Something overwhelming.
She drew a breath and it hitched audibly. Antonio’s eyes flared again. Maisie stared at him, feeling trapped, but in a wonderful way. An exciting way.
‘How old is your younger brother?’ Antonio asked quietly, and the exquisite tension didn’t break, but it lessened. Maisie took another careful breath and removed her hand from his arm; already she missed the warmth of his skin.
‘He’s twenty-two now.’
‘So he was seventeen when your parents died.’
Surprise and a strange kind of gratification rippled through her at his swift recall. ‘Yes.’
‘What did you do? Without your parents?’
‘Worked.’ She didn’t want to get into the whole tedious sob story of her parents’ sudden death, the ensuing shock that they had no savings and her family home had been double-mortgaged. Money had always been a concern in Maisie’s childhood, but she hadn’t realised what an overwhelming fear it could be until after her parents’ death. But surely a man like Antonio Rossi, with his yacht and his houses and his glittering career, didn’t want to hear about that.
‘Worked,’ Antonio repeated slowly, his gaze searching her face. ‘Did you take care of your brother?’
‘Yes.’ Maisie couldn’t keep the ferocity from her tone. Max had been everything to her after her parents had died. She was still finding it hard not to have him at the centre of her world. Even with her new life in the city, she missed him. She missed him needing her, but of course he hadn’t needed her for a while. Not emotionally, anyway.
‘What’s his name?’ Antonio asked softly, and for some reason his interest nearly undid her.
‘Max,’ she whispered. ‘He just finished university in the spring. He’s doing an internship on Wall Street.’
‘Wall Street.’ Antonio gave a low whistle. ‘Sounds like you’ve done a good job.’
‘I tried.’ Maisie dragged her gaze away from Antonio’s eyes with effort. ‘But we were talking about you.’
‘Were we?’
‘What was your brother’s name?’
Antonio hesitated, and Maisie realised it was an intimate, even invasive question. She understood instinctively that he didn’t talk about his brother; that already she was privileged to know as much, or really as little, as she did. ‘Paolo,’ he finally said, and the word escaped from him on a reluctant sigh. ‘He was five years younger than me. He died ten years ago today.’
‘Today...’
‘Hence the whisky.’ He let out a humourless laugh. ‘I always find January sixteenth one of the hardest days of the year.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
He shrugged, his gaze sliding away from hers. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I know that.’ She smiled sadly, wanting to touch him again, to offer him that basic comfort, and yet afraid of his response—and hers. ‘But I also know how much it hurts. And I’m sorry that you’re hurting in that way. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.’
‘No.’ He glanced back at her, his gaze heavy-lidded now, turning sensual. ‘You are a very kind person, Maisie. You have a generous heart, to give so much to people and probably receive less in return.’
She laughed uncertainly. ‘That makes me sound a little bit like a doormat,’ she observed.
‘Not at all.’ He cocked his head. ‘Is that how you feel?’
Surprise flared through her at his perception, because the truth was she’d always felt, in the darkest corner of her heart, that she gave more to Max, loved him more, than he did her. But that was the nature of their relationship, wasn’t it? There were only two years between them but she’d become both mother and father to him. She’d had to. And she’d wanted to, but...sometimes her life had felt dreary, thankless. Sometimes she’d wondered if there was anything more, even as she missed his active presence in her life now. ‘Maybe a little,’ she admitted, and then felt wretched. How could she begrudge her brother anything, never mind her own love? ‘Not really...’
‘Shh.’ Antonio pressed his finger to her lips, utterly silencing her. ‘You don’t have to apologise for your feelings. It’s already obvious to me how much you care about your brother, and how much you’ve sacrificed for him.’
‘How could you possibly know that?’ Maisie whispered, her lips brushing his fingers with every syllable. He kept his finger there, pressed to her lips, light as a feather and yet feeling like the most intimate thing she’d ever experienced.
His gaze was dark and hooded as he replied, ‘Because it shines from you. Love and...and goodness.’
From someone else it would have sounded like sentimental flattery, but Antonio’s tone was so gentle and sincere, with a touch of sorrow that made Maisie ache. No one had ever said such things to her before. No one had ever even noticed all she’d done for Max. All she’d given up for herself. And somehow this beautiful stranger had.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and Antonio pressed his finger more firmly against her mouth, a caress that Maisie felt to her core. She shuddered, unable to stop herself, and Antonio smiled.
‘So loving,’ he murmured as he traced the outline of her lips with his fingertip. ‘And so lovely.’
Maisie remained transfixed under his touch; the touch of his fingers felt as if he were imprinting himself on her soul. She’d had a few boyfriends over the years, but none of them had been serious—there had been Max to think of, and life was so busy, working full-time and trying to keep up with her music. Those boyfriends’ kisses and clinches hadn’t affected her the way Antonio Rossi did, by simply touching her lips with the tip of his finger. Not remotely.
Some hazy part of her brain was telling her that she needed to stop this nonsense and get back to work. Finish her shift and go home and forget the dangerous magic that was being wrought in this room, making her insides fizz and the air shimmer.
Antonio trailed his finger from her lips to her chin and then down to the hollow in her throat, where her pulse beat frantically. He rested it there, his brows drawn together as he studied her. He glanced at her from underneath heavy-lidded eyes and then he dropped his finger lower, undoing her coverall and skimming under the plain white T-shirt she wore beneath, with the cleaning company’s insignia on the breast pocket.
Shock and desire crashed through Maisie in a double wave and the half-full tumbler of whisky dropped from her nerveless fingers and fell onto the floor, the alcohol soaking into the carpet and filling the air with its pungent scent.
She gasped and looked down in horror. ‘Oh, no...’
‘It doesn’t matter...’
‘It does. I can’t leave a mess in an office I’ve just cleaned.’
‘Then we won’t leave it.’
He smiled, the wry yet intent look in his eyes as good as telling her that this was not going to serve
