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‘Maisie.’
She froze halfway to the kitchen, Antonio’s voice a low, insistent throb behind her. Then realisation flashed through her and she turned slowly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking, ‘but do I know you?’
Antonio’s jaw tightened and he gave a terse nod. ‘I suppose I deserve that.’
‘You pretended you couldn’t remember me.’ Maisie had to choke out the words. ‘You’re even more of a bastard than I thought you were, which is saying something.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘What do you think it means?’ Her voice rose, and a few diners looked their way, rubbernecking in the hope of witnessing a big argument. Maisie wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. She wouldn’t give Antonio the satisfaction either, of seeing how much he’d affected her. How he’d devastated her, all those months ago.
She spun away, marching to the kitchen, and Antonio followed. In a narrow hallway off the ballroom he caught her arm.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.
‘What are you doing here?’ she threw back, shaking off his arm. ‘I live in New York. You don’t.’
‘I have business.’
‘So do I.’ She nodded towards the kitchen. ‘So why don’t you just go back to pretending you don’t know me?’ Hurt pulsed through her as she said the words. He’d pretended, and why? Because he cou
ldn’t be bothered to hear her out? One night and he’d already tired of her. Fury warred with hurt, and she chose anger because it felt stronger. She’d confessed to Antonio of feeling like a doormat, but she wouldn’t be one now. ‘I’m serious, Antonio. I don’t want anything from you now. And if you think for a second that you can cash in a second night while you’re in New York, forget it.’
He looked affronted, his eyes flashing icy fire. ‘I wasn’t thinking that.’
‘Good.’ She turned towards the kitchen, relieved that he didn’t follow her. Relieved, and only the teeniest, tiniest bit disappointed, which she knew was stupid, of course she did, but she felt it anyway. Stubborn heart. Stubborn, stupid, foolish heart.
With shaking hands Maisie fetched a clean napkin and went back to Table Four, staring straight ahead, determined not to catch anyone’s eye and certainly not Antonio’s. In any case, he hadn’t returned to the table, and the intoxicated guest who had made such a fuss had reduced his complaints to mere mutterings, which Maisie managed to ignore.
The job done, she retreated to the kitchen, her heart still thumping from her entirely unexpected encounter with Antonio. Why had he sought her out? Why ignore her in such a horrible manner a year ago, only to spring to her defence tonight? He’d always known who she was. Except of course he didn’t know her at all. And she didn’t know him.
And he couldn’t know her... With a lurch of fear Maisie remembered that her brother was coming with Ella so she could feed her before her shift ended. He was due to arrive at the hotel in a few minutes. While Maisie doubted Antonio would barge into the kitchens in search of her, she still felt panicky at the thought of him being so near to Ella.
She’d made her decision not to tell him about their baby when he’d claimed he didn’t know her. It was a decision that a year of tabloid coverage had validated over and over again. Antonio Rossi, with his cold-hearted business deals and his string of bimbo lovers, was not the kind of father she wanted for her child. And, since he had claimed not to know her, he wouldn’t know his daughter either.
‘Maisie?’ one of the waiting staff called. ‘Your brother’s here.’
With something close to relief, Maisie rushed to her brother and prised her three-month-old daughter from his arms.
‘Maise? You all right?’ Max frowned at her from underneath a shock of strawberry-blond hair, his hazel eyes narrowing in concern.
‘I’m fine now.’ Maisie pressed her cheek against Ella’s as she breathed in that delicious scent of baby powder and sleepy softness.
‘Did something happen?’
‘No.’ Max had become something of a guard dog since Maisie had fallen pregnant, her little brother often acting as if he were older than her. After she had taken care of him for so long, it felt both nice and strange to be looked after, but Maisie knew she couldn’t burden Max with this. He was only twenty-three, just starting out in life. He didn’t need to be saddled with a sister and a baby niece, even if he insisted he didn’t mind.
‘I’ll feed her and then you can take her back home,’ Maisie said. ‘Thanks for bringing her out, Max. You’re amazing.’
‘So you keep telling me.’ He gave her a crooked smile, concern still shadowing his eyes. ‘I’ll meet you out in the lobby, then?’
‘Yes, in about twenty minutes.’ Maisie smiled at her brother and then went to the women’s bathroom of the hotel, which had a private nook with a comfy chair, perfect for nursing.
She felt herself calming down as Ella began to feed, one chubby hand resting possessively on Maisie’s chest. She stroked her daughter’s soft hair, her baby curls midnight-dark, the same colour as Antonio’s. She had the same startling blue eyes as her father, as well; the deep indigo of the newborn stage had brightened to the piercing blue Maisie still saw in her dreams. If Antonio saw Ella, there could be no question of whose daughter she was.
A tremor of fear and, worse, uncertainty racked her at that realisation. Was it fair to keep Antonio from his own child? Part of her insisted yes, of course it was. All she knew about Antonio Rossi made her sure he would never be a good father and, more importantly, didn’t care about being one. But she could not silence the small, treacherous whisper that protested against her unilateral decision, that Antonio deserved at least to know that he had a daughter...
