‘Your briefs are finished, Lucy, and your luggage has already gone on to the house. You will have to go commando for a while—but that is probably nothing new for you,’ he said with the arch of a brow, before adding, ‘I could use a coffee—how about you?’
Lucy nodded her head. ‘Yes,’ she murmured, and he turned and disappeared through the door to the hall. His ‘commando’ comment told her everything she needed to know. He had no respect for her at all … never had and never would.
She spotted a few pins on the floor and, picking them up, clipped back her hair. She took her jacket off the back of the sofa and slipped it on, fastened it with a slightly unsteady hand. She was still wearing her high-heeled sandals, and wished viciously she had stabbed him in the back with them five minutes ago.
Still trembling inside, she walked across to the window and looked down at the street below, drawing in a few deep, calming breaths. A steady flow of cars drove along the road, and the pavements were full of people of all ages—some single, some couples and families—all chattering and laughing, going about their daily life as she’d used to do.
So what had happened to her? Lorenzo had happened, and she didn’t know herself any more. Worse, she no longer liked herself. She had become one of those weak-willed women she normally pitied—a slave to her senses because of a man. In that moment Lucy knew she could not go on like this. She straightened her slender shoulders and folded her arms across her body, her mind made up. When this visit was over, so was her relationship with Lorenzo—whether he liked it or not. He could do his damnedest, but to save herself she could no longer afford to care.
In trying to be responsible and help other people she had given in to what amounted to blackmail. If she was brutally honest she had not fought very hard to avoid it, and in the process had lost all her self-respect.
She should have known from the start. She had tried before to be responsible for another, to help Damien, and it had ended in tragedy anyway. If Steadman’s closed and the development never took place, so be it—at least the town had the seven acres of land she had donated. As for the family home, she would do as the estate agent had suggested weeks ago, when he’d told her that after twelve years of neglect the house badly needed updating and with the smaller garden the best option now was to put it up for auction and sell it for whatever she could get in the current market. She would, and then hopefully she could keep the gallery—probably still mortgaged, but at least she would own it.
‘Coffee’s ready.’
She turned around. Lorenzo was placing a tray on the glass table and trying to nudge papers out of the way. He sank down on the sofa and, picking up the coffee pot, filled two cups, then glanced across at her. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’
He didn’t even know that much about her, she thought bitterly, and it simply reinforced her decision to end things.
‘No, thanks. I need the bathroom—where is it?’
‘There is one off my bedroom—I’ll follow you through. Coffee in bed quite appeals,’ he said, with a smile that was a blatant invitation.
‘Not to me, it doesn’t,’ Lucy said coolly. ‘Just tell me where the bathroom is. After all, I am here to visit your mother, and it is bad manners to keep her waiting.’ She saw the flash of surprise in his eyes and watched them narrow, and felt a chill go through her.
Lorenzo was not accustomed to being denied, and his expression hardened as he looked at Lucy. She had pinned back her hair, replaced her jacket and fastened it, and was now standing stiffly, her arms folded in front of her, defiance in every line of her seductive body. He could make her do as he wanted—but suddenly he no longer had the stomach for it.
‘In the hall—second on the left.’ He gestured with his hand at the door he had just come through. Lucy was right. It was time they left.
He had shocked himself earlier, taking her without a second thought over the back of the sofa, totally out of control. This could not go on. The ice-cold anger and rage that had consumed him when he’d discovered Lucy had done a deal behind his back had cooled down, and he wasn’t proud of the way he had behaved.
With the benefit of hindsight he should have agreed with Lucy the day she’d come to his office—agreed to support the status quo, leaving the running of Steadman’s in the hands of the employee who had been dealing with it for the last five years. Instead he had let his anger over his brother’s death be stirred up by his lunch with Manuel and reacted badly. He had made his decision in anger instead of with his usual cool control. And getting involved with Lucy was another crazy mistake. In fact, he realised most of the summer had been one of crazy decisions on his part.
