The Secret Kept From The Italian. Кейт Хьюит
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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