An Inheritance of Shame

chapter NINE



IT WAS AMAZING how liberating telling the truth could be. After her painful admission to Angelo last night, Lucia had expected to feel raw, exposed. Uncomfortable, at least, from revealing so much. She hadn’t denied or dissembled, hadn’t thrown the truth in his face as a defensive ploy. No, she’d given it to him. Presented it to him like a gift, and it was now his to do with as he wished.

The realisation made her feel buoyant. She had nothing more to hide, and it gave her a giddy sense of both relief and joy. Of course she wondered just what he intended to do with her gift, but she refused to let herself become mired in fear or doubt. For the first time her love for Angelo didn’t feel like a weakness, a burden to bear. It felt like a strength.

Several chambermaids were huddled in the staff locker room when she arrived at the hotel for work the next morning. They broke apart as soon as they saw her, and Lucia felt a ripple of unease at their suddenly hushed whispers, their averted gazes. Emilia was the only one to look at her directly, and the expression on her face was one of savage jealousy, eyes narrowed and glittering, lips thin and pursed.

‘Ciao,’ Lucia said with an uncertain smile. ‘Come va?’

‘Look.’ Maria took her by the elbow and brought her over to a table on the side of the room; a huge bouquet of flowers rested on it. ‘For you.’

‘Me?’ Lucia stared at the gorgeous bouquet—lilies and roses, orchids and carnations. It was the most extravagant, over-the-top bouquet she’d ever seen, and just the sight of it made a silly grin spread over her face. She’d never received so much as a wilted daisy before.

Emilia folded her arms, her eyes sparking maliciously. ‘Payment for services rendered, maybe?’

Maria hissed under her breath. ‘Stai zitto, you foolish girl,’ she snapped.

For once Emilia’s words rolled right off her. Lucia reached for the crisp white card tucked among the blooms and read the message scrawled on it in a bold hand.

I want that chance. Have dinner with me tonight at eight?

Her smile widened even as her heart started beating hard. Chances were wonderful, dangerous things. This could be a chance for Angelo to love her—or break her heart all over again. Shatter it, even, into a million tiny pieces, impossible to put together again, because she’d never given him this kind of chance before. She’d never actually tried.

During her midmorning break Lucia took the service lift to the floor of corporate offices. She felt a blush spread across her face as Angelo’s personal assistant glanced up at her in cool assessment.

‘Is Mr Corretti available?’ she asked, to which the secretary merely pursed her lips. ‘He might be expecting me,’ she added quietly.

‘He’s in a meeting.’

‘Then will you please leave him a message?’ Lucia felt the tingly warmth that Angelo’s short note had given her spread throughout her body. ‘Tell him Lucia said yes.’

The assistant arched her eyebrows, curiosity clearing getting the better of her. ‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

She could barely concentrate on her work for the rest of the day; her mind moved dizzily from anticipation to worry to hope, and then back again. She had nothing to wear. What if Angelo took her somewhere fancy? What would they talk about? A date with Angelo. An actual date—something they’d never gone on before. What if it went all wrong?

By the time she arrived back at her apartment that evening, she was both exhausted and hyped up with adrenalin. She showered and stood in front of her closet with its paltry few dresses, wishing she had something pretty and feminine to wear. She almost wished she hadn’t left the gorgeous clothes Angelo had bought her back in his villa.

Sighing, she reached for a sundress in a pretty, pale blue. It was simple and cheap, and it was all she had. It would have to do. This wasn’t about impressing Angelo, she reminded herself as she slipped it on. It wasn’t about pretending to be something or someone she wasn’t. She wanted him to know and accept who she really was, cheap clothes and all. That was the only kind of chance she was interested in.

She’d just finished her makeup—no more than lip-gloss and a little mascara—when she heard a knock on the door. Taking a deep breath, she hurried to open it, and then found she had no words when she caught sight of Angelo standing there, dressed in a white dress shirt open at the throat and a pair of charcoal grey trousers. He looked effortlessly elegant and deliberately casual, his eyes blazing grey-green in his tanned face.

He smiled as he saw her, and reached for her hand, giving her a little twirl so her dress flared out around her legs. ‘You look lovely.’