He was a normal, intelligent, healthy man, who enjoyed an active sex-life, but with Lucy he was in danger of allowing sex to take over his life to the detriment of his work and his leisure. He could not allow it to continue.
Since the day he had met her he had slept only one single night at his villa in Santa Margherita and only half a day sailing. And it was well over a month since he had been to New York. Instead he had spent most of his time in England, flying back and forth from Italy, and it had to stop. He still lusted after Lucy, but that was all it was—lust. Without conceit he knew that with his power and wealth he could take his pick of women, and occasionally had in the past. He would again.
His decision made, he rose to his feet and buttoned his shirt. The solution was simple: he just needed to get through the next three days, finish things with Lucy, then move on to a woman more his type who would not disturb the smooth running of his life.
His picked his jacket off the floor and slipped it on, then tightened his tie. When Lucy reappeared he moved towards her. ‘Ready to go?’
Lucy glanced at him. ‘Yes,’ she said, equally direct.
Taking her elbow, he ushered her out of the apartment and down onto the street. ‘Get in,’ Lorenzo said, holding open the passenger door of a low-slung, lethal-looking yellow sports car.
Lucy did, and quickly fastened the seat belt. She didn’t feel safe in this monster of a car, even when it was stationary. She glanced at Lorenzo as he slid into the driving seat and was about to ask what make the car was. But one look at the determined set of his jaw made her change her mind.
There was no other way to describe it—the man drove as if he had a death wish, Lucy thought. The countryside flashed past them in a whirl, and she caught her breath as the car swung around corners.
‘Do you have to drive so fast?’ she finally demanded.
He cast her a sidelong glance and said nothing, but she noticed he did slow down a little, and she could breathe easily again.
Her first glance of Lake Garda made her catch her breath again, and as Lorenzo drove along the one road that ran around the lake she was captivated by the small villages they passed. Eventually he guided the car between two stone towers that supported massive iron gates. The drive wound steeply up through a forest of trees and then veered right. Suddenly the forest ended, and Lucy simply stared in awe at the view before her.
The house was built in pale stone, beautifully proportioned, with circular turrets on all corners and with the forest as a backdrop. The gardens swooped down in lawns and terraces to the edge of the lake, where a wooden boat house was just visible by the trees. A small boat with its sails furled was tied up at the jetty. The overall view was idyllic, and incredible to her artistic eye. Someone had planned the garden skilfully. A pergola, a summerhouse and fountains were all strategically placed to draw the eye to a perfect flow of colour and symmetry.
‘Lucy?’
It was the first word Lorenzo had spoken since they’d left Verona, and she glanced at her wristwatch. Well over an hour ago. She realised he had stopped the car. She looked out of the window, her eyes widening in admiration on the portico, a graceful structure with elegant arches and roof supported by four columns.
‘Before we go in, a word of warning.’
She turned her head and looked at him. ‘What? No stealing th
e silver? ‘ she quipped.
He didn’t so much as smile, just gave her a sardonic glance. ‘That is an example of what I am afraid of. You are too impulsive, Lucy—you say everything that enters your head without a second thought.’
Not everything, Lucy thought. Even locked in his arms, in the throes of passion, she resisted the impulse to tell him she loved him.
‘When you meet my mother you will be friendly and polite—no going over the top with hugs or confidences. I have the painting in the boot of the car. You will give it to her as a gift and she will be delighted. As for you and I—as far as my mother and the staff are concerned we will behave as close friends, though obviously we will not share a room. It is enough that I have brought you to the family home. Not something I ever do with the women in my life. That, along with an occasional arm around you, will confirm my mother’s opinion—thanks to the Lanza woman—that we are a couple. When I tell her it is over between us you will have an excellent reason for no further contact that she will readily accept. Understand?’
‘Perfectly. Machiavelli could not have come up with a better plan.’
The arrogance of the man confounded her. When he dumped her she was supposedly going to be so brokenhearted she would cut off all contact with the Zanelli family. The sad thing was she realised he was probably right—though he did not know it.
