An Inheritance of Shame(2)
He strolled through the suite, the lights of the city visible and glittering from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The living area was elegant if a bit too stuffy for his taste, with some fussy little chairs and tables, a few ridiculous-looking urns. He’d have a refit of the whole hotel first thing, he decided as he plucked a grape from the bowl of fresh fruit on the coffee table, another fussy piece of furniture, with fluted, gold-leaf edges. He’d bring this place up to date, modern and cutting edge. It had been relying on the distinctly tattered Corretti name and a faded elegance for far too long.
Restless, his head starting to really pound, he continued to prowl through the suite, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep yet unwilling to sit down and work. This was the eve of his victory after all. He should be celebrating.
Unfortunately he had no one to celebrate with in this town. He hadn’t made any friends here in the eighteen years he’d called Sicily home, only enemies.
You made one friend.
The thought slid into his mind, surprising and sweet, and he stilled his restless pacing of the suite’s living area.
Lucia. He tried not to think of her, because thinking of her was remembering and remembering made him wonder. Wish. Regret.
And he never regretted anything. He wouldn’t regret the one night he’d spent in her arms, burying himself so deep inside her he’d almost forgotten who he was—and who he wasn’t.
For a few blissful hours Lucia Anturri, the neighbour’s daughter he’d ignored and appreciated in turns, with the startling blue eyes that mirrored her heart, had made him forget all the anger and pain and emptiness he’d ever felt.
And then he’d slipped away from her while she was sleeping and gone back to his life in New York, to the man of purpose and determination and anger that he’d always be, because damn it, he didn’t want to forget.
Not even for one night.
Even more restless now, that old anger surging through him, Angelo jerked open the buttons of his shirt. He’d take a long, hot shower. Sometimes that helped with the headaches, and at least it was something to do.
He was in the process of shedding his shirt as he came into the bedroom and to an abrupt halt. A bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne chilling inside was by the bed—and so was a woman.
Lucia froze at the sight of the half-dressed man in front of her, three freshly laundered towels pressed to her hard-beating heart.
Angelo.
She knew, had always known, that she would see him again, and occasionally she’d embroidered ridiculous, romantic fantasies about how it would happen. Stupid, schoolgirl dreams. She hadn’t done that for years though, and she’d never imagined this.
Running into him without a second’s notice, totally unprepared—
She’d heard whispers that he was back in Sicily but she had assumed they were, as they’d always been, mere rumours, and she’d never expected to see him here.
From just one shocked glimpse of him standing there, his hair rumpled and his shirt half undone, she knew he didn’t recognise her. Meanwhile in the space of a few seconds she was reliving every glorious and agonising moment she’d spent with him that one night seven years ago, the feel of his satiny skin, the desperate press of his lips against hers.
Such thoughts were clearly the furthest from his mind. His eyes had narrowed, his lips thinned, and he looked angry. She recognised that look, for God knew she’d seen it enough over the fraught years of their childhood. Yet even angry he was beautiful, the most beautiful man she’d ever known.
Known and loved.
Swallowing, she pushed that most unhelpful thought away. She hadn’t seen Angelo in seven years. She didn’t love him any more, and she absolutely knew he’d never loved her.
Which, of course, shouldn’t hurt all this time later, yet in that unguarded moment as she stared at him, his shirt hanging open to reveal the taut, golden expanse of his chest, she knew it did.
Angelo arched an eyebrow, obviously annoyed, clearly waiting. For what? An apology? Did he expect her to do the little chambermaid stammering act and scurry away?
Two desires, both deep-seated, warred within her. On one hand she felt like telling Angelo Corretti exactly what she thought of him for sneaking out of her bed seven years ago. Except she didn’t even know what that was, because she thought of Angelo in so many ways. Desire and despair. Hope and hatred. Love and loss.
In any case, the far more sensible impulse she had was to leave this room before he recognised her, before any awful, awkward reunion scenarios could play out. They may have been childhood friends, he may have been her first and only lover, but she was next to nothing to him, and always had been—a shaming fact she did not need reminding of tonight.