by Kate Hewitt
The scene that greeted him was so warm and welcoming he nearly felt his eyes sting. Ella was waving her chubby legs in the air as she lay on a blanket in the living room, in sight of Maisie in the kitchen, who was stirring a pan of something that smelled delicious. The table was set for two, surprising him.
Maisie turned to him with a small smile, a hint of uncertainty lurking in her eyes along with the welcome. ‘It’s so late... I thought you might want to stay for dinner. That is, if you don’t have any other plans.’
He didn’t have any plans. He’d been hoping for this very scenario, and yet...still he hesitated. Longing and fear battled against each other, alarm bell ringing. They were meant to keep a certain distance, relate only through their daughter. But they had to get along. And he was hungry.
‘Sure,’ he said with a smile and a shrug. ‘Thank you.’ Maisie smiled back and Antonio tried not to notice the way it lit her eyes up like emerald stars, or the way the light caught the gold hints in her hair, or the curve of her breast and hip underneath the loose T-shirt she wore. Or, he acknowledged grimly as he shifted where he stood, the memory of how those warm, generous curves had felt against his palms and lips.
‘I even splurged and bought a bottle of wine,’ Maisie said as she nodded towards a bottle of red on the counter top. ‘I don’t usually drink, but since this is Italy...’
‘When in Rome...’ Antonio murmured. He retrieved a corkscrew from the drawer, opening the bottle and pouring them both a glass.
‘You’re corrupting me, you know,’ Maisie teased. ‘Whisky and then champagne and now wine...’ Antonio froze, and she frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing.’ He wasn’t about to explain what a good, or awful, corrupter of innocence he was. How his mother had accused him of the same thing, used virtually the same words, and it had had nothing to do with something as innocuous as a glass of champagne or a bottle of wine.
‘You corrupted him, Antonio. You ruined him.’
‘I feel like I said something wrong.’ She gazed at him seriously. ‘I was just joking, you know.’
‘I know.’
She looked as if she wanted to say something more but Antonio forestalled her by handing her a glass of wine. ‘Drink up.’
‘I should only have a little, since I’m breastfeeding.’ She took a sip, smiling at him. ‘Thank you for all this. The cot, the toys, everything.’
‘It’s all ready upstairs for Ella. Do you want to see?’ He found he was rather looking forward to her seeing the room and the work that he’d done.
‘Yes, I do.’ She scooped up Ella. ‘Why don’t you show me now? The pasta won’t be ready for another few minutes.’
He led the way up the stairs and then down the darkened corridor, flicking on a table lamp so the nursery was bathed in a cosy glow.
‘Oh, Antonio...it looks amazing.’ She stroked one hand over the quilt embroidered with lambs and ducks, and then touched the fleecy bunny tucked into one corner. ‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’ She laid Ella down in the cot, and the baby smiled as she blinked up at the spinning mobile.
‘And one more thing.’ He reached above her head to pull the string on the mobile, and a violin rendition of a Brahms lullaby began to play.
‘Oh...’ Tears sparkled in Maisie’s eyes as she listened to the soothing strains.
‘Perhaps you’ll play it to her yourself one day.’
‘That’s so thoughtful of you, Antonio. Really.’ She laid a hand on his arm, and just like that the tender feeling between them sparked into something else. Something hot and dangerous.
Her fingers flexed on his arm and Antonio drew a shuddering breath. The very air seemed to crackle between them, and his gaze fell to her parted lips as his body remembered the honeyed taste of them and longed to experience it again.
Maisie shifted towards him, her head angled so that it would be all too easy to close the small space between their mouths and swallow it up. Antonio didn’t think she even realised what she was doing, how open the invitation was...or how much he wanted to accept it.
Then Ella let out a little cry, and the effect of that single sound was as if a vat of iced water had been poured onto both of them. Maisie jumped a little and Antonio straightened, raking a hand through his hair. That had been a close call. Far, far too close.
‘The pasta is probably ready...’
