скачать книгу бесплатно
The Secret Kept From The Italian
Kate Hewitt
The Italian’s ruthless vow:He will claim his one-night baby!Looking up from the table she’s serving, waitress Maisie Dobson is horrified to meet the intense gaze of Antonio Rossi, merciless billionaire and father of her child! Rejected after one mind-blowing night, Maisie kept her unexpected pregnancy a secret.Antonio’s determined to claim his daughter, but their connection reminds Maisie that she still has to protect her heart—because billionaires don’t wed waitresses…do they?
The Italian’s ruthless vow:
He will claim his one-night baby!
Looking up from the table she’s serving, waitress Maisie Dobson is horrified to meet the intense gaze of Antonio Rossi, merciless billionaire and father of her child! Rejected after one mind-blowing night, Maisie kept her unexpected pregnancy a secret. Antonio’s determined to claim his daughter, but their connection reminds Maisie that she still has to protect her heart—because billionaires don’t wed waitresses...do they?
Be swept away by this passionate secret baby story!
After spending three years as a die-hard New Yorker, KATE HEWITT now lives in a small village in the English Lake District with her husband, their five children and a golden retriever. In addition to writing intensely emotional stories she loves reading, baking and playing chess with her son—she has yet to win against him, but she continues to try. Learn more about Kate at kate-hewitt.com (http://www.kate-hewitt.com).
Also by Kate Hewitt (#u15d33414-54e8-57e4-8830-cd8898d60d39)
Inherited by Ferranti
Moretti’s Marriage Command
Demetriou Demands His Child
A Di Sione for the Greek’s Pleasure
Engaged for Her Enemy’s Heir
The Innocent’s One-Night Surrender
Desert Prince’s Stolen Bride
Princess’s Nine-Month Secret
Seduced by a Sheikh miniseries
The Secret Heir of Alazar
The Forced Bride of Alazar
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Secret Kept from the Italian
Kate Hewitt
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08726-1
THE SECRET KEPT FROM THE ITALIAN
© 2018 Kate Hewitt
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Cover (#ucd6afb9f-49f6-5618-94fa-e308c541f8fb)
Back Cover Text (#ue0b061e7-3d18-5652-b23c-58e70ed0ed4c)
About the Author (#u3d9f7a78-1264-547e-833a-b4f742487911)
Booklist (#uf2f865f2-29d7-5829-82a0-76939edd4a4e)
Title Page (#u608c3d94-ca29-5aa0-aaed-e90c1bd6099e)
Copyright (#u25929ae8-f6cd-5263-a0b8-a78172ee8cd6)
CHAPTER ONE (#u0774047f-0d97-5ebf-a179-b70173e58779)
CHAPTER TWO (#u3259d492-23d0-5a80-b680-d03495cec331)
CHAPTER THREE (#u65c402e8-9adb-5da7-bb51-379235a16e20)
CHAPTER FOUR (#uc96befac-8f31-55b1-9314-49ac096863cd)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u15d33414-54e8-57e4-8830-cd8898d60d39)
THE THIRTY-SECOND FLOOR of the office building was dark as Maisie Dobson pushed her trolley of cleaning supplies down the hallway, the squeak of the wheels the only sound in the ghostly building. After six months of night cleaning she should be used to the other-worldliness of the experience, but it still freaked her out a little. Although there were half a dozen cleaners in the building, they were all on separate floors, the rooms silent and shadowy, the lights of Manhattan glittering from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
It was two o’clock in the morning and her body ached with fatigue. She had a nine o’clock performance tutorial tomorrow, and she was likely to fall asleep in the middle of it. That had always been her dream—music school, not cleaning. But one meant the other, and that was fine. Maisie was used to working hard for what she wanted.
She paused as a light gleamed from an office down the hallway. Someone had left the light on, she supposed, and yet she couldn’t keep a flicker of unease from rippling through her, the little hairs on the nape of her neck prickling. No one had ever left their light on before; most of them were on automatic timers. By the time the team of cleaners arrived at eleven o’clock at night, the high-rise in Manhattan’s midtown was completely dark, everyone having gone home. Maisie pushed the trolley onward, the squeak of its wheels sounding even louder in the empty corridor, her heart beginning to thud.
Don’t be such a baby, she scolded herself. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s a light, nothing more.
She stopped the trolley in front of the lit-up office and then, taking a quick breath, she poked her head around the half-open door... and saw a man.
Maisie stilled, every sense flaring. This wasn’t just any man, the usual paunchy corporate stiff staying late. No, this man was... Her mind spun emptily, trying to think of words to describe him. Ink-dark hair flopped over his forehead, and strong, slanted brows were drawn over lowered eyes, so his spiky eyelashes fanned his high, blade-like cheekbones. His mouth was twisted in a grimace as he contemplated the half-empty glass of whisky dangling from his long, lean fingers.
He’d taken off his tie and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, so a sliver of bronzed, muscular chest was visible between the crisp folds of cotton. He fairly pulsated with charismatic, rakish power, so much so that Maisie had taken a step into the room before she even realised what she was doing.
Then he looked up. Piercing blue eyes pinned her to the spot. ‘Well, hello,’ he drawled, his mouth twisting into a smile that wasn’t quite a smile. His voice was low and honeyed, with the trace of an accent. ‘How are you this very fine evening?’
Maisie would have felt alarmed or even afraid, except in that moment she saw such anguish in his eyes, in the harsh lines of his face, that her heart twisted inside her and she took another step into the room.
