‘How are you, Lucy? Maria told me you were a little unwell.’ She frowned. ‘Please sit down, my dear. My doctor calls to see me most days at noon—if you like you could see him as well.’
Lucy smiled and took a seat. ‘No, that is not necessary. I am fine—just too much wine, I think,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘But I wouldn’t mind a walk in the gardens after breakfast. The fresh air will do me good.’
‘Well, if you are sure, I will give you a guided tour,’ Anna offered. ‘Really it should be Lorenzo, but he has gone to the bank. I told him to take the day off, but he takes no notice of me. He works far too hard—always has. When my husband died—good man though he was—the bank was left in a poor condition. Lorenzo took over and soon put everything right, expanding all over the world, but sometimes I do wish he would slow down a little. Which is why I am so pleased he has found you, Lucy—you are just what he needs.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ Lucy finally got a word in. ‘We are close friends, but realistically we have very little in common.’ And with a quick change of subject she added, ‘Before I forget, I must call Elaine and tell her of the change of plan.’
Elaine was surprised but happy to agree to the new arrangement of taking Thursday off while the shop was looked after by a temp.
Lucy, on the other hand, was stressed to bits.
Oddly enough, once outside, with the scent of pine trees and perfumed flowers mingling in the warm morning air, Lucy felt better. Meandering with Anna along the paths and terraces of the glorious garden was relaxing. She learnt from Anna the names of dozens of plants, and when they got to the lake learnt the sailing boat had been Lorenzo’s when he was a teenager, and he still used it occasionally.
According to Anna he was still a keen sailor, and spent most of his leisure time at Santa Margherita, where he had a villa. He kept a larger racing yacht at the marina, and sailed it very successfully in quite a few races round the Mediterranean.
Lucy was surprised. When Lorenzo had told her he had a yacht she had assumed he meant some big luxury motorised ship. A smile quirked her lips. She did think he looked like a pirate sometimes, so she should not be surprised, she told herself as they walked back to the house.
Lunch was served, and Anna’s doctor, who was a widower, joined them at the table. He was a distinguished-looking, charming man, and Lucy warmed to him immediately. She had a sneaky suspicion his interest in Anna was more than medical.
Then the butler appeared, and Lucy was surprised when he informed her Lorenzo was on the private line and wishing to speak to her. He escorted her to the rear of the house, into what was obviously a study, and handed her the telephone.
‘Hello?’ she said. She could hear voices in the background, one a woman’s—probably his secretary.
‘Ah, at last.’ Lorenzo’s deep dark voice echoed in her ear. ‘Are you getting along all right on your own, Lucy? No slip-ups?’
‘Yes. And if by that you mean have I told your mother that her brilliant saintly son is really a rat? No, I have not.’
‘Sarcasm does not become you. Do I detect a bit of frustration there? Missing me already?’ he drawled throatily.
‘Like a hole in the head,’ she snapped, and heard him chuckle.
‘No chance I would be given an opportunity to miss your smart mouth—you really know how to dent a man’s ego.’
‘Not yours, that’s for sure.’ Her pounding heart was telling her she was more disturbed by his flirtatious tone than she dared admit, but knowing it must be for his secretary’s benefit she said, ‘Cut the pretence and just tell me what you want. I am in the middle of lunch.’
‘Right.’ His voice was brusque. ‘I have arranged with an English agency for a Miss Carr who lives in Cornwall to help at the gallery. She will call in tomorrow afternoon at three to arrange the details with Elaine. Tell my mother I have back-to-back meetings all day and I’m staying in Verona tonight. I will be back tomorrow evening for the party. Can you do that?’
‘Yes. If that is all, I am going back to finish my lunch.’
Lorenzo was deliberately staying away—or he might even have another woman lined up for tonight, Lucy thought. As if she needed any more proof it was over between them!
‘Enjoy your meal,’ he said, and hung up.
Lucy relayed the conversation when she got back to the table. Anna did not look happy, but accepted the news with grace.