‘It’s not much—’

‘Just say thank you.’

She laughed softly. ‘Thank you.’ They stared at each other for a moment, and Lucia tucked her hair—she’d worn it loose—behind her ears. ‘I’m nervous,’ she confessed, and Angelo dipped his head.

‘So am I.’

She gazed at him uncertainly. ‘You don’t seem nervous.’

‘You might be surprised at this,’ he answered, a smile in his eyes, ‘but I’m rather adept at hiding my emotions.’ She laughed again, felt the fizzing tension inside her begin to ease. Angelo tugged on her hand. ‘Let’s go.’

He led her downstairs to his Porsche parked by the kerb. She slid into the luxurious leather interior, felt that anticipation rise again. ‘Where are we going?’

‘A little place inland.’ He glanced at her with a smile. ‘Nothing too fancy.’

She smiled back, reassured yet still nervous. Everything about this felt strange, new and exciting, yes, but scary. So scary.

They didn’t talk much on the way to the restaurant, the silence between them expectant yet thankfully not too strained. All around them the sky was settling into twilight, and the last blush of sunset lighted the rugged horizon as Angelo pulled into the dirt lot of a small and unassuming building in a tiny hillside village about twenty kilometres from Palermo.

He’d been telling the truth when he said the place was nothing fancy, just wooden tables and chairs and plain, whitewashed walls, but a single glance at the menu told Lucia that this was still a high-class restaurant, with high-class prices.

‘Not too many forks,’ Angelo murmured as they were seated to a private table in the back, and she smiled.

‘I can just about manage these.’

‘I have no doubt about that.’

A waiter appeared and Angelo ordered a bottle of wine while Lucia fidgeted with her napkin, her glass of water. Few forks there might have been, but she still felt outclassed.

‘So,’ she said when the waiter left, ‘fill me in on the past fifteen years.’

Angelo smiled faintly. ‘It could be summed up in a few sentences. I worked. I worked some more. I made money.’

‘Give me the long version, then. What did you do after you first left Sicily?’

He shrugged, his long, lean fingers toying with his own cutlery, clearly on edge albeit for a different reason. ‘I went to Rome. I didn’t have any better ideas, to be honest.’

She imagined him in that huge city—a city she’d never seen—with nothing but a rucksack of clothes and his own burning ambition. ‘Did you know anybody there?’

He shook his head. ‘I got a job running messages for a finance firm. I learned the city and English, saved up for a moped, and then after about a year I started my own business offering the same service, only faster and cheaper.’

‘That was quick.’ He would have only been nineteen.

‘I spent the next couple of years building that business, and I sold it when I was twenty-three. I wanted to move into real estate, and so with the proceeds from that sale I bought a derelict building in an up-and-coming neighbourhood and turned it into a hotel.’ He stopped then, and glanced away.

‘And then?’ Lucia asked after a moment.

Angelo shrugged. ‘More of the same. A bigger building, a shopping centre, and so on. Five years ago I moved to New York and started doing the same thing there.’

‘And now you’re doing it in Sicily.’

He hesitated for a second’s pause and then nodded. ‘Yes.’

The waiter came with the wine, and Lucia watched as Angelo swirled it in his glass and tasted it. He nodded once, and the waiter began to pour. When had he learned about such luxuries? she wondered. When had he become accustomed to three-thousand-euro suits, fast cars and fancy restaurants? It was all so removed from her own small world, her shabby apartment and her working-class job. How on earth could a relationship between them ever work?

‘Taste,’ Angelo said, and she picked up her glass. The wine was rich and velvety-smooth, warming her insides.

‘Delicious,’ she said, although in all honesty she couldn’t really tell one wine from another.

‘So tell me what you’ve been doing these past fifteen years, Lucia, besides working.’

She smiled wryly. ‘Not much.’

‘You must have other pursuits. Hobbies.’

‘I like to read.’

‘What kind of books?’

‘Anything, really. I like…’ She felt herself blushing, which was ridiculous, but there it was. ‘I like travel books. Memoirs about people going places, seeing things.’

‘And would you like to travel yourself, one day?’