‘I’ll take Ella.’ Maisie hurried out of the room while Antonio scooped up his daughter and breathed in her baby scent. What madness had possessed him just then? He couldn’t get involved with Maisie again. He couldn’t let her get close. He knew where that led, and it was nowhere good. She already knew too much about him. What would happen when she knew the full, terrible truth?
Slowly Antonio walked down the stairs. He set Ella back on her blanket as Maisie dished out the pasta onto two plates. Everything about the scene was warm, welcoming, and lovely.
Antonio stepped towards the door. At the sound of his footsteps, Maisie turned.
‘Antonio...?’ A frown crinkled her forehead.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t stay after all.’ The words were terse, too terse. He saw hurt flash across Maisie’s face before she steeled herself, squaring her shoulders. ‘I have work,’ Antonio explained, knowing how lame it sounded. How lame it was. ‘At the office.’
Maisie folded her arms, pursed her lips. She wasn’t fooled. ‘Blowing hot and cold still,’ she said coolly, but her hurt and anger were betrayed by a tremble in her voice. ‘You know, Antonio, I’d rather you just stayed away rather than lurch about, unsure whether you want to be in our lives or not. Make up your mind.’
Stung, Antonio drew back. He knew she was right, but it still hurt. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you next week.’
And with that he strode out into the night.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE NEXT FEW weeks fell into a routine that felt, at different times, both pleasant and confusing. Maisie found she enjoyed making the villa a home, and every morning she’d take Ella out to browse the little shops and sit in the village square, sometimes ordering a coffee and drinking it in the sunshine.
She’d also found a mother-and-baby group that met locally, and, although the language barrier remained an issue, she was surprised at how well she could communicate with a combination of miming and broken English and Italian.
Ella seemed to have settled well, sleeping better at night and being less fretful during the day. Max had video-chatted with her several times and, although he remained concerned, Maisie couldn’t mistake the relief in his eyes and voice at knowing that she was okay and he was free. She didn’t blame him. He was young, upwardly mobile, and wanted to experience the best of life. She was happy for him, and she was enjoying life in Italy more than she had expected...except for one thing.
Antonio was the wild card in her life, the turbulent wave in an otherwise placid sea. After that first infuriating night when he’d left before eating dinner, he had returned a week later with a schedule of visits, which had seemed sensible but also rather cold and businesslike. He’d proposed visiting Ella every other day, in the evening, and also on Saturdays.
‘But if you require further help, a nanny or babysitter, you must let me know.’
‘Maybe I will at some point,’ Maisie had answered. She’d stared down at the schedule of visits and couldn’t keep from feeling disappointed and even hurt. She wanted them to be friends, but Antonio seemed determined to merely tolerate her for Ella’s sake. It hurt more than she knew it should.
Antonio had also engaged an Italian tutor for her, a smiling grandmother who bounced Ella on her lap while Maisie ran through conversational phrases. Maisie was starting to make progress with her Italian, but her daughter’s father felt as much a frustrating enigma as ever.
During his visits with Ella he could be charming and funny, interested and concerned. If she ever
had an issue with anything, whether it was a leaky tap or needing a car, Antonio solved it with alacrity. When he’d had an SUV delivered to the drive, she’d been speechless. He’d merely shrugged.
Despite the acts of generosity and concern, he remained intentionally and irritatingly remote, a shutter coming down over his eyes whenever Maisie asked anything personal. His life was still very much his own; he visited her, and not the other way around.
All in all, she reflected as she sat by the pool one afternoon two weeks after she’d arrived, despite the luxury and the sunshine and the few friends she’d made, she felt restless and discontented, as if she wanted something more. She just didn’t know what.
The sun was starting to sink beneath the fringe of plane trees, so Maisie scooped up Ella and headed inside. Antonio had stopped by yesterday for dinner, giving Ella her bath and singing to her before bedtime, so Maisie didn’t expect him today, a fact which made her heart sink a little.
