure her. ‘But how can I be satisfied with barely a mouthful when what I really want is a meal? A feast?’ He let her see the heat simmering in his gaze as his mouth dropped to her lips. This really was the most interesting and exquisite foreplay, and like nothing else he’d ever done with a woman. ‘Kiss me again, Maisie.’

And she did, this time pressing her body as well as her lips against his, one slender hand curling over his shoulder. It was clumsy and hesitant and somehow perfect. This time Antonio couldn’t keep from responding. He spanned her waist with his hands, revelling in her softness, and drew her even more snugly against him, so their bodies were in sensual alignment. He felt a shudder go through her at his obvious arousal, and he paused, waiting for her to catch up. To take the next step.

And she did, kissing him again, her tongue darting out to touch his lips like a shy butterfly. Antonio captured her mouth against his own, deepening the kiss, plundering her silken depths as he’d been longing to.

Need roared through him, his blood rushing through his veins, pounding in his head. He’d meant to go slowly, to be civilised and controlled about the whole thing, but all his careful plans fell apart as Maisie gave herself to him so generously, so artlessly. He backed her up across the room, all the way to the sofa, and his last remnant of self-control kept him from practically throwing her onto its leather cushions. Instead he laid her down gently, and she stared up at him with wide, shocked eyes.

‘Antonio...’

His breath came out in a ragged hiss as he stared down at her, aghast at the possibility of her having second thoughts. ‘Do you want me, Maisie?’

‘Yes...’ Her voice wavered and Antonio cursed himself for having rushed things.

‘Do you want this?’ He gestured to the space between them, the look in his eyes surely leaving no confusion as to what he meant.

Maisie lay on the sofa, her pupils dilated, her lips slightly parted, her expression dazed and full of desire. She drew in a long, slow breath, her gaze searching him, asking silent questions Antonio didn’t know how to answer. He waited, fists clenched, everything taut and expectant, as he braced himself for her reply.

‘Yes,’ she whispered finally, and her head fell back against the cushions. ‘Yes, I do.’

CHAPTER THREE

MAISIE GAZED UP at Antonio’s intent and beautiful face and felt a peaceful settling inside her; a resolution had been made. She was going to do this. She was going to sleep with him. She wasn’t sure when she had decided. When she’d kissed him? When he’d told her he wanted her? When she’d come into the room?

She didn’t do stuff like this. Of course she didn’t. For the last five years her entire focus had been on Max—caring for him, providing for him, and suppressing all her hopes, dreams and needs. And maybe that was why she had decided, why she was lying on a sofa looking up at the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, waiting for him to start seducing her. Because she’d lived for someone else for too long, and now, just for one night, she wanted to live for herself. For pleasure. For excitement. For this.

Antonio’s gaze roved over her. ‘You’re sure,’ he said slowly.

‘Yes.’ She swallowed, more of a gulp. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘Good,’ he answered swiftly. ‘Because so am I.’

Her heart trembled as he knelt before her, his hands on her hips, anchoring her in place. She stared at him, feeling as pinned—and as beautiful—as a butterfly. Waiting.

Then he lowered his mouth to hers and her mind blissfully emptied out. This was what had happened the first time he’d kissed her, or rather, she’d kissed him. Barely a brush of lips and yet her senses, every single one, had short-circuited. She hadn’t been able to think. She had barely remembered to breathe. The touch of his mouth to hers had felt like a spark to her soul, lighting a fire within her. And when Antonio had taken control of their kiss it had become a complete conflagration. She was consumed.

And Maisie felt consumed now, in the best possible way, as his mouth moved over hers—and then lower. He kissed his way down her cheek and throat, his tongue touching the hard edge of her collarbone before nestling in the hollow of her throat, sucking and teasing. A shudder escaped her and she arched up, already helpless.

Antonio chuckled against her skin and then his mouth moved lower, to the edge of her blue T-shirt. ‘What are you wearing?’ he murmured and Maisie squirmed and blushed.

‘My cleaning uniform. It’s hideous, I know...’

‘Clearly you could inflame me wearing a bin bag,’ Antonio returned as his hands slid under the shapeless shirt. ‘But I think I’d like to see you wearing nothing at all.’