‘One day, perhaps.’ She hadn’t yet had the chance.

‘Those postcards,’ Angelo said slowly, his considering gaze sweeping over her. ‘You used to collect postcards from places all over the world.’

‘Just the ones nobody wanted any more,’ she said quickly, and he chuckled.

‘I wasn’t accusing you of stealing, Lucia. I’d just forgotten, that’s all. You had a scrapbook.’

‘Yes.’

‘You wanted to go to Paris,’ he spoke slowly, as if the memories were surfacing in his mind, popping like bubbles. ‘You had a postcard of the Eiffel Tower, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘We looked at them together.’

‘I bored you with them, more like.’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘You don’t need to rewrite the past, Angelo,’ she said quietly. ‘I know well enough how it was.’

He leaned forward, his eyes glittering. ‘Then tell me how you think it was, Lucia.’

She glanced down, felt her face warm. ‘Mi cucciola, remember? I was like an annoying little puppy to you, always frisking at your heels. Sometimes you’d pat me on the head and sometimes you’d kick me away.’

He sat back, silent, and she risked a glance upwards. ‘I suppose that’s true.’

It was absurd to feel hurt by his admission, but she did. She’d always known he hadn’t really cared about her, had tolerated her and sometimes enjoyed her company, but that was all. She’d known that absolutely, and yet…it hurt for him to admit it now.

‘That was my problem though,’ he added quietly, ‘not yours.’

‘What do you mean?’

He shrugged one powerful shoulder. ‘I didn’t appreciate you. I didn’t realise what I’d had with you until I’d left.’

She swallowed past the ache in her throat. ‘You’re still rewriting history, Angelo. You can’t expect me to believe you even thought of me once while you were buying and selling your businesses.’

He didn’t answer, and that ache in her throat spread, strengthened. She swallowed again, trying to ease its pervasive pain. This really shouldn’t have hurt. It was no more than she’d always known, even said to him, yet that had been when she’d been trying to convince herself she didn’t care. Now that she’d admitted she did, it hurt more.

‘You’re right,’ he finally said. ‘I didn’t think of you. But that was a choice, and it took more energy and determination than I ever realised to do it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I missed you,’ Angelo said simply. ‘I may not have realised it at the time, but I missed you, Lucia. I’ve always missed you.’

And just like that the ache dissolved into a tentative, hopeful warmth. ‘I’ve missed you too,’ she said quietly.

‘So tell me what else you’ve been doing these past years,’ Angelo said after a moment. He had to clear his throat, and Lucia took a sip of wine. Admitting you missed someone might not seem like much, but she knew to Angelo it was a big deal. He didn’t do emotion, and certainly not vulnerability.

‘Not much else, really.’

‘You were helping that other maid. Maria.’

‘Yes—’

‘How?’

She shrugged. ‘She has trouble with reading and writing, and so I help her with her letters. I know I didn’t get much schooling—’

‘No less than me.’

She nodded, accepting. They’d both quit school at sixteen; they’d both needed to work. ‘I enjoy it, and it helps her.’

‘Have you helped others?’

Another shrug. ‘A few. A lot of women in my position can barely read or write. I’m fortunate that I can.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Haven’t you ever railed against fate, Lucia? Destiny or God, whatever power that left us both poor and struggling, grateful simply for a job that put food on the table?’

She shook her head. ‘What would be the point?’

‘Perhaps there’s no point in railing,’ Angelo answered, ‘but in wanting. In doing and having—and being more.’

She shook her head again. Here was yet another difference between them. Angelo had always been ambitious, determined to rise above their childhood of the struggling working class in a small Sicilian village; she had never even considered such a thing.

Liar. She’d dreamt of Angelo taking her with him when he’d left, or returning for her. Yet she’d always known they were just that: dreams. Nothing more, nothing real. She hadn’t really believed in them.

And even now when they were both trying to make those dreams a reality, she wondered if it were possible. Angelo would never fit into her world, and how could she possibly enter his?

He leaned forward. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Just how different we are.’

‘That’s not a bad thing.’

‘No…’ she said slowly, because she couldn’t classify it that way, good or bad. Difficult, perhaps. Impossible, maybe.

