An Inheritance of Shame - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,36

from lodging inside him like a stone, heavy and hot, burning through him. Snatching indeed.

How he hated the Correttis, with their smug superiority and their complete indifference to a blood relation, simply because he’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Not one of them had ever concerned themselves with him or his welfare. Not one of them had ever cared or considered him at all.

As a boy he’d had the most pathetic, useless fantasies about how they’d notice him. His father would find out about his existence and welcome him into the palazzo. His half-brothers and cousins would become his friends. He had, once upon a time, imagined how they’d become his family, his real family. He’d dreamt of how they’d all love him.

But of course no one ever had.

Except Lucia. Lucia loved you.

He stumbled in his stride and righted himself, tried to push that unhelpful thought away. In the past three days, since he’d left Lucia in front of the hotel, she’d never been far from his thoughts. He’d determined to think of it—her—with cold logic; she said she loved him, so either she was lying or she believed she loved him even though she didn’t. Couldn’t. There were no other possibilities.

Angelo didn’t think she had been lying; she had no reason to lie about such a thing. So she must have somehow convinced herself that she loved him, perhaps as some kind of moral justification for their one-night stand.

And if he disabused her of the ridiculous notion? Convinced her that she couldn’t actually love him, that such an idea was mere fantasy? Angelo had at first found himself strangely reluctant to consider such an idea. Yet now as he strode towards Pretoria Square and gazed up at the huge marble fountain—the fountain of shame, it had once been called—he thought again.

Why not? Why not convince Lucia she couldn’t love him? Once she let go of such ridiculous, romantic notions she might be more willing to embark on what he wanted: a mutually pleasurable affair. He could still get what he wanted. What she wanted…He just had to convince her that she did.

Lucia was just reaching for another stack of linens when she heard a voice behind her.

‘There you are.’

She turned and felt her heart stop right in her chest at the sight of Angelo in the doorway of one of the hotel’s supply closets.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Here? People will talk, Angelo.’

‘Let them.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

‘You never used to care what people thought, Lucia. Remember?’ His voice was a rough caress and he stepped into the little room, seeming to take up all the space and air. ‘You told me not to care what people thought. What they said to me.’

She focused on counting pillowcases, but in her mind’s eye she could see Angelo at ten, eleven years old, bloody and defiant, angry and proud. She remembered trying to tease him out of his hurt, coming up with ridiculous taunts for the ignorant schoolchildren who refused to think of him as anything but the Corretti bastard, the son of a woman they’d said was no better than a whore. More often than not Angelo had just shrugged her off, but once in a while she’d succeeded in making him smile, even laugh. He’d meet her gaze and they’d grin at each other, both of them hurting and yet happy in that moment, united in their understanding of how harsh and unfair the world really was.

‘That was a long time ago, Angelo.’ Her voice sounded clogged and she cleared her throat, kept her gaze firmly on the sheets and not on the man who seemed intent on breaking her. Again.

‘Not so long.’ Angelo put one hand on her wrist, stilling her, his touch sure and strong and yet also gentle. ‘You don’t love me, Lucia.’

She turned to him, surprise temporarily wiping away every other emotion. ‘You came here to tell me that?’

‘You think you do, but you don’t.’ He gazed at her steadily, his eyes dark and serious, his tone so very certain.

Lucia shook her head slowly. ‘How on earth could you know a thing like that, Angelo?’

‘Because.’ He frowned, as if he hadn’t ever considered the question before. ‘Because you can’t.’

‘I can’t,’ Lucia repeated. She searched the harsh lines of his face, tried to find some clue as to why he felt the need to tell her this now. ‘Does it ease your conscience somehow, to think I didn’t