An Inheritance of Shame

chapter SIX



THE WIND OFF the sea was a sultry caress of her skin, the sand soft and still warm under her bare feet. Lucia dabbed at her eyes again, took a deep breath as she wrested her emotions under control. Her composure, her sense of control, was the only thing of value that she had, and she clung to it.

He walked a little ahead of her, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, the wind blowing the T-shirt tight to his body so she could see the powerful, sculpted muscles of his chest and abdomen.

‘And afterwards?’ he asked after they’d walked for several minutes, the waves washing onto the sand by their feet. ‘Was there…was there a funeral?’

‘Yes.’ She spoke with matter-of-fact flatness, her only defence against the undertow of emotion that threatened to suck her down into its destructive spiral. She hadn’t talked of this in so long; she hadn’t even allowed herself to remember. Her pregnancy had been a source of shame, so that even her daughter’s death had felt like a forbidden grief, not to be spoken of, not to be mourned. More than one woman in the narrow streets of Caltarione had told her she should be thankful Angelica hadn’t lived. Lucia had never replied to this repellent sentiment, but everything in her had burned and raged—and now, under the onslaught of Angelo’s questions, still did.

‘At the church in Caltarione,’ she told Angelo in that same matter-of-fact tone. ‘It was a very small service.’ Just her, the priest and a few friends of her mother who had, to Lucia’s surprise, attended with a silent, stolid solidarity. ‘She’s buried there, in a special area for stillborn babies.’ She’d used the last of the inheritance from her mother to pay for the headstone.

Angelo nodded, his head lowered, his hands still shoved in his pockets. ‘I’d like to go there.’ He paused, stopping mid-stride, and reluctantly Lucia turned to him. His gaze moved searchingly over her as he asked, ‘Will you go with me?’ The request stopped her in her tracks, the grief she’d suppressed for so long like a leaden weight in her chest.

‘Lucia?’ Angelo prompted, and she couldn’t speak, couldn’t even shake her head. It was taking all of her strength, all of her will, simply to stand under that oppressive weight, a grief she’d carried with her yet never acknowledged or accepted. Never been able to let go of.

Now it threatened to bury her, and she could not stand the thought of kneeling in front of her baby’s grave with Angelo, acknowledging with him the death of their daughter, of all her dreams, the life she’d once hoped to have.…

‘Lucia.’ Angelo took her by the shoulders. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

What was wrong? Could he really ask that? Could he really not understand how this was killing her?

She made some small sound, the sound of an animal in pain. Angelo frowned and with the last of her strength Lucia wrenched away from him before he could see the agony on her face. She started running down the beach, back to the villa, anywhere away from him.

She heard Angelo give a muttered curse and then he was coming up behind her, his hands clamping down on her shoulders and turning her towards him. Still she resisted, twisting away from him as the tears streaked down her cheeks and the sobs gathered in her chest, an unbearable pressure finally demanding release.

Angelo wouldn’t let her go. His arms came around her, drawing her to him so she was pressed against his chest, his lips on her hair, her face hidden in the warm curve of his shoulder. ‘Oh, Lucia…mi cucciola… I’m sorry…I didn’t realise.…Of course it still hurts. It always hurts.’

The gentleness of his embrace and the tenderness of his words made it impossible for her to fight. Resist. In the safety of his arms she broke, and all the anguish she’d been holding back spilled out of her, so her body shook and tears streamed from her eyes. She couldn’t have even said what she was crying for. The loss of her daughter? The loss of Angelo? The loss of everything, all her unspoken hopes, the life she’d so desperately wanted yet had known she would never have.

Angelo drew her down to the sand, his hands stroking her hair as he murmured endearments and words of comfort, his voice low and ragged.

Lucia heard herself saying things and fragments of things she’d never meant to share, hadn’t even realised she remembered. ‘She had blue eyes, but they were dark. I think they would have been green, like yours.…They wrapped her in a blue blanket and it made me so angry, such a silly thing.…The doctor’s hands were so cold and the nurse took her away from me without even asking.…’

And then there were no more words, just sobs tearing from her chest and coming out of her mouth in ragged gulps as Angelo held and rocked her, offering her the kind of comfort she’d so often given him.