Angelo reached across the table and laced his fingers with hers. ‘Deep down, Lucia, we’re not as different as you think.’

She met his gaze, felt his fingers squeeze hers. ‘Maybe not,’ she answered, but she knew she sounded doubtful.

‘Just the fact that you kept that scrapbook of postcards tells me you’ve wanted something more.’

‘That doesn’t mean I’d shake my fist at the world if I don’t get it.’

‘I’m not talking about shaking your first.’ He glanced down as he slid his fingers along hers, examining each one in turn, and just that simple touch made her heart beat faster and that lovely, languorous warmth spread throughout her whole body. ‘I’m talking about doing something about it.’

‘You’re the only one of us who did something about it, Angelo. You got out, made more of yourself. I never did.’

He glanced up at her, his fingers still twined with hers. ‘Do you regret that?’

‘I don’t see the point of that either.’ She swallowed. ‘I had obligations here.’

‘You mean your mother?’

‘Yes—’

‘And then,’ Angelo said softly, ‘our daughter.’ She felt herself stiffen, and Angelo’s fingers closed gently around hers. ‘What had you planned? To raise her in Caltarione?’

She nodded. ‘I didn’t have anywhere else to go.’

‘You could have moved to Palermo. Even that would have been a bit of a fresh start.’ He didn’t sound accusing or judgemental, just curious. Wanting to understand her.

‘Yes, and I did think of it. But it felt like running away. And I didn’t want—’ She hesitated, not wanting to admit how bad it had been for her then.

‘You didn’t want?’ Angelo prompted, his fingers still linked with hers.

‘I didn’t want people to think I’d been beaten. Or that I was ashamed.’

His fingers tightened over hers briefly. ‘Is that how people acted? Like you should have been ashamed?’

‘An unwed mother in a tiny village? Of course they did.’ She’d meant to sound light and wry, but she knew she hadn’t managed it. Angelo’s face darkened, a frown compressing his mouth.

‘And not just an unwed mother. Another Corretti bastard.’

She clenched her fingers into a protective fist. ‘How did you know?’

‘I guessed. It took me long enough. But I’ve noticed a few looks.…People know, don’t they? Even at the hotel.’

‘Only some. But gossip spreads.’

‘How did they? How did anyone know I was the father?’

‘Oh, Angelo.’ She shook her head, smiling even though a lump had lodged in her throat. ‘Carlo Corretti’s funeral was at the church in Caltarione. You walked all the way from the church down the main street with every old woman—and young too—peeping from behind her curtains. Everyone knew about the funeral, of course. And everyone knew you were there.’

‘And everyone,’ he finished, ‘saw me knock on your door.’

‘And come in,’ she added with a sad smile, ‘and not leave until morning. I’m amazed both our ears weren’t singed by all the gossip.’

Angelo didn’t speak for a long moment. He glanced down at their entwined hands, her fingers still pulled protectively into a fist. A tiny movement, pointless, yet some part of her still reacted in self-defence. Carefully he straightened each clenched finger, then laid his palm flat against hers, a warm, comforting weight. ‘I should have thought of that,’ he said quietly, his gaze still on their pressed palms. ‘Back then. I should have considered how it might look for you. Even if you hadn’t fallen pregnant, the gossip would have flown.’

‘It always does.’

‘I should have—’

‘What could you have done, Angelo? Your life was in Rome. No matter what might develop between us now, it was still a one-night stand back then.’

He looked up at her, his eyes dark and shadowed. ‘Only because I couldn’t imagine anything else.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is new territory for me, Lucia.’ The smile he gave her was crooked, self-deprecating. ‘A relationship of any kind—’

‘You must have had relationships before.’

‘No.’

‘No? None at all?’ She frowned, finding that hard to believe. Angelo was thirty-three years old, a man of experience, wealth and power. Of course he’d had relationships.

‘I’ve had…transactions,’ Angelo said carefully. ‘Of the kind I first suggested to you.’ A faint flush touched his cheekbones, and Lucia almost laughed even as his admission made a fresh sorrow sweep through her.

‘That sounds like a rather empty way to live.’