Forcing a smile to her face, she added, ‘You mean pretend we are lovers but no mention of casual sex? I get it.’
‘Lucy, cut out the flippant remarks. This is very straightforward. All you have to do is behave yourself in a restrained manner for a couple of days.’
‘Yes, I see.’
And she did see—all too clearly. It was in his dark, impersonal eyes, in the hard face. He could not have made it clearer that when this visit was over so was she, as far as he was concerned. She turned her head away. It was what she wanted—to be free of him, she told herself, and tried to open the car door.
Before she could, it was swung open by a man Lorenzo introduced as Gianni—the butler!
Lucy stood in the grand hall, two storeys high, with a central staircase that split into two halfway up and ended in a circular balcony. Her green eyes fixed on the lady descending the marble stairs.
His mother was nothing like she’d expected, and when Lorenzo introduced her unexpectedly Lucy was hugged and kissed on both cheeks by the elegant woman. Lorenzo should have warned his mother not to go over the top, she thought. She’d been led to believe she was a frail little woman, but nothing could be further from the truth. Anna, as she insisted Lucy call her, was about five feet six, with thick curling white hair and sparkling brown eyes, and looked a heck of a lot fitter than Lucy felt.
Fifteen minutes later Lucy sat on a satin-covered chair in the most beautifully furnished room she had ever seen, with a glass of champagne in her hand, listening to Anna thanking her for what felt like the hundredth time for the portrait of Antonio.
She had always known Lorenzo was wealthy, but this house was more like a palace—and it seemed it was staffed like one. The butler had reappeared five minutes after they’d entered the room with the painting—gift-wrapped, Lucy had noted, probably down to Lorenzo.
She cast him a glance. He was lounging back on an exquisite antique gilt wooden-edged pink satin sofa, and he gave her the briefest of smiles that did not reach his eyes. If that was his idea of what would pass for ‘close friendship’ then heaven help him, she thought sadly.
The butler had appeared once more with the champagne, and a maid with a plate of tiny cakes.
To say his mother was ecstatic with her gift was an understatement. ‘I can’t thank you enough, Lucy.’ Anna smiled across at her. The painting was now propped on top of the magnificent fireplace, half covering a picture of a stern-looking gentleman who looked remarkably like an older version of Lorenzo. ‘You have captured my Antonio perfectly—but you knew him, and must have lots of photographs from the past. When did you paint it?’
‘Well, it was in the March of my second year at college. Antonio and Damien had just come back from their round-the-world tour, and they were staying in the house I shared in London with two other students while they planned their mountaineering trip. I needed a model for a portrait as part of my end-of-year exam, and Antonio offered. Mind you, I had to bribe him to sit still with a constant supply of chocolate-covered Turkish delight, which he adored. Actually, it was good fun,’ she said, smiling reminiscently. ‘Though now I am older and more experienced I could probably do better.’
‘Oh, no!’ Anna declared. ‘It is beautiful the way it is. It never occurred to me that Antonio had actually sat for you, but of course I can see it now. How else could you have caught him in that perfect moment in time, when he was at his best—healthy, happy and with friends? It is in his eyes, his smile, and it makes your gift doubly precious to me.’
‘I’m glad you like it,’ Lucy said inadequately, noting the shimmer of tears in Anna’s eyes.
‘I love it. And now a toast to my Antonio.’ She raised her glass.
Lucy lifted hers to her mouth but only wet her lips. The little cake she had eaten had been sickly sweet, and what she could really do with was a cup of tea and something else to eat.
She looked at Lorenzo. He had drained his glass and was looking at his mother with such care and tenderness in his eyes it made her ache. He had never looked at her like that, and never would. She tore her gaze away and replaced her glass on the table, shifting restlessly in her chair.
‘Champagne not to your taste, Lucy?’ Lorenzo queried politely.
