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The Secret Kept from the Italian
by Kate Hewitt
CHAPTER ONE
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.’