Her face was hidden in the curve of his shoulder, her lips brushing the warm skin just above the collar of his T-shirt, all of it just as he’d once been with her, and acting on instinct and out of need Lucia pressed her lips against his skin in a silent kiss, a mute appeal. She felt Angelo tense, his arms stiffening even as they held her, but she was past caring. Past asking.

The appeal became a demand as she kissed him again, her lips pressing harder against his warm skin. She heard his ragged draw of breath, his arms still around her.

‘Lucia…’

But she didn’t want words. She wanted this, only this—to take and not to give, to be comforted and not to comfort. Was it wrong? Was it selfish? She didn’t care. She needed this. Needed his caress, the only kind of comfort she craved now. She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him, but in the twilit darkness she couldn’t make out his expression.

She leaned forward and kissed him hard, and his mouth opened under hers even as his hands came up to her shoulders to brace her—or to push her away? She wrapped her arms around him and pressed herself against him. She heard him groan and he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping inside and claiming her for his own.

Lucia kissed him back, her hands in his hair and then on his shoulders, sliding beneath his shirt to feel the taut, warm skin underneath. She pushed him back onto the beach and his arms came up around her, their legs tangling together in the sand.

She lay on top of him, shuddered as she felt his hands slide under her T-shirt, his thumbs brushing across her breasts. She arched into the caress, shifting so she could feel his arousal pressing against her belly. Angelo kissed her, his mouth moving from her lips to her throat, and then the V between her breasts, the pleasure of his touch so intense it felt almost painful, and yet she still wanted more. Needed more.

With one trembling hand she reached down to undo the button on his jeans. Angelo wrapped his fingers around her own, stilling her hand.

‘Lucia, no. Per favore, not like this.’

‘Yes, like this,’ she shot back fiercely. ‘Exactly like this.’

He shook his head. ‘You are sad, grieving—’

‘And you were sad and grieving the last time we slept together, Angelo. It helped, didn’t it? I helped you forget for a moment.’ He stilled, his hand still wrapped around hers, but his grip had slackened and she pushed his hand away, undid his zip. She stroked the hard length of his erection through the silk of his boxers. ‘Help me forget,’ she whispered. ‘Help me forget, even if just for a moment.’ She stroked him again, saw him close his eyes, his jaw clenched.

‘If you want me to make love to you, I will,’ he said raggedly. ‘But not here, on the hard sand.’

She let out a wild, trembling laugh. ‘Have you become so particular, in the past seven years?’ Her creaky, sagging bed had been the setting for their last encounter; he hadn’t complained. He hadn’t said anything at all.

‘Come back to the villa,’ he said, and he rose from the sand, buttoning up his jeans before reaching for her hand. Reluctantly Lucia took it. Now that the rawness of the moment had eased she was conscious of how much she’d revealed, from the confessions she’d sobbed out to the tears on her cheeks, and the shameless, desperate way she’d reached for him. Yet even so she still wanted him. Needed what he could give, if just for this one night.

They walked in silence back along the beach, up the stairs to the veranda and then inside to the sterile stillness of the villa. Angelo turned around to face her, his expression watchful, guarded, and Lucia knew he’d suggested they return to the villa not because he had a preference for satin sheets but because he wanted to give her time to change her mind.

Well, she wouldn’t. He’d turned to her for comfort and pleasure once; she’d do the same to him. Maybe then it would feel finished between them, a final, equal exchange. Maybe then she could move on.

She lifted her chin. ‘Where’s the bedroom?’

Surprise flared silver in his eyes and his mouth quirked in a small smile. ‘You are constantly amazing me.’

She ignored the warmth that flared through her at his praise. ‘Don’t patronise me, Angelo.’

‘Trust me, I am not. Perhaps tragedy has made you stronger, Lucia, for you have far more spirit now than I ever gave you credit for when we were children.’