‘I’m all right,’ she said quietly, taking in the bottle of whisky planted on his desk that was mostly empty. ‘I think the real question is, how are you?’
The man tilted his head back, revealing even more of his throat and chest, the glass nearly slipping from his fingers. ‘How am I?’ he repeated. ‘That is a good question. A very good question.’
‘Is it?’ Maisie said. Something about the man’s intense sadness reached in and grabbed hold of her heart. She’d always had a lot of love to give, and so few people to give it to. Her brother, Max, had been the main recipient, but he was independent now, wanting to make his own way. That was a good thing. Of course it was. She just had to keep telling herself that.
‘Yes, it is,’ the man answered, sitting up and flinging his arms wide so glinting drops of whisky sparkled in the air and then splashed on the floor. ‘Because I should be fine, shouldn’t I? I should be fantastic.’
Maisie folded her arms. ‘Oh? Why should you?’ She was intrigued now, as well as empathetic. Who was this man? She didn’t think he worked here; she’d been cleaning this office building for six months and she’d never seen him. Of course, she hadn’t seen many of the men and women who worked here, coming in late as she did, and yet she couldn’t escape the sense that this man didn’t belong here, in a corner office on a middle floor of an anonymous building. He seemed too different, too powerful, too charismatic. Even drunk, as he had to be, he exuded both charm and strength, making Maisie’s stomach fizz in a way it hadn’t in a long time, if ever.
She pushed those feelings aside as she waited for his answer, for beyond this man’s potent sexual charisma he exuded a pain that reached out to her, inside her, and made her remember her own pain. Her own grief.
‘Why should I be fantastic?’ The man raised one dark slash of an eyebrow, an amused smile curving his mobile mouth. ‘For any number of reasons. I’m wealthy, powerful, at the top of my career, and I can have any woman I want.’ He laced his fingers together and stretched them over his head as he stared at the ceiling, a pose that seemed strangely sad and even vulnerable. ‘I have homes in Milan, London and Crete. I have a forty-foot pleasure yacht, a private jet...’ He lifted his head to laser her with a sardonic, bright blue gaze. ‘Should I go on?’
‘No.’ Maisie swallowed hard, daunted by that oh-so-impressive list. This man definitely didn’t belong here. He should be on the top floor with the vice-presidents and CEO, or have a whole floor to himself. Who on earth was he? ‘But I’ve lived long enough to know those kinds of things don’t make you happy,’ she told him, although she thought they probably helped a little. She couldn’t remember a time when money hadn’t been tight, the wolf panting and clawing at the door as she struggled to keep her and Max afloat.
‘You’ve lived long enough?’ Amusement flashed in the man’s eyes, along with a deeper interest. ‘You don’t look old enough to have left school.’
‘I’m twenty-four,’ Maisie answered with dignity. ‘And I am in school. Cleaning offices is my night job.’
‘It is night, isn’t it?’ He turned to stare out of the window, the lights of the Chrysler Building glittering against a dark and fathomless sky. ‘It is a dark, cold, black night.’
His flat voice, the utter bleakness of his tone, sent a ripple of apprehension through Maisie. She was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the weather.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked softly. ‘Drinking alone in an empty office building?’
He didn’t answer for a long moment, his gaze still on the dark view outside. Then, like a dog shaking its wet coat, he turned to her with a sudden smile, bright and hard. ‘But this building isn’t empty, and I’m not alone.’ He fumbled for the glass he’d left on the table. ‘Why should I drink by myself?’ he challenged as he poured a full measure of whisky into the glass and thrust it towards her.
‘I can’t...’ Maisie said, taking a step back as if he’d forced the glass to her lips. ‘I’m working.’
He glanced around the room, that amused quirk lifting his lips once more. ‘Working?’
‘I clean this office building,’ Maisie said a bit stiffly. ‘This is the last office on the floor.’
‘Ah, then you’re almost done.’
She was, but it didn’t matter. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning and she had school tomorrow. ‘I still can’t drink,’ she said firmly. ‘And I really should get on with cleaning...’
He glanced around the room, with its desk, a couple of chairs and a leather sofa against the wall. ‘How much can there be to clean?’
‘I need to spray all the surfaces, empty the bins, vacuum...’ For some unfathomable reason Maisie felt herself blushing as she listed her humble duties.
‘Then let me help you,’ the man said. ‘And then we’ll have a drink.’
She stared at him in surprise, his suggestion completely unexpected. ‘You don’t—’
‘I want to.’ He sprang up from his chair with surprising alacrity, considering he had to have drunk most of a bottle of whisky, and plucked a spray bottle of cleaning fluid and a cloth from the bucket of supplies Maisie had left by the door. ‘Right, here we are.’ He swept his papers into a pile and then sprayed the surface of the desk while Maisie watched gormlessly. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before.
Occasionally she’d stumbled across men or women who were pulling a late night at the office, and more often than not they allowed her to work around them while occasionally emitting deep sighs to indicate the inconvenience she was causing. She’d scurry around and then leave as quickly as she could, murmuring an apology.
The man had already finished wiping the desk and was now cleaning the coffee table in front of the sofa. He glanced at her, his eyes full of surprising laughter. ‘I’m starting to think you’re lazy.’
‘Who are you?’ Maisie blurted.
‘Antonio Rossi.’ He finished the table and then reached for the waste-paper basket under the desk and emptied it into the garbage bag hanging from her trolley. ‘And who are you?’
‘Maisie.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Maisie.’ He nodded at the vacuum cleaner behind her. ‘All that’s left to do is a quick vacuum and then we can have that drink.’
