Picture of Innocence

by Jacqueline Baird

  Monday was usually a slow day, and she was on her own. Much as she wanted to go upstairs and scream at the devastating news she had received she couldn’t.

  In between serving customers she racked her brains, trying to find a solution. She called her lawyer, who was as shocked at the news as she was, but told her he would make some enquiries and find out exactly what had happened and get back to her. She called her bank and they were no help—other than to remind her she now had to pay the mortgage on two properties.

  By five-thirty Lucy had run out of ideas.

  A little old lady was wandering around the pottery exhibits, and Lucy made herself walk across and ask if she could help. Five minutes later she had wrapped a hand-painted vase and taken the money, and watched as the lady left. Wearily she rubbed her back and, head spinning, sank down on the seat behind the till. Automatically she began to count the day’s takings.

  Now what was she going to do? she asked herself, eying the cash. Ordinarily she would have considered it a good day, but as she had taken a mortgage out on the gallery, because the bank had insisted on her having capital available up-front before considering the development loan, she was now in serious trouble.

  She heard the sound of footsteps on the polished wood floor and her head whipped up. When she saw who it was all the breath was sucked from her body, her pulse racing almost as much as her mind.

  ‘You!’ she exclaimed, rising to her feet, unable to tear her eyes away from the man walking towards her. Lorenzo. There was nothing casual about him today. He was wearing an expertly tailored navy suit, and she knew by his hard, expressionless face that there was nothing casual about his visit.

  Inexplicably a shiver of fear snaked down her spine.

  ‘Lucy.’ He said her name and his eyes looked straight into hers. She saw the glint of triumph in the dark depths and she knew.

  ‘It was you,’ she said, her lips twisting bitterly, anger nearly choking her. ‘You got to Mr Johnson didn’t you? You bastard.’

  ‘Such language, Lucy. Really, that is no way to do business—your customers would be horrified. I told you once before business is not your thing, but I have to concede you gave it a damn good try. Your plan was excellent, but did you really think for one minute I would allow you to get the better of me? ‘ he demanded, with an arrogant arch of one dark eyebrow.

  ‘You admit it was you?’ she said, horrified and furious.

  ‘Yes. I made your new partner an offer he could not refuse,’ he said, and turned round to stroll to the front door. She thought he was leaving, but instead he locked the door and turned back, staring at her with narrowed eyes, his expression unreadable. ‘I’ve warned you before about security. You really should not sit counting money on your own. Any sneak thief could come in and rob you.’

  ‘Like you,’ she spat. ‘Robbing me of Steadman’s.’

  Her anger drained away as the enormity of her predicament hit her. Lorenzo must have bought out Richard Johnson, so he was now the major shareholder in Steadman’s and he would certainly close the factory.

  ‘But why?’ she asked, shaking her head. ‘We were still going to buy you out on the agreed date, at a profit you told me yourself was good. You’d have been finished with Steadman’s for ever—just what you always wanted.’ She didn’t understand …

  ‘Not quite.’ His eyes scanned provocatively down her shapely body, making her remember things she had fought hard to forget without much success. Colour rose in her cheeks as he walked towards her. ‘I want more, Lucy.’ His smile was chilling.

  ‘More money?’ she asked. ‘But that does not make any sense. Buying out Mr Johnson must have cost you money, and you wanted to sell to make more money—or so you told me to up the offer the first time we met.’ Lucy was no financial genius, as Lorenzo purportedly was, but even she could see the huge flaw in his deal.

  ‘No, not money,’ he said, his dark eyes fixed intently on her flushed face. ‘A drink will do for a start. But upstairs—in comfort.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘After you,’ he said, mocking her.

  ‘No,’ she said defiantly. ‘I can find another partner … ‘ Even as she said the words she knew it was futile. Lorenzo now held all the cards.

  ‘You already have, Lucy—me. I told you once before it was my way or no way. You obviously didn’t listen.’

  She didn’t bother to answer. There was no point.