CHAPTER NINE
FOR some reason Lucy hadn’t been able to enjoy her lunch—in fact she’d hardly eaten anything. The doctor, noticing, had mentioned that Anna had told him Lucy had been sick that morning and enquired if she still felt unwell.
Unthinkingly Lucy had told him she thought it was the red wine, because she didn’t usually drink, and then added that she was not used to eating such rich food so late.
The doctor had agreed that might be true, but then mentioned the possibilities of gastro enteritis or food poisoning. Anna had looked mortified, and that was why Lucy was now lying on her bed, having submitted to numerous tests.
Lucy liked the elderly man, and at his enquiries had told the doctor about her medical history—including an operation she had undergone a few years earlier, which was one of the reasons she was careful what she ate and rarely drank, and probably why wine affected her so quickly. He had nodded his head and agreed with her.
Her lips twitched and parted in a grin, and she chuckled—then laughed out loud. She was the guest from hell … who had unwittingly implied her hostess had poisoned her. At least Lorenzo would be happy, because when Lucy left there was not the slightest fear of Anna wanting her to visit again.
On the contrary, Anna appeared to be quite happy when Lucy went back downstairs. Dinner was arranged for seven in Anna’s favourite garden room at the side of the house, where a small table was set for the two of them. The meal was light and delicious, and Anna confessed she usually ate there, only using the formal dining room when Lorenzo was home—which Lucy gathered was not very often.
Wednesday was chaotic. The huge house was a hive of activity as caterers, florists and extra staff bustled around the place.
The doctor came early—he was staying the night—and after lunch, when Anna had retired to her room to rest, told Lucy her blood tests were clear. It was probably, as she’d thought, the wine—or maybe the stress of visiting Lorenzo’s home and mother. He remembered when he’d met his late wife’s parents for the first time he’d been sick with nerves before he even got to their house.
Lucy tried to laugh, thanked him, and followed Anna upstairs.
She had a leisurely soak in the huge bath before washing her hair, and then, not feeling in the least tired, decided to go out into the garden and let her hair dry naturally in the fresh air, as she did at home. She pulled on jeans and a light blue sweater and, slipping her feet into soft ballet shoes, she stuck a comb in her pocket and left the house. There were so many people running around she would not be missed.
It was another sunny afternoon, with a slight breeze rustling the trees, and she wandered down the garden until the noise from the house faded away. Finally she stopped on one of the terraces. A circular fountain stood there, with water cascading down from a fifteen-feet-high centrepiece into a big pool, where koi carp in various shades of gold and yellow were swimming lazily around.
She sat down on a seat conveniently placed, and taking the comb from her pocket pulled it through her hair. It was half dry already. With a sigh she closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sun. Bliss, she told herself. Just one more day and then no more Lorenzo. She would have her life back. But the pain in her heart told her she lied.
‘Lucy—I have been looking all over for you.’
For a second she thought she had conjured his voice up in her mind, then her eyes flew open. Lorenzo was standing a foot away, his dark gaze fixed on her face.
‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Nothing,’ she muttered. He was wearing a suit, but his jacket
and tie were loose, his black hair dishevelled, and he was looking grimly at her, as if she had committed a cardinal sin. Even so she felt herself tense in instinctive awareness of the magnetic attraction of his big body. ‘I didn’t realise I had to ask permission,’ she said sarcastically, to hide her involuntary reaction to him.
‘You don’t. But I rang before lunch and spoke to my mother. She told me you were sick and you saw her doctor—are you all right?’
‘You are a day late. That was yesterday, and I am fine.’
His apparent concern was too little, too late, and she wasn’t fooled by it for a second. It was over. He had made that plain on Monday and they both recognised it—which was why she had not seen him since.
‘I guess she told you I think it was the wine and the food. Sorry about that. But, hey—look on the bright side, Lorenzo. She must think I am the guest from hell, accusing her of poisoning me. She will never invite me back.’
He didn’t so much as crack a smile. If anything, he looked even grimmer.