‘It was. Is. I think…’ He paused, his gaze on their hands once more. He slid his fingers through hers, entwining their hands again. ‘I think I’ve always felt empty.’

‘Oh, Angelo.’ She swallowed, sniffed. He glanced up wryly.

‘I didn’t mean to make you sad.’

‘You haven’t, not really.’

‘And what about you?’ He leaned back, sliding his hand from hers. Self-protection, Lucia knew. He was just starting to realise how much he’d revealed. ‘You must have had a few relationships over the years.’

She let out a little laugh of disbelief. ‘Oh, Angelo, do you really believe that?’

He frowned. ‘Why not?’

‘Because of everything I’ve already said. I’ve spent my entire life in Caltarione, working as a maid. Every single person there knows my history, my shame, even if I never saw it like that. What self-respecting Sicilian man would want me?’

‘I want you,’ he said, his voice rough, and she smiled even as a thrill shot through her at the blatant emotion and need visible in his eyes.

‘That’s certainly enough for me.’

‘Still…are you really saying there’s been no one? I’ve been your only lover?’ His voice had dropped to a whisper and now Lucia knew she was the one blushing.

‘It sounds a bit pathetic, I know.’

‘No, not pathetic.’ He shook his head. ‘It just makes me a little…afraid.’

‘Afraid?’ She hadn’t been expecting that. ‘Why?’

‘Because most people don’t get this kind of second chance, Lucia.’ His expression had turned serious, even grave. ‘I don’t want to wreck it. I don’t want to hurt you like I did before.’

She opened her mouth to say—what? What could she say? She had no assurances or promises to make, for she had no idea if he would hurt her or not. No idea if any of this could really work.

Angelo watched the emotions chase across Lucia’s face, reveal themselves in her eyes. She was afraid, he knew. Afraid of what? How different they were? Afraid that this—whatever this between them was—wouldn’t work? Afraid that he would hurt her, just as he’d said. Certainty lodged inside him, as heavy as a stone. Of course she was afraid of that. So was he.

Her heartfelt admission last night had rocked him to the core, because he’d finally believed her. She did love him. It seemed incredible, impossible, and yet he’d believed, and that belief gave life to something far more precious: hope. He wanted a chance to love her back. A chance to show her he was worthy of her love.

Yet already he felt doubt begin its insidious attack on that first, fragile breath of hope. He’d never loved anyone before, didn’t know what it felt or looked like, and God help him, he didn’t know if he was capable of it. Nothing in his life had prepared him for any of this, not for honesty or vulnerability and certainly not for love. Not even, he realised with a pang, for a conversation like the one they were having right now.

Maybe they needed a break from all this wretched vulnerability. Smiling, he reached for his menu. ‘We should order.’ Maybe if they kept the conversation light, rather than raking through the cold ashes of the past, the fear they both felt would lessen if not leave them entirely.

Lucia nodded her agreement, and after they’d ordered their food they spent the next couple of hours chatting about inconsequential things, tasting each other’s food and simply enjoying each other’s company. Angelo felt himself relax, and more importantly, he felt Lucia relax.

It was late by the time they drove back to Caltarione, and in the darkness of the car Lucia lapsed back into silence once more, staring out the window so Angelo couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ he said lightly, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. As they’d left the restaurant, Lucia’s expression had turned pensive, even drawn. Was she regretting this, him? Now she just shook her head, and he left it at that.

He climbed the rickety stairs with her to her second-floor apartment, hating the shabby smallness of it all. He wanted to take her to his villa, to give her all the things she’d never even dreamt for herself. Clothes and jewels, yes, but something more. Safety, comfort, the kind of life neither of them had had as children. The kind of life he wanted for her, even if she refused to want it for herself. Giving her those things would be a way to show her he cared, yet he knew she didn’t want them, would refuse his offers. She wanted something else—something he didn’t know if he had in him to give.

She turned to him in front of the door. ‘Do you want to—’

‘Come in?’ he finished. She looked delectable in her pale blue sundress, the colour a shade lighter than the startling sapphire of her eyes. Her teeth caught her lower lip and she gazed up at him, eyes wide before her lashes swept downwards. ‘More than you could possibly know,’ he told her gruffly, desire coursing through him in lightning streaks. ‘But I won’t.’