  She turned back to the till, suddenly bone-weary, all the fight draining out of her, and mechanically finished cashing up. She locked the till and with the money in her hand walked past Lorenzo and upstairs to her apartment. She went straight to the bookcase that held the safe and put the cash inside, aware that he had followed her but helpless to do anything about it.

  ‘Not much of a safe,’ Lorenzo said as she locked it and, straightening up, turned back towards him.

  Lucy drove him crazy. He had felt his body react the moment he’d walked in the door and seen her wearing a pair of denim shorts and a red open-necked shirt. Try as he might to control himself, seeing Lucy bending over the damn safe had almost crippled him. She had caused him more trouble than any woman he had ever known, had got under his skin for far too long, and yet he still lusted after her. He could not leave her alone, and now he was no longer going to try.

  ‘It suits me,’ Lucy responded. The security or otherwise of her house was the least of her problems under the circumstances. The immediate threat to her safety being Lorenzo. ‘Take a seat. I’ll get you some tea or coffee—I have nothing stronger.’

  ‘Wait,’ Lorenzo snapped and, grasping her shoulders, yanked her hard against him.

  She looked up at him, and her eyes widened when they met his. What she saw in the black depths made her shiver with fear—she hoped it was fear … She tried to struggle free, but with insulting ease a strong arm swept around her back and his hand grasped her waist, holding her tight as his long fingers threaded through her hair to grip the back of her head in the palm of his hand.

  A shocked gasp escaped her as she caught a glimpse of the naked desire in his dark eyes, then his mouth crashed down on hers. She raised her hands to push him away, but it was a useless gesture. His chest was as hard as marble—but a lot warmer, she realised without wanting to. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. All she could do was feel as he kissed her with a demanding passion that ignited a spark deep in her belly.

  Suddenly it burst into flame and her traitorous body was suffused with heat. Involuntarily she parted her lips to the hungry demand of his, her hands stroking over his chest and her body swaying into his in willing surrender. It had been so long, too long, and she could deny it no longer. She wanted Lorenzo—wanted him totally.

  He lifted his head and stepped back. His hands fell from her and she was free.

  ‘The chemistry is still there, as electric as ever, and that is all I needed to know.’ She heard his deep voice as if from a distance—heard the hint of mockery as he added, ‘I’ll have that coffee now.’

  Shamed by her body’s betrayal, she closed her eyes for a moment as the heat drained out of her. When she opened them she looked at Lorenzo. His expression was hard and uncompromising. She was tempted to ask him why he was really here, but she didn’t really want to know the answer because she had a horrible suspicion she would not like it.

  ‘Okay,’ she murmured, too shaken to argue, and, turning on her heel, she headed for the kitchen.

  Making the coffee gave her a chance to recover from the body shock that had made her melt in his arms. She tried to tell herself her resistance was low because she was tired and Lorenzo had caught her off guard, it would never happen again, but not with any great conviction.

  She returned to the living room five minutes later, a mug of instant coffee in each hand. Lorenzo had removed his jacket and tie and opened the top few buttons of his shirt. He was lounging back on her one and only sofa, looking as if he owned the place.

  He glanced at her as she walked towards him, and re
ached out to take the coffee mug in his hand without saying a word.

  It occurred to Lucy that tipping it over his head might give her some satisfaction, but resisted the urge and handed it to him. Her impulsive ideas had got her into more than enough trouble over the years, but her leap into property development had to be the biggest doozy yet. If only the bank had not been quite so briskly efficient in giving her a mortgage on this place. If only she had not been so quick to transfer the cash to the partnership to secure the development deal. Then it wouldn’t be so bad.

  If only were the saddest words in the world.

  She crossed to sit down in a battered old Art Decostyle chair she had been going to re-cover for ages but never got round to, and, taking a sip of her coffee, glanced around her home. But for how much longer?

  Lorenzo was right about the factory. It only just about broke even, and after the taxes were paid there was little or no profit. So basically the only income she had was from the gallery, which barely covered the two mortgages she’d have to pay until she sold the house in Dessington. Any delay in selling and she’d very quickly go bust, she knew.

