An Inheritance of Shame. Кейт Хьюит

past the receptionist and felt tears sting her eyes.

      Alone in the lift she pressed her fists against her eyes and willed it all back, all down. She would not cry. She would not cry for Angelo Corretti, who had broken her heart too many times already so she’d had to keep fitting it back together, jagged pieces that no longer made a healthy whole. Still she’d done it; she’d thought she’d succeeded.

      Alone in the lift with the tears starting in her eyes and threatening to slip down her cheeks, she knew she hadn’t.

      Angelo stared blindly out the window, his mind spinning with what Lucia had said. And what she hadn’t said.

      His first reaction had been, predictably, affront. Anger, even. What kind of person didn’t accept an apology? He’d had no need to call her up here. He could have ignored her completely.

      Yet even as he felt anger flare he’d known it was unreasonable. Unjust. He’d treated her badly, very badly considering their childhood friendship, their history. He’d always known that even if he tried not to think of it. Tried not to remember that one tender night.

      Seeing her last night had raked up all those old memories and feelings, and he knew he couldn’t be distracted from his purpose here. So she’d been right; his apology had been, in a sense, an item on his to-do list.

      Deal with Lucia and then move on.

      Except as he stood there and silently fumed, staring out the window without taking in the view, he knew he wasn’t moving on at all. Seeing Lucia had mired him right back in the past, remembering how he’d been with her. Who he’d been. She’d seen him at his most vulnerable and needy, at his most shaming and pathetic. The thought made his fists clench.

      He’d hoped apologising to Lucia would give them both a sense of closure, but he didn’t think it had. At least for him it had only stirred things up even more.

      Gazing blindly out the window, he saw the bright blue of her eyes, the determined tilt of her chin. When had she become so strong, so hard? He’d thought, he realised now, that she’d be glad of his apology, grateful for his attention. He’d expected her to trip over herself accepting his grudging sorry.

      Instead she’d seemed…indifferent. Uncaring. Hard.

      He spun away from the window.

      He hated this feeling of restless dissatisfaction that gnawed at him, ate away any sense of achievement he’d had over his recent business successes. He hated the raw emotion he felt about Lucia, an uncomfortable mix of guilt and vulnerability and need. Why couldn’t he just forget about her? Regardless of whether she had accepted his apology or not, at least he’d given it. The matter was done. It should have been, at any rate.

      He sat down at the desk, pulled a sheaf of papers towards him, determined not to think of her again. He’d managed not to think of her for seven years; surely an hour or two wouldn’t be difficult.

      Yet the minutes ticked by and Angelo just sat there, staring at the papers in front of him without taking in a single word.

      CHAPTER THREE

      ‘FRESH TOWELS ARE needed in the penthouse suite.’

      Lucia glanced up from where she’d been stacking laundered linens in one of the supply cupboards.

      ‘The penthouse suite?’ she repeated, and felt dread—as well as a betraying anticipation—sweep through her. ‘Can’t someone else go?’ She’d been avoiding the penthouse suite or any of the hotel’s public places since her confrontation with Angelo.

      She’d seen the speculative, sideways glances when she’d walked out of his office, had heard the whispers fall to a hush when she’d entered the break room. She knew people were wondering, some of them remembering, and she couldn’t stand the thought of any more speculation or shame. She also couldn’t stand the thought of seeing Angelo again, knowing he would look at her as if she were no more than an irritating problem he had to solve. She didn’t have the strength to act indifferent, uncaring. He’d see through her thin facade at some point, and she could bear that least of all.

      ‘Signor Corretti asked for you in particular,’ Emilia, one of the other chambermaids, returned with a smirk. ‘I wonder what he wants besides the towels?’

      Lucia stilled. She knew Emilia from her childhood, knew the other woman had never liked her—had in fact seemed jealous of her, which was ridiculous considering how lonely her life had been since Angelo’s sudden departure. Emilia would certainly relish any gossip Angelo’s personal requests stirred up now. Swallowing, she nodded.

      ‘Fine.’ And she’d tell Angelo to leave her alone while she was at it. She took a deep breath and reached for several of the velvety soft towels. If Angelo owned the hotel, she’d have to see him again at some point. The more she got used to it, the less it would hurt. She hoped.

      Still Lucia couldn’t keep the dread from pooling like acid in her stomach as she headed up the service lift to the top floor, the towels clutched to her chest. Maybe he wouldn’t be there. Maybe he’d put in the request for towels and then gone out…somewhere…

      Except of course that was ridiculous, if he’d made the request himself. He obviously wanted to see her, was summoning her like a—

      No. She wouldn’t think that way.

      The lift doors opened directly into the suite, and Lucia took a step into the silent foyer. She couldn’t see or hear Angelo anywhere.

      She glanced cautiously towards the living area before she decided to just head for the bathroom, deposit the towels and get out of there as quickly as possible. Taking a deep breath, she hurried down the hall and had her hand on the doorknob of the bathroom when the door swung open and Angelo stood there, dressed only in a pair of dress slacks, his chest bare, droplets of water clinging to his golden skin.

      Lucia stood as if rooted to the spot, the towels clutched to her chest, every thought evaporating from her brain. Finally she moistened her lips and managed, ‘You wanted towels—’

      ‘Towels?’ He frowned, glancing at the towels still clutched against her chest. ‘I didn’t ask for any towels.’

      Lucia felt colour rush to her face. ‘You—you didn’t?’ Which meant Emilia had been mistaken—or lying. Had the other maid set her up for more gossip? Now she could whisper to everyone how Lucia had sneaked up to the penthouse suite late at night? Lucia knew what it would look like. And from Angelo’s narrowed gaze, she had a feeling he knew what it looked like too.

      Angelo gazed at Lucia, her cheeks touched with colour but her eyes still frustratingly blank. Once he’d been able to see so much clear emotion in those blue, blue eyes of hers. He’d read her so easily because she’d never tried to hide what she felt. How much she felt. He’d taken for granted, he saw now, the hero-worship she’d had for him when they were children. He’d always known it wasn’t real, couldn’t be, and yet he missed it. He missed, if not the childish adoration she’d once had for him, then at least the affection. The regard.

      She looked now as if she didn’t care for him at all. As if he were a stranger of no importance. Anger or even hatred would have been easier to accept. It would have been understandable.

      But this cold indifference in her eyes—it chilled him. Reminded him of Carlo Corretti’s uncaring stare when he’d confronted the man who had fathered him with the hard truth of his identity.

      All you were meant to be was a stain on the sheets.

      He couldn’t stand for Lucia to look at him that way, as if he didn’t matter. Didn’t exist.

      ‘I didn’t order any towels,’ he said again, wondering if she had possibly used it as an excuse to see him. But no—she looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. With anyone else.

      ‘It must have been a mistake,’ Lucia said stiffly. ‘I’ll go.’

      She turned