The truth was, she felt lonely. Six months, or now five and a half, felt like a very long time. If Antonio made more of an effort, let her in a little...but he didn’t. Maisie knew she shouldn’t care, because he wasn’t the sort of man to pin her dreams on. A ruthless playboy, no matter how devoted a father he seemed, was not a good bet.
She’d just put Ella down to sleep, the house full of shadows and pools of lamplight, when a knock sounded on the door. Surprised, Maisie went to answer it—then stared in shock at Antonio standing there.
‘I didn’t think you were coming today,’ she said. ‘And in any case, Ella is asleep.’
‘I didn’t come for Ella.’
A shiver of apprehension and excitement rippled through her. Maisie stepped back from the door to let him inside. Now that she was looking at him properly, she saw how restless and even angry he seemed, his fists loosely clenched, the buttons of his shirt undone. Stubble grazed his jaw and his hair was rumpled. Despite the tension emanating from him, he looked utterly appealing. She took another step back, reminding herself how easily she’d fallen for him once before.
‘What’s going on, Antonio?’
‘Do you have anything to drink?’
‘Sorry, I don’t.’ She folded her arms. ‘Why did you come here?’
He gave her a crooked smile as he strode into the living room and flung himself down on the sofa. ‘Because I couldn’t face being alone.’
Curiosity warred with compassion as Maisie perched on the sofa opposite him. ‘Why not?’
He tilted his head up to stare at the ceiling. ‘Do you know what day it is, Maisie?’
It took her a moment to realise, and then she did with a thud, a deep, sinking sensation inside her. ‘It’s the anniversary of your brother’s death,’ she said softly.
‘And Ella’s conception.’ He lowered his head to laser her with that piercing blue gaze. ‘Do you remember?’
Her mouth was dry, her heart thumping. ‘Of course I do, Antonio. But I thought you didn’t want to.’
‘Just because of that one time I pretended not to know you?’ His mouth quirked wryly.
‘Not just that,’ Maisie allowed. ‘Other things.’ She took a deep breath, her hands twisted together. ‘Sometimes it seems as if you enjoy being with me, and sometimes...not. Sometimes,’ she continued, her voice growing stronger, ‘it seems as if you don’t even like me.’
Antonio let out a hollow laugh. ‘I like you, Maisie. I like you too damn much.’
It shouldn’t thrill her, but it did. ‘Then why...?’
‘Do you think I’m a total bastard?’
The question made her blink. ‘No...’
‘Just somewhat of one?’
‘No. I don’t admire your business practices, but as a man...’ She trailed off uncertainly. This conversation felt as intimate as the one they’d shared exactly a year ago, when she’d wandered into that office, and, unknowingly, into her future.
Antonio looked at her again, heat and something deeper and sadder visible in his gaze. ‘As a man?’
‘I don’t know, Antonio. You haven’t given me a chance to know you.’
‘Because I don’t think you’d like what you discovered.’
‘Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that,’ Maisie said softly. ‘Because a lot of what I do see, I like and admire.’ Antonio made a scoffing noise, and she continued, her voice growing steadier and stronger as she realised how much she believed what she was saying. ‘You’re loving and gentle and tender with Ella. And you’re considerate and thoughtful with me, thinking of things I need before I even know I need them, and working to provide them.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Money.’
‘Not just money. Time and effort and thought, as well. And you can be charming and funny—’
‘A veneer.’
‘A nice one, then. Why do you think so little of yourself, Antonio? What’s haunting you?’ Because something surely was, and Maisie longed to know what it was. To help and even free this man she’d come to care about, even if she hadn’t meant or wanted to. Even if he’d been keeping his distance and she had too, both of them protecting their hearts. Or was she merely being fanciful, hopeful...? ‘Is it your brother’s death?’ Maisie asked quietly.
Antonio was silent for a long time, his expression shuttering once more. Maisie didn’t think he was going to answer, and her heart twisted. She wanted to know. She needed to know. Antonio was her baby’s father and, more importantly, he was the only man in her life. She wanted to get closer to him, to help him if she could. To love him?