‘Yes, I do.’ Tragedy had made her stronger. She was glad he saw it. ‘The bedroom,’ she prompted, and he smiled faintly even as he watched her, still wary.

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘A decision like this should not be made in the heat of the moment—’

‘And it’s not the heat of the moment right now,’ she answered. Still he stared at her, his eyes dark and considering.

‘I don’t,’ he finally said in a low voice, ‘want to hurt you.’

Lucia swallowed past the ache his words opened up inside her. He’d hurt so many times in the past, but this time it would be different.

‘You won’t,’ she said. This time she wouldn’t let him. She knew what she wanted, what to expect. This time she would be the one to walk away.

It should be simple. He wanted this; clearly, so did she. So why, Angelo wondered, was he not sweeping Lucia up the stairs and into his bed?

Because her tears had been too recent, her grief too raw. Yet he’d turned to her in his own anger and pain; would he not allow her to do the same?

Still he hesitated.

‘Don’t tell me you have la gola secca, Angelo,’ she mocked softly. Her eyes glittered sapphire and she walked towards him, determination evident in every taut line of her body, her hips swaying, the silky T-shirt and skirt highlighting the lush curves he’d had his hands on only moments ago.

‘No, not a dry throat,’ he replied, gazing down at her. ‘I’m not afraid.’ He just wanted to give her the time to acknowledge la gola secca of her own. He didn’t want this to be rushed, regrettable. He still didn’t know all he wanted from Lucia, but he did know it was more than that.

He tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, trailed his fingers down her cheek. She closed her eyes, drew in a shuddering breath and then opened them to stare straight into his own.

‘Make love to me, Angelo. Make love to me, please.’

Her broken plea felled him. How could he deny her? How could he resist her? Angelo curled his hands around her shoulders and kissed her softly. At least, it was meant to be a soft kiss, a tender thing, but memory and need crashed over him, reminding him of how accepted he’d felt in her arms, as if her embrace were the only home—the only hope—he’d ever had.

He deepened the kiss, turned it into both a demand and entreaty. His tongue swept into her mouth and he slid his hands under her T-shirt, cupping the lush fullness of her breasts as a sob of longing broke from her throat and she hooked one leg around his, drawing him even closer to her own intoxicating softness.

He’d meant to lead her upstairs, to pull back the satin sheets and lay her down gently, like a treasure. He’d meant to take his time, to make love to her properly, for he knew the last time they’d been together it had been desperate, frantic—and incredible.

And it was just as frantic now—and just as incredible.

Her fingers fumbled with the zip on his jeans and then curled around his erection. He let out a ragged moan as he slid his own hand up the silky length of her thigh and then beneath her underwear straight to the centre of her, his fingers sliding inside her slick warmth even as his brain told him to stop rushing, they had all the time in the world—

Except they didn’t. Lucia pulled him closer, arched against him. ‘Now, now,’ she pleaded, her voice almost a sob as she pushed down his jeans and boxers with clumsy, hurried movements. He hoisted her onto the back of the leather sofa, her legs spread wide and open to him. She reached for him, guiding him towards her.

‘Lucia…’ he muttered, a token protest, for already she was wrapping her legs around his waist, arching against him, and then he was inside her and he let out a ragged gasp of desire because she felt so good.

They moved in silent, sweet complicity, and pleasure and something far deeper surged through him, overwhelmed every sense he possessed. He’d thought last time the rightness he’d felt with Lucia had been a product of his own confused grief over his father’s death, but he had no such reason this time. No such excuse. The rightness he felt, the completeness, was just as strong, just as powerful—even more so.

This was where he belonged. He, a bastard child rejected by his father and abandoned by his mother, barely tolerated by the grandparents who had raised him and reviled by the villagers who could have been his community, his strength. This—Lucia—was the only place where he felt at home. Where he belonged.

He felt her arch against him and she sobbed out his name, her face buried in his shoulder, as he reached his own climax and drew her even closer to him, never wanting to let her go.