  A frustrated sigh escaped her.

  ‘That was a big sigh, Lucy. Something troubling you?’

  She cast Lorenzo, her nemesis, a furious look. Lost in her troubled thoughts, she had not realised his heavy-lidded eyes were narrowed, assessing her much like a spider studied a fly caught in its web, she thought, as he smiled.

  ‘I suppose you find it amusing, trying to wreck my plans. Excuse me if I do not.’

  ‘Not trying—I have done,’ he said, draining his coffee and cup and placing it on the occasional table. He straightened up. ‘Fifty five percent of Steadman’s now belongs to me. I can keep it open or shut it down. The decision is mine. As for your aspirations to develop the land adjacent to your old home—that depends on me also. Apparently your friendly lawyer called a town meeting to reassure the people and the workers you and Johnson had agreed not to close the factory. He went on to explain how a new development had been proposed and it was going to be sited in some of the eight acres of garden at your family home, donated very generously by you. That was a big mistake, Lucy.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she muttered.

  ‘Ah, Lucy—you should stick to art. Trust me, finance is really not your thing,’ he said bluntly. ‘Have you heard the term “asset-rich but cash-poor"? That is now you—because you have two mortgaged properties and a factory that makes little money and you cannot sell. The land you own could have been sold or even leased, but instead you’ve given away your only asset,’ he drawled mockingly, casting a blatantly suggestive glance over her body before continuing. ‘The outlined plan is for luxury housing, shops, a swimming pool and sports centre, and some less expensive housing to be available only for locals to purchase. The development to be named the Delia Steadman Park in honour of your mother. The whole town was delighted, apparently.’

  ‘How on earth do you know all this?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘I made it my business to know,’ he said, rising to his feet and pacing the length of the room. He turned and stopped beside her chair, staring down at her.

  Refusing to be cowed, she met his dark eyes head-on. They were unreadable, and she placed her coffee mug on the floor as an excuse to look away from his harshly attractive face.

  ‘I also know that—unlike when I asked you, Lucy—this time you did sign a legally drawn-up partnership agreement with your developer friend. But your smalltown lawyer—who is, by the way, really more interested in his position as town mayor than lawyer—omitted to make it non-negotiable, and Johnson sold out to me. I am now your partner in everything except the mortgaged house in Dessington and this gallery, which you have also foolishly mortgaged. By my reckoning you won’t have this much longer.’

  It was worse than she’d thought, and she looked up at him again. A cruel, sardonic smile twisted his mouth.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out to a woman like you what that means. I own you—for as long as I want.’

  A woman like her … Was there no end to his insults? Her shocked glance saw his eyes were no longer unreadable. She recognised all too well the emotion that now blazed in them: dark desire, barely leashed.

  ‘And I do want you, Lucy,’ he said, and she could not suppress the shiver of revulsion his comment caused. An imp of devilment in her head defied her to name it for what it really was—excitement, desire, anticipation.

  He stared down into her face, reading her reaction, and his hands reached for her, sliding under her arms. He lifted her bodily out of the chair, holding her high, her feet not touching the ground, and involuntarily she clutched at his shoulders to steady herself.

  His smile was cruel. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said, putting her down and moving his hands around her back, drawing her closer.

  The layer of fabric between them was no protection against the shower of electric sensations that tumbled through her at the feel of his warm muscular chest against her breasts, his flat stomach and muscular thighs as he slowly lowered her down his long body to her feet. Aware of his arousal, she gasped and tried to wriggle free. But his hands tightened on her hips in a grip of iron and hauled her hard against him.

  ‘Feel what you do to me and know what you are going to do for me.’ He deliberately ground his hips against her, enflaming her senses, but she made her hands fall to her sides rather than touch him as they ached to do, all her will-power going into fighting her own rising need.

  His hands lifted from her hips to link lightly around her back, and she managed to draw away a little from the seductive warmth of his great body—but not free. She had a sinking sensation she might never be free of him.