He slid her T-shirt over her head and tossed it across the room with a deliberately wolfish smile that would have made Maisie laugh if she didn’t feel so suddenly, unbearably exposed. She struggled not to cover herself; no one had seen her in just her bra. No one.

‘You are even lovelier than before,’ Antonio said softly. ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed.’

Maisie swallowed, not quite willing to admit that no one had ever seen her like this before. That Antonio Rossi, a virtual stranger, was the first. With his gaze steady he reached one hand out and cupped her breast, his palm warm through the thin cotton of her bra. Sparks of sensation radiated outward from his touch, fireworks fizzing inside her. Although she tried to hide her reaction, Antonio noticed and smiled.

‘Do you know how potent a woman’s reaction is to a man? How inflaming?’

‘But you’re still dressed,’ Maisie protested. She wanted him to touch her more; she wanted to touch him. She just had no idea how to go about it.

‘That is something that can be easily remedied.’ He lifted his hands to the buttons of his shirt and then paused, one eyebrow arched. ‘Perhaps you will do it for me?’

‘Oh...’ She hadn’t expected a man like Antonio—powerful, privileged, and surely used to being in charge—to give her so much control. Want her to have it. ‘I...’

He shrugged, his expression one of wry amusement although there was a fierce light in his eyes. ‘They’re just buttons.’

Yes, they were just buttons, of course they were, and yet it was so much more. It was owning the reckless choice she’d made, and taking control of it. It was being bolder and more daring and more sexual than she’d ever been in her life.

Slowly Maisie raised herself up on one elbow and then, with fingers that trembled only a little, she started undoing the buttons of his crisp white shirt. Every time she inhaled she breathed in the clean, woodsy scent of his aftershave; every time she managed to slip a button through its hole she glimpsed a tantalising bit of his chest, bronzed skin over sculpted muscle.

Antonio’s breath came out in a hiss between his teeth, and with a jolt Maisie realised how affected he was. How she affected him. He must have seen her surprised expression, for he laughed softly and said, ‘I’ve told you how you make me feel, haven’t I? Now you can see the proof for yourself.’ The buttons undone, he reached for her hand and laid it flat against his bare chest, over the thudding of his heart, its hectic pace matching her own.

They remained that way for a long, suspended moment, connected by her hand on his heart, all of it feeling so wonderfully and excruciatingly intense. This was so intimate, and not simply because she no longer had a shirt on. She hadn’t expected it somehow, along with the physical pleasure, the overwhelming need. She felt an emotional connection with this man that had begun when she’d seen him looking so sad, and its natural continuation was here.

Maisie spread her fingers against his chest, revelling in the taut muscle, the satiny skin. Another breathless moment passed, and then she looked up at him, waiting, wanting—and everything changed.

It was as if a spark had suddenly caught the tinder, seeming to take them both by surprise. Antonio pulled her towards him, crushing her breasts against his chest as his mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding. And Maisie answered that demand, wrapping her arms around his neck, driving her fingers through his hair as she offered herself to him utterly.

She fell back against the sofa, Antonio’s body pressing into hers, one powerful thigh sliding between her legs, creating an even deeper urgency.

He tore his mouth from hers and moved it lower, a shuddering gasp escaping her as her eyes fluttered closed and his lips nudged aside the thin cotton of her bra.

Her body arced off the sofa as he continued his soft and deft exploration, unclasping her bra so swiftly Maisie barely realised it had gone, and she was naked from the waist up. Her mind was blurred with sensation, fiery arrows of pleasure shooting through her as Antonio continued to explore her body with his lips and hands.

Her baggy trousers followed her shirt and bra, and then her underwear as well, so without even fully realising it was happening she was naked, and so was Antonio. She gazed up at him, his skin burnished in the dim light from the desk lamp, his chest taut and muscled and perfect.

Maisie trembled against the sofa, aware, even in her pleasure-dazed state, what a step she was taking. Enormous. Irrevocable.

Antonio must have sensed something of her feelings, for he paused, his hands braced on either side of her head, his breathing harsh and ragged.

