An Inheritance of Shame. Кейт Хьюит

it, one hand still outstretched, a flute of fizzing champagne clasped between his long, lean fingers.

      ‘All right, Angelo,’ she said, and thankfully her voice remained steady. ‘I’ll have a drink with you.’

      Angelo stood completely motionless, his hand still outstretched. The only sound in the room was the gentle fizz of the champagne’s bubbles popping against the sides of the crystal flute and his own suddenly ragged breathing.

      Lucia.

      How could he not have recognised her? How could he have not known her from the moment he’d seen her in his suite? The first thought that seared his brain now was the completely irrelevant realisation of how blue her eyes were, so startling against her dark hair and olive skin. How wide and clear and open they’d always been, open to him.

      Then chasing the heels of that poignant memory was a far more bitter realisation—and with it a dawning fury.

      ‘You work for them? Those sciacalli?’

      Her chin tilted up a notch and those blue, blue eyes flashed even bluer. ‘If you mean am I employed at this hotel, then the answer is yes.’

      Another thing he’d forgotten: the low, husky timbre of her voice, sounding sensual and smoky and still so tender and sweet. He had a sudden, painfully clear recollection of her asking him in that same low voice what he’d expected to feel that night, the night of his father’s funeral, what he’d wanted to feel. He’d answered in a ragged gulp that just stopped short of a sob, ‘Satisfaction. Happiness. Something. I just feel empty.’

      She hadn’t replied, just put her arms around him, and he’d turned into her embrace, burying his head in the sweet curve of her neck before his lips had found hers, seeking and needing the total acceptance and understanding she’d always so freely given.

      And now she worked for the Correttis? The family who had made his childhood a living hell? He shook his head slowly, his head throbbing so hard his vision blurred. ‘So what, you’re on your knees for them? Scrubbing their filth, bobbing a curtsey when they come by? What happened to your promise, Lucia?’

      ‘My promise,’ she repeated, her voice completely expressionless.

      He pressed one fist against his temple, closed his eyes briefly against the pain that thundered in his head—and in his heart. ‘Do you not even remember? You promised me you’d never even talk to them—’

      ‘As a matter of fact, Angelo, I don’t talk to them. I’m a chambermaid, one of dozens. They don’t even know my name.’

      ‘So that excuses—’

      ‘Do you really want to talk about excuses?’ she asked levelly, and he opened his eyes, pressed his fist harder against his temple. Damn it, his head hurt. And even in the midst of his shock and pain he recognised how ridiculous he was being. She’d made those silly promises when she was a child, a girl of no more than eleven or twelve. He remembered the moment, stupidly. He’d been jumped on his way back to school, beaten bloody but he’d come up swinging as always. She’d been waiting on her doorstep, her heart in her eyes. She’d tried to comfort him, and in his hurt pride and anger he’d shrugged her off.

      But she kept trying—she’d always kept trying—and he’d let her press an ice pack to his eye and wipe the blood away. He’d caught her looking at him, her eyes so wide and serious, and he’d grabbed her wrist and demanded roughly, ‘Promise. Promise you’ll never speak to them, or like them, or even work for them—’

      She’d blinked once, twice, and then answered in a voice that was low and husky even then. ‘I promise.’

      No, he didn’t want to talk about excuses now. He knew he didn’t have any. Seven years since he’d left her in bed and he still felt that needling pinprick of guilt when he allowed himself to feel it—or anything.

      Not that he’d allowed himself to think of her often. By eight o’clock the morning after they’d slept together he’d already been on a plane back to New York, having resolutely shoved her out of his mind.

      And now she was back, and the memories cascaded over him, a tidal wave of unexpected emotion he had no desire to feel.

      He shut his eyes again, his fist still pressed to his temple.

      ‘You’re getting a migraine, aren’t you,’ she said quietly, and he opened his eyes, dropped his hand. He’d used to get headaches even as a child, and she’d given him aspirin, rubbed his temples when he’d let her.

      ‘It doesn’t matter.’

      ‘What doesn’t matter? That you have a headache, or that I work for the Correttis?’

      ‘You don’t work for them any more.’

      Her eyes widened for one fraught second and he knew she thought he was firing her. ‘I own the hotel now,’ he explained flatly, and he heard her slight indrawn breath.

      ‘Congratulations,’ she said after a tiny pause, and he couldn’t tell a thing from her tone. She seemed so different now, so calm and controlled, so cold. So unlike the warm, generous person she’d been, giving him her body and maybe even her heart in the course of a single night—

      No, not her heart. Long ago he’d wondered briefly if she had romanticised their one encounter, thought she might have because of their shared history. He’d worried that she might have expected more from him, things he knew he wasn’t capable of, couldn’t give.

      Looking at her impassive face now he knew any uneasy concerns he had once had were completely unfounded, and he wasn’t even surprised. Of course Lucia had moved on.

      ‘Do you have any tablets?’ she asked calmly, and the pain was bad enough that he answered her.

      ‘In my wash kit, in my bag.’

      She slipped past him, and he inhaled her scent as she went by. He sank onto the edge of the bed, the flute of champagne still dangling from his fingers. Distantly over the pounding in his brain he heard her moving about, unzipping his suitcase.

      A few minutes later she came back in and knelt by his side. ‘Let me take this,’ she said, and plucked the champagne from his fingers. ‘And give you this.’ She handed him a glass of water and two tablets. ‘I checked the dosage. It said two?’

      He nodded, and he felt her hand wrap around his as she guided the glass to his lips. Even through the pain pounding in his head he felt a spark of awareness blaze from his fingers all the way to his groin. He remembered how sweet and yielding she’d been in his arms, without even so much as a word spoken between them. But then Lucia had always been sweet and yielding, always been willing to take care of him, even when he’d pushed her away again and again.

      Clearly she’d changed, for she pulled her hand away from his, and he stamped down on that spark.

      ‘Thank you,’ he said gruffly. They may have shared one desperate, passionate night, but he knew there was nothing between them now. There couldn’t be.

      Lucia sat back on her heels and watched Angelo struggle with himself, as he so often did. Feeling weak and hating to show it. And her, wanting to help him and hating how he always pushed her away. The story of both of their lives.

      A story she was done with, she told herself now. Seeing Angelo again might have opened up that ache inside her, but she wasn’t going to do anything about it. She wasn’t going to be stupid about it, even though part of her, just as before, as always, yearned towards him and whatever little he could give.

      No. He’d wrecked her before, and broken not just her heart but her whole self. Shattered her into pieces, and she wouldn’t allow even a hairline crack to appear now. It had taken years to put herself together again, to feel strong if not actually ever complete.

      She rose, picking up the towels she’d dropped when she’d gone for his pills. ‘Will you be all right?’ she said, making it not so much a question