The Secret Kept From The Italian. Кейт Хьюит
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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