Lucia sagged against Angelo, replete. Tears streaked down her face but they had been good tears, healing tears in their own way. She didn’t regret anything. She wouldn’t let herself.

He moved, slipping out of her, and she felt an immediate and innate sense of loss. Incredibly, she still wanted him. Gently he tucked her hair behind her ears, wiped the traces of tears from her face. He smiled, his features softened into something almost like tenderness.

‘Dio, I didn’t mean it to be as fast as that.’

She laughed shakily; already this was so different from before. From what she knew. Seven years ago there had been no pillow talk, no exchange at all. Afterwards he’d drawn her to him and she’d curled around his body, silent, singing with an ill-found happiness, and they’d both fallen asleep.

When she’d woken up with the dawn he had already left. She hadn’t even been surprised, not really.

‘There’s nothing wrong with fast.’

‘Next time it will be slow.’

Next time? The words, spoken with so much certainty, shocked her. Surely there would be no next time with Angelo.

He tugged on her fingers. ‘Come upstairs.’

‘Where?’

But he didn’t answer, just led her up the winding staircase and then into what was clearly the master bedroom, and then into the huge marble en suite bathroom.

‘You’re covered in sand. And tears. Let me wash you.’

Wash her? It seemed like an incredibly intimate, tender thing to do, so different from the frantic urgency of what had happened before. This was new, uncertain territory, thrilling and scary. She didn’t know this Angelo.…And yet as he led her to the huge glassed-in shower with a wry, tender smile she felt like she’d always know him.

That boy. That girl.

She stood still as Angelo turned on the taps and then slowly stripped the clothes from her body, sliding her skirt down her legs and the T-shirt over her head. Underwear came next, his movements gentle and unhurried, until she was completely naked before him.

She shivered slightly as she stood there; this felt, weirdly, more revealing than what they’d done just moments ago. Angelo swept his gaze over her body and she reacted underneath his considering stare, a splotchy blush appearing across her chest. He laughed softly.

‘Mi cucciola, are you embarrassed?’

‘Yes,’ she said, blushing further. She crossed her arms over her breasts. ‘You’ve never actually seen me naked before. And…and don’t call me that.’

He frowned before yanking his T-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. ‘Call you what?’

Lucia was momentarily distracted by the sight of his chest, all hard, golden muscle with a sprinkling of dark hair veeing down to the unbuttoned waistband of his jeans. She swallowed dryly. ‘Mi cucciola. You called me that when we were children.’ My puppy. Lucia had never known if he’d meant it or not, but her heart had thrilled every time the endearment had slipped so carelessly from his lips. And no matter how tender he seemed now, she knew he’d changed. She had. This was still only, and ever could be, a one-night stand. Another one.

‘I’m not that girl any more, Angelo,’ she said quietly. ‘And you’re not that boy.’

Slowly he reached out and wiped the trace of a tear from her cheek with his thumb. ‘Am I not?’ he asked softly, and she shook her head.

‘You know you aren’t.’

‘I don’t know anything any more.’ Smiling although his eyes were dark he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and drew her to him, kissing her gently on the lips. Lucia closed her eyes, felt her heart twist inside her.

She couldn’t let him be that boy again. She’d fallen in love with that boy, and he’d broken her heart. She knew he didn’t love her, had never loved her, and if she believed in an Angelo that was different from the ruthless and determined tycoon he’d become she’d be lost. Broken. Again.

If he really was that boy inside, underneath, she wouldn’t be able to walk away after one night. And she had to, for her own sake. One night, on her terms this time, and then in the morning she’d walk away. For ever.

Angelo broke the kiss to gaze at her, a question in his eyes. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked softly.

‘Nothing.’ She swallowed, tried to smile. ‘Nothing important.’

He smiled, the curve of his mouth primal and possessive as he led her into the shower. Lucia had never bathed with a man before. She’d never been with a man except Angelo, had never had the opportunity or the desire. She’d only wanted Angelo. She’d only loved Angelo.

She had to stop thinking like that.