‘Maisie...you are sure?’ She nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. ‘Tell me,’ he urged. ‘Tell me to go on, or tell me to stop.’

She drew a deep breath into her lungs, her body splayed and open to his. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, and reached up to lace her fingers around his neck, bringing his mouth down to hers. ‘I’m sure.’

Antonio needed no more encouragement. He kissed her hard on the mouth as his hips pressed against hers, and Maisie stiffened at the sudden and strange invasion of her body. He frowned slightly, and she wondered if he knew she’d never done this before. Did her inexperience show?

Antonio let out a groan as he slid fully inside her, and Maisie tried not to flinch, adjusting to the feeling of him. So this was sex. She thought she liked the foreplay a bit better.

Antonio lifted his head, his frown deepening as he looked at her. ‘Maisie...’

‘It’s all right.’ It suddenly felt important that he should not know she was—or had been—a virgin. That she’d chosen to give her virginity to a stranger she’d never see again. She arched up, drawing him more fully into her body, wrapping her legs around his hips.

Antonio began to move with slow, deliberate thrusts, and as she adjusted to the feel of him a flicker of pleasure began to grow. Maisie started to match his rhythm, and the flicker grew into flame, their bodies moving in union as the fire began to rage.

She lost all sense of time or place or comportment, both of them searching and straining for the height of the pleasure, until it burst like an explosion of flame, Maisie’s jagged cry renting the air before she fell back against the sofa, emotionally and physically spent.

Antonio rested his forehead against Maisie’s for a brief moment as he fought to hold on to his composure, half amazed that it was proving to be such a painful challenge.

Sex on an office sofa with a woman whose last name he didn’t know wasn’t a completely new experience. But this—with Maisie—felt different. It felt overwhelming.

He hadn’t expected the emotion. He didn’t do emotion, except on the anniversary of his brother’s death, and then he indulged in it only by himself, giving in to the grief he locked away all year in a single, torturous night. He never should have invited Maisie in on this night of all nights, never should have seduced her when he’d felt so raw and emotionally exposed.

He never should have cracked open the door to his tightly guarded heart, even just a sliver. But now he had and he couldn’t keep the flood of grief and sorrow from rushing through that sliver and drowning him.

He rolled onto his side, pulling Maisie with him, and buried his head in the warm, soft curve of her neck. He was still trying to hold on to his composure, even though he knew it was a lost cause; he’d given it up when he’d buried himself in her body, when she’d put her arms around him and drawn him in even deeper, and he’d felt whole and lost at the same time.

Now shudders racked his body and his arms tightened around her, holding on to her as if she was his anchor. And she did anchor him, wrapping her arms around him, her fingers stroking his hair, whispering words of endearment and comfort as if he were a child.

It was so weak, so shaming, and yet so necessary. He couldn’t hold it together any more. He just couldn’t. And he hated that even as he burrowed against her, seeking the comfort only she could provide.

‘You loved him very much,’ Maisie said softly, after a few moments when the only sound had been Antonio’s ragged breathing.

‘Yes.’ He practically gasped the word out, his eyes shut. ‘Yes, I did. And...’ Somehow he felt compelled to speak, to let her know the awful, unvarnished truth, or at least some of it. ‘It was my fault he died.’

Her hands stilled on his hair and he held his breath, waiting for her verdict. Her condemnation. ‘Did you kill him?’ she asked quietly, and he nearly jerked back in shock at the bold, bald question.

‘No! Not like that—’

‘Then it wasn’t your fault.’

His breath came out in a low, defeated rush. If only it were so easy. He’d accept her absolution and walk away a free man. But Antonio knew better than that, and if he told Maisie the full truth, so would she. ‘You can’t 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.

CHAPTER FOUR

MAISIE SPENT THE next two weeks in a virtual stupor of shock. She couldn’t believe what she’d done, how she’d acted with Antonio Rossi. It had been some form of madness, almost as if she’d taken some drug that had swept away all her inhibitions, taken all her common sense. What had she been thinking?

Yet beyond that, she couldn’t keep from reliving the tender moments she’d shared with him, an intimacy far beyond anything she’d ever known or even imagined. When he’d cried in her arms...when she’d held him...when she’d taken him inside her body...