She glanced back at him. He was frowning at her—no tenderness in his eyes now, just black ice. She realised if she didn’t get out of there soon she was going to scream—definitely not on Lorenzo’s list of acceptable behaviour during the visit.
She was sitting there minus her briefs, needing to go to the bathroom, with a nice woman almost in tears and a man who hated her.
‘Yes, it is fine,’ she said, her green eyes filling with mockery. ‘But if you will both excuse me?’ She stood up. ‘I have been travelling since eight this morning, and I would like to go and freshen up, please.’
‘Of course, my dear. Where are my manners? I was so overcome … ‘
‘Hush, Mother.’ Lorenzo rose to his feet. ‘I’ll show Lucy to her room.’ And, slipping an arm around her waist, he led her to the door. His mother smiled on benignly.
As soon as they were in the hall Lucy shrugged out of his hold. ‘No audience now,’ she sniped.
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow and said, ‘Follow me.’
She did—up the elegant staircase to where Lorenzo turned right around the galleried landing to the front of the house, then along a corridor. He opened the second door on the left.
‘My mother has the master suite next door, so you will be perfectly safe.’
Safe from what or who? Lucy wondered, and followed Lorenzo into the room. She gasped. The décor was all ivory and gold—the bed covered in the finest ivory satin and lace. Next to the fireplace was a chaise-longue, and a beautiful occasional table inlaid with hand-painted roses and humming birds. The whole effect was very feminine.
‘The bathroom and dressing room are through there.’ Lorenzo indicated a door at the opposite end. ‘I believe the maid has unpacked your clothes. If there is anything else you need you have only to ring.’
She actually felt like wringing his neck. He was standing there so cool, so remote, when only hours ago he’d been ripping off her briefs. No—best not to go there.
‘What I really need is a cup of tea and a sandwich. Apart from that tiny cake I’ve had nothing to eat since I left home this morning, and I’m starving.’
‘Surely you were offered lunch on the flight? It was all arranged.’
‘I was offered lunch, but I refused because I got the impression the dashing young flight attendant was offering more.’
‘What?’ The polite mask had slipped to one of outrage. ‘You should hav
e told me—I will dismiss him immediately.’
‘No—not on my account. His attitude is not surprising, really. He is probably used to flying loose women out to wherever you happen to be,’ she said scathingly, and saw his jaw tighten, a flash of anger in his dark eyes.
Quickly stepping past him, she headed for the bathroom. She heard the bedroom door slam behind her and wasn’t surprised.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE bathroom, like the rest of the house, was perfect. All pale marble, with a big raised bath and a very modern double shower. The vanity unit contained every possible bathroom accessory known to a man—and, she noted, her own modest toilet bag.
Spying a shower cap, she could not resist. She pulled it over her hair and picked up a top designer shower gel. Stripping off her clothes, she stepped into the shower and turned the water on, relishing the soothing spray as she used the heavenly scented gel to wash her body.
Finally she stepped out of the shower and, picking a large white towel off the pile stacked on a shelf, dried herself. Taking another one, she wrapped it sarong-style around her body. Then she took her hairbrush from her toilet bag and brushed her hair.
Lucy walked back into the bedroom feeling refreshed, and saw a tray holding tea and sandwiches on the table by the chaise-longue. Lorenzo had done as she’d asked, but she had no doubt the maid had delivered them. She flopped down on the chaise-longue and poured a cup of tea, then ate an Italian-style sandwich made with crusty bread and filled with cheese, tomato and something spicy Lucy didn’t recognise. It was delicious.
* * *
‘Lucy? Lucy.’
Lorenzo didn’t want to touch her—he was hard just looking at her. She was stretched out on the chaiselongue asleep, her hair tumbled over her shoulders and with one arm above her head, the other across her stomach. A towel that was wrapped around her had slipped to reveal one rose-tipped creamy breast. She was enough to tempt a saint. Yet in sleep, with her long lashes curled against her cheek, she had a look of innocence about her that twisted something inside him.
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