He was gratified to see disappointment turn down the corners of her mouth. ‘Why not?’

Gently he tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. ‘Because I want to do this right, Lucia. I don’t want to rush things.’ It would be easy, he knew, to let it be about sex. Let their attraction for each other wipe out the need for talking or even thinking. Hell, that would be much easier. But he knew she wanted more, and, amazingly, so did he. If he could manage it.

She swallowed and nodded and he leaned forward to brush his lips against hers, allowing himself this much. Yet of course he couldn’t stop there. He never had been able to before. One taste of Lucia and he was a drowning man.

Her lips parted beneath his and he deepened the kiss, his hands coming around her shoulders as he pressed against her, losing himself in her warmth and softness so everything else fell away. He slid one knee between her legs, his mouth moving more firmly over hers as he pressed against her.

Behind her the wooden railing gave an almighty crack and, alarmed, Angelo pulled her forward into the shelter of his own body. ‘Dio, this place is falling down around your ears.’

Wrong thing to say. Perhaps even to think. She shook her head and stepped out of his embrace. ‘It’s my home, Angelo.’

He let out an irritated breath. ‘I wasn’t trying to insult you.’

‘I know that.’

They stared at each other in the darkness, the only sound the tinny music from the bar downstairs, the hitch of their own breathing.

‘Come with me,’ he said suddenly, ‘to the Corretti Cup next week.’

‘The Corretti Cup?’ she repeated blankly. ‘You mean, the horse race?’

He nodded. Gio Corretti, his cousin, ran the island’s premier racing track. The Corretti Cup was an important annual event, attended by the rich, the famous, the beautiful, as well as the entire Corretti clan. He’d never gone before, but he certainly intended on showing up this year, and letting the Corretti family tree know they now had to contend with his unfortunate offshoot. He wanted Lucia by his side.

She bit her lip, uncertainty swamping her wide-eyed gaze. ‘I don’t know, Angelo—’

‘You can’t hide forever, Lucia.’

‘I’m not hiding—’

‘Avoiding, then. My world is different from yours now, I know that. But I want you in it. Won’t you please come with me?’

She swallowed, and he knew she felt conflicted. Afraid, even, of this too. ‘I don’t have anything to wear,’ she finally said, and he almost laughed with relief.

‘That’s simple. I’ll take you shopping, buy you a dress.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Lucia, I want to buy you something. It would please me. Won’t you let me do that?’ He didn’t know what her difficulty in accepting gifts from him was, but he suspected it stemmed from the inequality she felt in their positions. He had more money than she did, but nothing else had changed. He was, and would always be, the Corretti bastard looking in, wanting more.

Didn’t she realise that? He really wasn’t any different from the boy she’d fallen in love with…even if he wanted to be. Even if he was determined to show the Correttis and everyone else on this godforsaken island just how damned different he was.

Slowly she nodded. ‘All right.’

‘We’ll go tomorrow, after work.’

‘Actually, I have the day off tomorrow.’

‘You do?’

She laughed softly. ‘It does happen.’

‘Then we can spend the day together.’

‘Don’t you have meetings? Deals to make?’

He had several important meetings, but with only a second’s pause he brushed them all aside at the prospect of spending a whole day in Lucia’s company. ‘I can rearrange my schedule. I’ll pick you up at ten.’

She nodded, still hesitant, still shy. ‘OK.’

He drew her back towards him, pressed his lips to her forehead. ‘It will be OK,’ he said, as much to himself as to her.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘You don’t know that.’

‘We’ll take it slowly.’

‘I don’t think it’s the pace that matters.’

He didn’t either. He tipped her chin up with his finger so he could meet her clouded gaze. ‘What are you afraid of?’

She pressed her lips together, didn’t answer, but then she didn’t have to. He knew what she was afraid of; he was afraid of it as well.

Was he capable of loving her? Was he capable of love at all?

He didn’t know the answer, and he knew Lucia didn’t know it either. With one last, soft kiss, he let her go and headed back down the stairs.