‘No, she hinted you might be pregnant. Very clever, Lucy, but no way will you catch me in that trap.’ His lips twisted in a sneer. ‘If you are pregnant try your last partner—because it has nothing to do with me. I was meticulous with contraception, as you well know, cara.’
Only Lorenzo could make an endearment sound like an insult, Lucy thought sourly. If she had ever had the slightest glimmer of hope that he might care for her it was snuffed out in that moment.
Flushed and angry now, she rose to her feet. Tilting back her head, she let her green eyes mock him. ‘I’m not pregnant, but thank you for that. It confirmed my sketch of you was spot-on.’
She turned to leave, but he caught her wrist.
His dark eyes flicked over her, from the striking mass of her hair to her pink lips and the curve of her breasts, making her wince at the mixture of contempt and desire she saw in his eyes as they finally met hers.
‘This changes nothing. You will behave yourself tonight, stay silent on your brother and the accident, and I will put you on the plane myself tomorrow—is that understood?’
‘Yes. Message well and truly received,’ she said bitterly, and all the anger and resentment she had bottled up for so long came pouring out. ‘For your information, I loved my brother, and I believe he did his best on that mountain—unlike you, who would believe the worst of anyone without a second thought. Antonio said you were a ruthless bastard admiringly, almost with pride, but I bet he never realised you actually are. You hate my brother because of the accident. But Damien did what the experts and the coroner all agreed was the correct thing to do in the circumstances. He cut the rope to go and get help for Antonio and he succeeded. The fact that rescue was too late was nobody’s fault—just fate.’
She paused for a moment, remembering. ‘But that was not good enough for you. With your arrogance and superior intellect you decided they were all wrong. And you couldn’t resist taking a bit of revenge out on me, because I’m Damien’s sister.’ She shook her head in disgust, her hair flying wildly around her shoulders. ‘The irony of it is, if I was the one hanging over a cliff tied to you I’d bet my last cent you would cut the rope without hesitation. You make me sick,’ she said contemptuously.
Lorenzo reached out and, catching her shoulders, jerked her forward, crushing her against him. Ruthlessly his mouth ground down on hers, and he kissed her with an angry passion that had nothing to do with love—only dominance. She struggled to push him away, but her hands were trapped between their bodies. And to her self-disgust even now she could sense herself weakening, responding. In a desperate effort of self-preservation she kicked out with her foot and caught his shinbone, and suddenly she was free.
If she had hurt him Lucy was glad. He deserved a hell of a lot more than a kick in the shin for what he had done to her.
‘You are coming with me,’ he said and, catching her wrist, pulled her forward. ‘As for cutting the rope—I would never tie myself to you in the first place,’ he said scathingly, his eyes deadly. ‘Cutting the rope is not why I despise your brother. It is because I have proof that he could have saved Antonio and chose not to.’
Lucy drew in a sharp breath. ‘That is a horrible thing to say and I don’t believe you,’ she lashed back at him. ‘Maybe it is your own guilty conscience looking for a scapegoat. According to Antonio you spent most of your time in America with a string of different women and he rarely saw you.’
‘That’s it,’ he snarled. ‘I will show you the evidence and that will be the end.’ And he almost frogmarched her back to the house.
Oblivious to the surprised looks from the dozens of people in the hall, he marched her to the rear of the house, pushed open a door, and led her into the study.
‘Sit,’ he instructed, and shoved her onto a well-worn black leather sofa. He walked over to a large desk and, opening a drawer, withdrew something, then walked back to stand towering over her.
‘You need proof of what an apology for a man your brother was?’ He flung a handful of photographs down on the low table in front of her. ‘These are pictures taken on the day of the so-called accident that killed Antonio. Look at them.’
He leant over and spread them out in front of her. The first he pointed to was of Antonio and Damien, their faces almost as red as the jackets they wore, laughing. Moisture glazed Lucy’s eyes as she stared at the picture. They both looked so young, so vibrant, so full of life—and now they were both dead.