She watched as Angelo poured some expensive-smelling shower gel onto his hands, smiling at her, his eyes glinting in the dim light.

‘What are you—?’ she began, but then stopped as he slid his soapy hands over her body and she leaned against the wall as the water streamed over them and Angelo touched her everywhere.

‘Two showers in the space of about an hour,’ she murmured as a heavy languor crept over her, caused by the sure movements of Angelo’s slippery hands. ‘I feel very clean.’

He laughed softly and slid one hand between her legs. Lucia clutched his wrist. Angelo…’

‘I’m very thorough,’ he said, and as his fingers found her so did his mouth. He kissed her deeply and Lucia clung to his shoulders, pleasure coursing through her at the feel of Angelo’s hands, his mouth, everything. She forgot about what she wanted or didn’t want, what was safe and what was incredibly dangerous. All she could think, feel, know, was his touch.

She let her head rest against his shoulder as he stroked her, bringing her dizzyingly near that precipice of pleasure once more, her body boneless and yet throbbing with need—and then he stopped.

‘What—’

‘Now my turn.’

‘Your turn…’

‘Touch me, Lucia.’

She heard the ragged plea in his voice and lifted her head from his shoulder, saw him gazing at her with a fierce light in his eyes, turning them almost to emerald. With a thrill she realised she wanted to touch him, touch him in ways she hadn’t yet, hadn’t dared.

With a tentative smile she reached for the shower gel, pouring some into her palms before she slid her slippery hands over his shoulders, down his chest, across his hips, revelling in the feel of hot skin and hard muscle. Angelo had closed his eyes and he threw his head back as she slid her hand farther down still and curled her fingers around the heavy, hard length of his arousal.

There was nothing rushed or frantic about this, nothing desperate. Every caress was deliberate, and it filled Lucia with a tremulous wonder. Thirty-two years old and she’d had no idea sex could be like this, slow and exploratory and wonderful. This wasn’t a stolen moment, snatched out of grief or pain; it stretched on, infinite with possibility, with an incredible new intimacy.

But it would end by morning. She had to remember that.

‘Lucia…’ Angelo’s voice was a groan as he curled his hands around her shoulders and she stroked him everywhere, delighting in the glorious feel of him.

‘Dio, I’m not going to last,’ he muttered, and then he hoisted her easily, his hands cradling her bottom so her legs came round his hips as he drove inside her. Lucia buried her head in his shoulder but he pulled back, forced her to meet his own glittering gaze.

‘Look at me,’ he commanded hoarsely as he moved inside her. ‘Look at me as I make love to you.’

Lucia obeyed, her gaze riveted on his as their bodies acting in perfect synchronicity, her hips rising up to meet his as he moved inside her. Every protective layer she’d ever had was stripped away in the intense intimacy of his gaze, his body buried inside hers. She couldn’t hide from it; she’d been laid utterly, gloriously bare and in that moment she revelled in the exposure.

She felt the pressure and pleasure building inside her, spiralling up and up, and she knew Angelo could see it on her face. Knew he would know when she finally fell.

And he did, kissing her lips as she cried out and her body spasmed around his. Seconds later he found his own shuddering climax and she buried her head in the curve of his neck as the water streamed over them.

Lucia didn’t know how long she remained there, cradled against him, her heart pounding hard against his. It could have been a minute or an hour, but eventually Angelo gently righted her, turned off the shower and wrapped her in a towel. She remained still as he dried her tenderly and then led her to the bed.

They didn’t speak, and Lucia was glad. She didn’t want to break this moment that had wrapped around her like a spell of warmth and safety and love. She knew it wasn’t real, knew in the hard light of morning it would all be broken, vanished. But she wasn’t ready to let go of it yet.

One night. One night of feeling safe and treasured and loved. It didn’t seem too much to ask.

Angelo laid her in the bed and then slid in next to her, pulling her towards him so she naturally curved her body into his. She could feel his still-pounding heart against her back, and after a moment Angelo found her hand with his own and laced his fingers with hers, resting their joined hands against her belly as sleep finally claimed her.