An Inheritance of Shame - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,11

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 and started down the hall, and some insane impulse had Angelo springing forward, reaching for her wrist. ‘No—’

She stilled, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist. ‘Angelo,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Don’t.’

He could feel the pulse in her wrist hammering hard, and it gratified him. Underneath that cold indifference she felt something. Just as he did. ‘Don’t what?’ he asked softly.

‘Don’t do this,’ she said helplessly. ‘What happened between us is over. I know that. It’s fine.’

‘It is not fine.’

She turned back to him, genuine confusion clouding her eyes to a stormy grey. ‘Why? Why do you ever care what I think or feel?’

‘Because—’ He heard his voice rise in frustration. Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because