his wife, Eva, no one else knew about the desperately traumatising childhood he’d suffered. Many had tried to dig, only to accept the illusion that his secret past made him alluringly mysterious, and left it at that. Romeo had been more than glad to leave things at that.
So why had he just spilled his guts to Maisie O’Connell? And not only spilled his guts, but ripped off the emotion-free bandage he’d bound his memories with in the process?
He tried to think through it rationally; to decipher just what it was about this woman who let all the volatile, raw emotions overrun him.
Their meeting hadn’t been accompanied by thunder and lightning. There’d been nothing remotely spectacular about it. To the contrary, he’d walked past her that night at the waterfront café in Palermo with every intention of continuing his solitary walk.
Lost in thoughts of bewildering grief and hoping the night air would clear his head, he’d walked for miles from the cemetery where Ariana Brunetti had found her last resting place. He’d barely taken in where he was headed, the need to put distance between the mother whose only interest had been for herself and how much she could get for selling her body, a visceral need.
When he’d finally reached the stone wall overlooking the water, he’d stood lost and seriously contemplated scaling the wall and swimming away from the city that bore only harrowing memories. The sound of tourists drinking away the night had finally impinged, and he’d had the brilliant idea of drowning his sorrows with whisky.
He’d walked past her, barely noticing her.
It was only as he’d ordered his third whisky that he’d caught her staring. Even then, he’d dismissed her. He was used to women staring at him. Women coming onto him since he’d been old enough to shave.
But he’d caught her furtive glances, those bright blue eyes darting his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. Romeo wasn’t sure why he’d talked to her that night. Perhaps it’d been that lost look she’d been trying so hard to disguise. Or the fact that a group of male tourists had noticed her and were placing bets on who would buy her the next drink. Or the fact that his mother’s last words to him had left him raw, feeling as if his very skin had been peeled off.
You’re just like him...just like him...
In the hours and days that had followed, he’d been able to stop those words ringing in his head.
Having that drink in that café had been a last, desperate attempt to drown out the words.
He’d raised his glass to her in a silent toast. She’d smiled shyly and asked what he was toasting. He’d made some smart remark or other he couldn’t recall. He’d kicked out the seat opposite in brusque invitation and she’d joined him.
Midnight had arrived and they’d walked to his hotel, both of them very much aware of what would happen next.
He’d walked away the next day, even more exposed than he’d ever been in his life.
But he’d pulled himself together, refusing to be the needy shadow of a man who’d yearned for a kind word from the mother who’d rejected him all his life. And he’d succeeded.
Nothing should’ve prompted this puzzling and clever way Maisie had managed to slip under his guard not once, but twice. It was a weakness he couldn’t, wouldn’t abide.
He stole a glance from the corner of his eye and saw that she was gazing at the passing scenery, her fingers toying with her new rings.
He breathed a little easier, confident that moment of madness was behind him. That she was taking his advice and letting the temporary aberration pass.
‘I’m sorry I dredged up bad memories for you,’ she said suddenly.
Romeo shut the laptop with studied care, resisting the urge to rip the gadget out of its housing and throw it out of the window.
‘Maisie—’ he growled warningly.
‘I know you don’t want to talk about it now and I respect that. But I just wanted you to know, should you ever feel the need to talk, I’m here.’
For one shocking, ground-shaking moment, his black soul lifted at those words. He allowed himself to glimpse a day when he would unburden himself and feel whole, clean. The picture was so laughable, he shook his head in wonder at his own gall.
He was the son of a whore and a vicious thug. He’d contemplated hurting another human being just so he could join a gang...to gain respect through violence. Walking away, sick to his stomach, hadn’t absolved him of the three days he’d worn the probation leathers and trawled the dark streets of Palermo, looking for a victim. He would never be clean, never be washed free of that stain. He hadn’t bothered to try up until now. He never would.
‘Grazie, but I can assure you that day will never come.’
THE BRUNETTI INTERNATIONAL RESORT MAUI was a tropical oasis that had been created with heaven itself in mind. Or at least that was what the brochure stated.
Maisie had silently rolled her eyes when she read the claim.
Looking around her as they alighted from the seaplane, she accepted the statement hadn’t been an exaggeration. A long, sugar-sanded beach stretched for a half mile before it curved around an outcrop of rock that looked perfect for diving.
From the beach, the land rose gently, swaying palm trees blending with the increasingly denser vegetation Maisie had spotted from the plane before they’d landed.
She knew the resort housed six koa-wood-and-stone mansions, each large and luxurious enough to cater to the most demanding guest, with the largest, a twelve-bedroom sprawling architect’s dream, sitting on top of a hill in the centre of the island.
From the brochure she’d read she also knew that the mansion had been booked for the next three years and that guests paid a king’s ransom for the privilege.
She had been admiring the stunning architecture of the resort when her eyes had grown heavy. Jerking awake, she’d found her shoes had been taken off, her seat reclined and a pillow tucked under her head. She’d looked up from the soft cashmere throw keeping her warm to find Lucca and Romeo at the dining table, tucking into a meal. Or rather, Lucca had been eating and chattering away, with his father watching him with that silent intensity and awe that had struck a peculiar ache in Maisie’s chest.
Romeo had looked up then, locked gazes with her before being diverted by their son. Unlike in the car when his emotions had bubbled just beneath his skin, he’d looked cool and remote, very much the powerful, in-control billionaire. He’d looked untouchable, and Maisie believed he meant for the moment in the car never to happen again. Whatever had prompted him to reveal a horrific chapter of his past had been resealed in an impenetrable fortress, never to be revisited again.
She’d berated herself for feeling mournful, for experiencing his pain as acutely as if it were her own. She had no right to it, no right to pry or feel strangely bereft when he’d shut her out and refocused his attention on Lucca.
Her parents had tried to drill into her that her brain was her most valuable asset, but Maisie had known that wasn’t true. With the birth of her child, she’d known love was the greatest gift she could give, and receive. Same as she knew that Romeo, like her parents, didn’t have a need for it. He believed in protecting his son, much as her own parents had provided a roof over her head and put clothes on her back. But, like them, he had nothing more to give.
And while she couldn’t turn her compassion off at will, she needed to guard against overexposure of the emotion that had drawn her to Romeo in the first place. His grief and misery that night had been like a beacon. She’d wanted to comfort him, grant him reprieve from the shackles that bound him.
The result had been waking up alone, and returning home weeks later, pregnant.