Page 34 of The Secret Kept from the Italian

Maisie gave a little grimace. ‘Only from those unfortunate tabloids.’

; ‘Well, then,’ he said lightly. ‘Don’t believe everything you read, but believe some of it.’

‘The general gist?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why are you here, then, Antonio? If you really are the reckless, careless playboy those magazines make you out to be, why do you care so much about your daughter?’

He flinched at her bluntness, even as he acknowledged she had a point. ‘My own family was a bit of a mess,’ he said, choosing each word with care. ‘And part of that, a large part, was my fault. I want to get it right this time.’

‘How was it your fault?’ She frowned. ‘You said something similar that night...’

‘There’s no point talking about what’s in the past.’ The last thing he needed was a reminder of all the weakness and vulnerability he’d spewed forth that night. He’d been drunk and desperate and pathetic. He didn’t want to live it all over again. ‘And I admit, I’ve been surprised by the strength of my feelings. I never thought I’d have children, but now that my daughter’s right here...’ He gestured to Ella nursing happily. ‘I love her,’ he said simply. ‘I want to do my best by her. I might not get a lot of the other stuff right, but I will try with Ella, I swear.’

‘I believe you,’ Maisie said softly. She sounded sad. ‘Why don’t you have a look at the cot? It would be great if she could sleep in it tonight.’

Antonio nodded, accepting her suggestion as the dismissal he suspected it was. Better for the both of them, really. No need to spill secrets, or get close. No need at all.

He spent the next hour squinting at the complicated directions for the cot, finally managing to put it together as darkness settled softly outside, over the fig tree.

From downstairs he heard the sounds of Maisie moving around, and then some cooking smells—frying pancetta and garlic—that made his mouth water.

With the cot assembled, he made it up with the new sheets and quilt, attached the mobile up above and snuggled a few soft toys in the corners. Then he went downstairs in search of Maisie and Ella.

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.