  He watched her. She could feel the intensity of his dark eyes even though she’d averted her face. And then he resumed speaking in a clipped tone, as though addressing some underling.

  ‘You, Lucy, will be my lover whenever I want you. And you will do exactly as I tell you on the single occasion you will visit my mother.’

  ‘Visit? Why? I gave you the painting—surely that is enough?’

  ‘I have not given it to her yet. I realised she would insist on thanking you personally. If you recall, before you shoved the painting in my hands I had offered you a very good deal to refuse all contact with her—which you turned down spectacularly.’

  Lucy couldn’t believe her momentary loss of temper had led to this. ‘What if I change my mind and agree now?’ she asked.

  ‘Too late, Lucy. The circumstances have changed. Thanks to Teresa Lanza, the August edition of a popular Verona society magazine has a full-page spread of her nephew’s wedding—including pictures of you and I and an article about our tragically linked family histories. The so-called accident being once again in the press necessitates a change of plan. You and I will visit my mother as a couple, and you will present the painting to her as a personal gift. She will be delighted, and any speculation on the accident will fade away. Then, after a suitable period, when I tell my mother we are no longer an item she will understand the reason for no further contact and we need never meet again. In return Steadman’s will be yours, and as for the rest I’ll find you another partner.’

  She looked up at him with horrified eyes. ‘You can’t possibly mean what I think you mean.’

  ‘To qualify—I mean a partner in the building development,’ he drawled sardonically, and she saw the way he was looking at her, his eyes running over her in an insolent masculine fashion that insulted rather than approved. ‘I am well aware you are more than capable of finding another sexual partner, but for as long as you are with me I insist on exclusivity. Don’t worry, it is not a long-term commitment. I have never kept a woman I liked for more than six months. With a woman like you it will probably be a lot less, and you will be free and clear.’

  ‘You really are a first-class despicable bastard.’ Her eyes flashed her contempt at him. ‘You must be out of your tiny mind to think for a second I’
d agree to such a proposition.’

  Lorenzo shrugged. ‘Take it or leave it,’ he said, his hands dropping from her waist. ‘I can stand the heat. I doubt if you can. But if you don’t mind going bankrupt and losing everything, do what you like.’ He glanced around the room. ‘This is a nice set-up you have here, and I doubt your artist friends will be happy to see it close.’

  Lucy was free, but frozen to the spot. ‘You can’t possibly do that.’

  ‘Yes, I can. I can close the factory, for a start. I’m a wealthy man, and its monetary loss is negligible to me. And every attempt you make to move on with the housing development I can block for as long as I choose—certainly long enough to see you go broke. Lucky for you,’ he drawled mockingly, ‘I choose to have you in my bed.’

  Colour ran up her neck and face, and her eyes sparked with frustrated rage. But he was right, damn him. Lorenzo was a powerful banker with contacts all over the world. He could pull any strings he liked and make strong men quake. What chance did she have against him? Virtually none …

  She looked at him with hatred, and yet she knew deep down she was going to accept his offer. The factory, the development plan—all that she worked for—was out of her hands. He could wreck everything—even cause her to lose her home, her gallery and the friends that were her life … a life she loved.

  ‘So what’s it to be, Lucy? As if I need to ask.’ His sardonic eyes took in her small taut figure with mocking amusement. ‘You know you are going to agree.’

  ‘Yes, but first I want a binding contract with—’

  ‘Oh, no,’ he cut in. ‘This is strictly between you and I, and—as you once so memorably said—you will have to take me on trust. But we can shake on it in the English way.’ And he held out his hand.

  She looked at his strong tanned hand, the long elegant fingers, and then up at his hard, expressionless face. She had the strangest notion he was not as sure of himself as he appeared. She lowered her eyes, her lashes sweeping her pale cheeks, and called herself a fool for trying to read more into his offer than what it was—sex for money, but on a large scale—and reluctantly placed her hand in his.