An Inheritance of Shame(11)
He sat down at the desk, pulled a sheaf of papers towards him, determined not to think of her again. He’d managed not to think of her for seven years; surely an hour or two wouldn’t be difficult.
Yet the minutes ticked by and Angelo just sat there, staring at the papers in front of him without taking in a single word.
CHAPTER THREE
‘FRESH TOWELS ARE needed in the penthouse suite.’
Lucia glanced up from where she’d been stacking laundered linens in one of the supply cupboards.
‘The penthouse suite?’ she repeated, and felt dread—as well as a betraying anticipation—sweep through her. ‘Can’t someone else go?’ She’d been avoiding the penthouse suite or any of the hotel’s public places since her confrontation with Angelo.
She’d seen the speculative, sideways glances when she’d walked out of his office, had heard the whispers fall to a hush when she’d entered the break room. She knew people were wondering, some of them remembering, and she couldn’t stand the thought of any more speculation or shame. She also couldn’t stand the thought of seeing Angelo again, knowing he would look at her as if she were no more than an irritating problem he had to solve. She didn’t have the strength to act indifferent, uncaring. He’d see through her thin facade at some point, and she could bear that least of all.
‘Signor Corretti asked for you in particular,’ Emilia, one of the other chambermaids, returned with a smirk. ‘I 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.