An Inheritance of Shame - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,20

She had not yet found a single personal item in the entire place, not a book or a photo or even a stray sock. Nothing to tell her more of the man Angelo was now.

‘I’ve never been here before tonight.’

She glanced back at him, shocked. ‘Never? Not even to make sure you liked it?’

‘I had it built to my specifications, and I have an assistant who handles interior decorating. She knows my preferences.’

Lucia ignored that little splinter of jealousy that burrowed into her at the thought of some female assistant who knew what he liked. More than she knew, because she wouldn’t have guessed that Angelo liked such modern decor. She really didn’t know anything about him any more.

So how could she still want him? Love him?

Angelo glanced at her, eyebrows raised. ‘What do you think of it?’

‘You have a beautiful view,’ she said diplomatically, and he let out a short, dry laugh.

‘I see.’

‘It just seems so…sterile. Cold. There’s nothing personal about any of it.’

‘And why should there be? As I told you, I’ve never stepped inside the place until half an hour ago.’

‘And will you live here? Eventually?’

‘No. I’ll never live in Sicily.’ The finality of his words and tone silenced her. He ladled some manicotti and swordfish onto two plates. ‘Let’s eat outside.’

Lucia followed him through the sliding glass doors that led to a wraparound veranda with a stunning view of the sea, the setting sun turning its surface to shimmering gold. The surf crashed far below, sending up plumes of white spray onto the railing.

‘This is amazing,’ Lucia said, gesturing at the view but meaning to encompass everything: the view, the house, Angelo’s life. It was all amazing, and she felt a bittersweet pride at how hard he’d worked and how much he’d accomplished.

How far he’d travelled, so far away from her.

Angelo pulled out her chair and she sat, tensing as he spread a cloth napkin in her lap. His thumbs brushed her thighs and even though he’d barely touched her she still felt an ache of longing spread upwards and take over her whole body.

She tried to ignore it, to force it back, because she knew how dangerous that ache of wanting could be. That ache had deceived her, destroyed her. Made her believe in foolish fairy tales and ridiculous happily-ever-afters, even when she’d known they were absurd. Impossible.

‘You wanted to talk about Angelica,’ she said, smoothing the napkin over her lap once more. That was why she was here, why she’d agreed to come; he deserved to know about his daughter. So she would tell him, and then she would leave. And then, finally, please God, it would truly be finished between them.

Which was what she wanted, had to want, even if everything in her screamed otherwise.

‘Yes.’ Angelo sat across from her, his gaze fathomless in the near twilight. He reached for the bottle of wine he’d brought out along with their plates and with an arch of an eyebrow indicated if she’d like him to pour.

Lucia shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

Angelo set the bottle back down and reached for his fork. ‘You live alone,’ he remarked as he started to eat. She nodded, wary, and took a forkful of swordfish. It was buttery-soft and tender, almost dissolving in her mouth. ‘What happened to your mother?’ he asked.

Lucia swallowed. ‘She died seven years ago.’ Two months before he’d shown up at her door.

Something flickered in his eyes, although Lucia couldn’t tell what it was. What he felt. ‘I’m sorry. How did it happen?’

‘A heart attack. It was quick.’

‘Sudden too.’

‘Yes.’

‘So you’ve been on your own a long time.’

‘Yes.’ He knew from their childhood that she’d been raised by her mother; her father, worthless drunk that he’d been, had left without a backwards glance when she was eight years old, and her mother had never stopped missing him, never stopped wanting him back. Angelo wasn’t the only one who’d had unfortunate parents.

‘You’ve been working for the Correttis since I left,’ he observed, his tone neutral, and Lucia toyed with her pasta.

‘They pay well.’

‘Did you mother leave you any money?’

‘What little she had.’ She glanced up at him, felt a flash of frustration, maybe even of anger. ‘Why are you asking all this, Angelo? What on earth does it matter to you?’

‘You matter,’ he said flatly. ‘You were the mother of my child, Lucia. I want to know what has happened to you.’

She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t change anything.’

‘I still want to know.’

They ate in silence