Even now, many days later, Maisie felt an ache of longing, a welter of regret and wistfulness. She’d even wondered if he would try to get in touch with her; surely it wouldn’t be difficult for a man as powerful as him to find out who she was or where she lived.

In the next moment she berated herself for such schoolgirl stupidity. Of course he wasn’t going to get in touch with her. It had been a one-night stand; she wasn’t so naïve that she didn’t realise that. And yet. And yet. She hadn’t been the only one blown away by the intensity of the experience. She felt that deeply, had seen the same sense of wonder in his face that she’d felt inside. The intense level of intimacy had been mutual, she was sure of it.

What if she hadn’t scuttled away, scared that she’d be discovered by another one of the cleaners, and perhaps even fired? What if she’d stayed, and they’d talked? What if their one-night stand had bloomed into something greater, and he’d stayed in New York, seen her again...?

It was the stuff of fairy tales and romcoms, and Maisie tried not to think about it too much. She knew how life really worked. It was hard and unfair and didn’t turn out the way you expected or wanted. Yes, there was happiness and love, but you had to fight for them both. Fight hard. They didn’t fall into your lap in the middle of the night in an empty office block.

She needed to chalk it up as an experience, one that was good, bad, phenomenal, life-changing, heartbreaking. And over.

Maisie tried to focus on her studies, which was usually the thing that brought her the most joy. After deferring her entrance to Juilliard by five years, she was finally doing what she most wanted in life. But even as she went to her performance tutorials and studied music theory, even as she accompanied some friends to a concert in a local church, she felt a little lost, a bit empty. It wasn’t a good feeling, and Maisie was annoyed with herself for feeling it.

Most of her friends at college were younger than her, carefree and full of fun, taking one-night stands in their stride. Maisie didn’t think she could ever be like that, but she wished she’d guarded her heart a bit better.

At least she hadn’t descended to the truly desperate—searching for Antonio when she cleaned the office or cyber-stalking him. She’d been tempted, but she kept herself from it because she told herself there was no point. And then, three weeks after she’d walked into that office, she threw up her breakfast. She didn’t think too much of it, chalking it up to an unfortunate stomach bug, until it happened the next morning. And the morning after that. And her period, which was always regular, didn’t come on time. It didn’t come at all.

Even she, innocent that she was, or at least had been, could figure that one out. She was amazed she hadn’t thought of the possibility sooner. They hadn’t used protection, after all, and she wasn’t dumb. Just another sign that she’d been swept away. A dangerous sign.

Maisie bought two pregnancy tests, flushing bright red as she refused to meet the young, pimply cashier’s eye, and then hurried back to her studio apartment in Morningside, so far uptown you could get a nosebleed, but the only place she could afford, since Max had wanted to live with his friends from work and she had to pay the rent on her own.

She crouched in the tiny toilet as she took the first test, her heart somersaulting in her chest. She couldn’t be pregnant. She just couldn’t be. And yet she knew she could. She knew how life could change in a split second, everything you’d been counting on swept away like so many sandcastles.

Sitting there, the test turned over until she’d waited the allotted three minutes, she felt the same surreal sensation she’d felt when her life had changed before—in the emergency room, when the surgeon on call had informed her that her parents hadn’t pulled through, and then, two weeks later, when the lawyer had told her there wasn’t any money, after all.

Both times she’d felt as if she was looking at life through a warped mirror, everything wavering and distant. And that was how she felt now, even before she turned the test over. She knew what it was going to tell her. She knew her life was going to change. Again.

Sure enough, as minute three ticked by, Maisie flipped the test over and stared down at the double pink lines, completely unsurprised. She felt a leaden weight of responsibility, along with the tiniest tendril of excitement. Having a baby would derail all her plans. Only six months into her course, and she’d almost certainly have to quit, or at least put it on serious hold. Again.

And yet she knew she could no sooner rid herself of this baby than she could have rid herself of her brother. They were both part of her. They were both reasons to keep trying and surviving.

But what on earth was she going to do about Antonio Rossi?