The question startled her. She didn’t love Antonio. Of course she didn’t. She didn’t know him well enough for that depth of feeling. And yet, she acknowledged, part of her wanted to love him. Wanted to open her heart, because she’d always wanted to open her heart. To find a person to love...and to love her back. But surely that couldn’t be Antonio. Nothing that had happened between them so far should make her think, hope, and yet...
‘Maisie,’ he finally said as her thoughts reeled, ‘will you do me a favour?’
‘A favour? What is it?’
He looked at her, his expression full of grief and appeal. ‘Will you play for me?’
* * *
Maisie’s mouth dropped open as she stared at him. Antonio knew he shouldn’t have come here. It had been a reckless act, driven by desperation and a deep, endless grief he kept at bay, or tried to, for three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. On this night he let it out—and he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to be with Maisie.
‘Play?’ Maisie whispered. ‘You mean...?’
‘Your violin. I’ve never heard you play, and I’d like to.’
‘I haven’t played in months,’ she admitted. ‘Not since Ella...’
‘Will you play for me?’ He wanted to hear her. He wanted to be carried away by music, on the wings of another person’s passion. Maisie’s passion. And most of all, for a little while, he wanted to forget. ‘Please?’
‘All right,’ she whispered, and she rose to retrieve her violin. Antonio closed his eyes, fighting against the tide of memory pulling him under, beckoning him to drown. One night a year he gave in to the regret and guilt, and yet it was so torturous.
The first strains swept over him in a symphony of sound and emotion. He recognised the aching, melancholy notes of Adagio for Strings, by the American composer Samuel Barber, and he let the music flood him, overwhelm and inhabit him.
It carried him away to that place of yearning and sadness he tried not to access, that split him right open and left him exposed and aching.
He didn’t realise the music had stopped until he felt Maisie’s hand on his damp cheek.
‘Antonio...’ His name on her lips was a plea, a promise. He kept his eyes closed, savouring her touch. Craving it, even though he knew he shouldn’t. He’d tried to keep himself distant and safe
and here he was, undoing all that work. Wanting to undo it. ‘You seem so anguished,’ she whispered, her palm caressing his cheek. ‘So trapped...’
‘I am trapped.’ The words emerged from him in something close to a gasp. ‘I’ll never be free.’
‘Why?’ He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. ‘Why do you blame yourself for your brother’s death?’ she asked, her voice both soft and urgent. ‘That’s the crux of it, isn’t it?’
‘It was a car accident.’ He could hardly believe he was about to tell her the truth. ‘You know about car accidents, don’t you?’
A pause, a breath. ‘Yes...’
‘Reckless driver. A single moment. That’s how it was for your parents, wasn’t it?’
‘Is that what happened with your brother, Antonio? Were you driving?’
‘No, Paolo was. But I was driving the other car.’ He kept his eyes clenched shut, not wanting to see the dawning horror and judgement he knew would be on her face. ‘We were racing.’
‘Racing...’
‘Yes, racing. Extreme sports were our thing, our escape.’ He was trying to justify his actions, and he knew he couldn’t. ‘My thing,’ he amended. ‘My escape. And I brought Paolo along. My parents fought a lot, and my father was depressed after losing his job. It was a way to leave all that behind, if only for a short time.’
‘That seems understandable,’ Maisie murmured, but she sounded cautious, and who could blame her? Perhaps she could guess what he was going to say next.
‘Understandable or unimaginable?’ Antonio let out a hoarse laugh, more a cry of pain. ‘Paolo was five years younger than me. He looked up to me, for support and guidance, everything. And I led him to his death.’
‘It was an accident, Antonio—’
‘One that could have been so easily avoided. I urged him on, Maisie.’ He opened his eyes, needing to punish himself by looking at her as he told her the truth. ‘He didn’t even want to race that day. I called him a coward. I egged him on.’