‘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.’
* * *