Eventually, because she felt she had no choice, Maisie steeled herself for the inevitable internet search she’d been trying to keep herself from. She typed in his name and blinked as his photo popped up immediately, along with a Wikipedia entry. Just seeing his face, with that faint, amused smile and those bright blue eyes, made her stomach roll right over. She sat back on her sofa and stared, as memory after memory catapulted through her senses. That smile aimed right at her. Those eyes focused and intent as he’d moved towards her...

No. She had to stop thinking that way. There was absolutely no point now. Taking a deep breath, Maisie scrolled through a dozen different search results, looking for a contact number or email address and finding so much more.

She couldn’t tear her gaze away from article after article, photo after photo. Antonio Rossi, the Playboy of Milan. Antonio Rossi with a supermodel, two supermodels, a glamorous-looking actress, a bored socialite. In each photo he looked charming and relaxed, and the woman was usually wound around him, pretty and pouting.

But worse than the photos were the articles. Maisie’s stomach swirled as she read about ‘Ruthless Rossi’, the man who made his fortune in properties, demolishing buildings, buying them out from under desperate people, and then, as a sideline, offering his consultancy services to help hostile takeovers. She read scathing editorials about how companies called in Rossi to make sure the takeovers went smoothly and the fat-cat CEOs maximised their profits. According to the press, he was an expert at looking out for the big guy and trampling all over the little people, like her.

She sat back, her mind spinning, her mouth dry, her stomach near to heaving. This was the man she’d given her virginity to, the father of her baby? A hedonistic, selfish, reckless playboy who took pleasure in destroying people’s livelihoods?

He’d seem so different when they’d been together, but of course it had been one alcohol-fuelled night, made hazy by both desire and grief. She hadn’t known who he really was. Of course she hadn’t.

Maisie spent another week dithering about what to do, wishing she had someone she could confide in. She couldn’t tell Max; he’d be horrified, and in any case she doubted the advice of a twenty-two-year-old single man intent on living it up in the city was going to be helpful. Her friends at college would roll their eyes and tell her to take care of it, and that was the one thing she knew instinctively she didn’t want to do. Make it go away.

No, this baby was hers, a life inside her already starting to grow. She already loved him or her, even if she knew, all too well, the sacrifices she would be called to make. The question was, did Antonio Rossi deserve to know about his child? Could she really keep such a huge and life-changing secret from the man who’d fathered her child, even if she barely knew him, and what she knew, she didn’t like?

Miserably, Maisie admitted that she couldn’t...and that meant finding Antonio and telling him what she suspected would be incredibly unwelcome news.

Antonio gazed out at the pale blue sky of a spring day and wondered why he couldn’t concentrate. He’d been in New York for nearly a month trying to wind down Alcorn Tech. Normally an operation such as this one would take him no more than two or three weeks. Yet it was going on four weeks and he still had work to do, although he planned to leave for Milan tomorrow anyway. He couldn’t waste any more time on this side project, dismantling a company into manageable pieces. What was he still trying to prove?

For some reason, these last few weeks he’d been restless and unfocused, which irritated him because work always came first. Work defined him, justified him. And here he was, staring out of the window instead of looking down at the list from HR of employees whose jobs needed to be cut or preferably adjusted.

Expelling a low breath, Antonio rose from his chair and strolled the length of the modest office he’d chosen when he’d first arrived at Alcorn. They’d proposed installing him in the CEO’s office on the top floor, but Antonio knew from experience how that looked. It was far better for him to keep a low profile as he chopped and changed. Far less worrisome for the employees, most of whom had more than a sneaking suspicion of what was going on.

Although he described his consultancy services to the CEOs who hired him as a way to save money and avoid bad press, his reasons for this side business were something else entirely. Something he kept so quiet that even the press hadn’t got hold of it; a few angry journalists had painted him in stark colours as a ruthless destroyer, intent on making the most money for the richest people. And that was fine, because that was why companies hired him. He was good at what he did. So good that they didn’t even realise.

His intercom buzzed and, glad of the distraction from his own circling thoughts, Antonio pressed the button to answer it.

‘Yes?’

‘A Miss Dobson here to see you, Mr Rossi.’

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.