‘That is the pair of them arriving at the base camp to prepare for the climb the next morning. Note the date and time on all of them.’
Lucy didn’t see the point. The date of the accident was imprinted on her mind for all time. But she did as he said. Three more were general shots the same day, and within the same hour. Only the fifth—a landscape shot—was of the following day, at two in the afternoon.
‘So they look happy?’ She brushed a tear from her eye. ‘What am I supposed to see?’
‘See the small figure in red on the landscape shot that is your brother. These photographs were given to me by a friend, Manuel, who is an expert climber. Damien and Antonio were not at his level, but were experienced climbers. They joined the climbing club together at university, climbed regularly in Britain, in the Alps, and on other continents when they toured the world.’ He looked down at her, his black eyes blazing with anger. ‘According to Manuel, from the position of your brother on the mountain at that time any reasonably experienced climber could have made it to the base camp in three hours—four at the very most. But it was dark when your brother called the rescue service—seven hours after that photograph was taken—too dark to start the search. A complete novice could have got down faster. He let Antonio die.’
Lucy looked up at him. For a second she thought she saw a glimmer of anguish in his eyes, and then it was gone, and he was watching her, waiting, supremely confident in his belief, his dark gaze challenging her to deny the evidence he was presenting her with.
Should she bother? Lucy asked herself. She knew Lorenzo. When he made up his mind about something nothing changed it. He was always right. He had decided she was a promiscuous woman the first time she went to bed with him for no other reason than that she had … He looked at a few photographs and decided they were proof her brother was a murderer, though he had not used that term.
‘You really believe that?’ Lucy said quietly.
‘Yes—the proof is in front of you. Antonio is dead. I lost a brother, and Damien cost my mother her son and devastated her life.’
Lucy’s eyes widened. She’d been devastated at Antonio’s death, maybe, but Anna still had Lorenzo—her life was hardly over. And she was fed up with being the bad guy—or girl, in her case.
‘It didn’t do a lot for my life, either, or I would not be sitting here listening to this,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I have finally realised everything is black and white with you, Lorenzo. Good or bad—no in between. You are always right. Does it ever occur to you not everyone
is as strong as you are? Perhaps after hanging onto Antonio for over an hour Damien was weak? Perhaps he passed out and didn’t remember? Or maybe the clock was wrong? ‘ she ended facetiously.
‘No, there can be no other explanation, Lucy. The evidence is all there in the coroner’s report. Your brother said he thought it had taken him four hours to reach the camp, not seven. The coroner’s report states Antonio had died not of his injuries but of hypothermia, after spending the night on the mountain, only one or two hours before he was found. He could have lived if it wasn’t for your damned brother. So now you have seen the proof, and now you know why Steadman is a dirty word to me.’
Lucy thought of arguing and looked at him. His face was set hard and she shivered. What was the point? Lorenzo was a strong man—not the type to accept weakness in others.
‘Have you nothing to say?’ he asked, his dark gaze resting on her.
‘Thank you for showing me the photos.’ She stood up. ‘Can I go now?’
Lorenzo watched her. Damn it, she looked like a schoolgirl in her flat shoes—but he knew she wasn’t. Her head was slightly bowed, her beautiful face pale, her expressive eyes guarded. Her hair was falling in a tangle of waves around her shoulders, and she was wearing denim jeans and a soft blue sweater that clung to her every curve. He felt his body stir, and he hated himself and her for his weakness. With a supreme effort of will he forced himself to relax. It was almost over. After tonight he would be free of Lucy and would never have to see her again. So why was he not relieved?
His mouth hardened along with his resolve. ‘Yes, go,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll see you in the hall at seven—and wear something appropriate. The black you wore the other night will do.’ And, picking up the photos, he strolled over to the desk and returned them to the drawer.
What did he think she would do? Lucy wondered. Turn up in a pair of shorts and a shirt? For a second she was tempted, but quickly dismissed the idea and walked out of the study. She owed it to herself not to disgrace the Steadman name.
Picture of Innocence Page 13
