Picture of Innocence (11 page)

Certainly not one for the family gallery or his mother … but under the circumstances it was amusing, he conceded wryly. Then her parting comment registered, and all trace of amusement faded as a cold dark fury consumed him.

Lorenzo glanced at the house, his eyes hard as jet, and debated trying again. No, next time he would be better prepared—and there would
be
a next time.

Never mind the fact he could not trust Lucy, or that she had slapped him, or that she had insulted him with the sketch. What really enraged him was that she actually had the colossal nerve to think for a second she could outsmart him in a business deal.

He needed to know the identity of this
honourable man
—the mystery benefactor who had obviously convinced Lucy he could help her save Steadman’s. So much so she had turned down
his
offer with a spectacularly original gesture. He would make damn sure she lived to regret it.

Lorenzo spent the Sunday at his villa at Santa Margherita and went sailing for a few hours, having assured his mother over the phone that he had spoken to Lucy but she was too busy to visit. He said he was sure he could persuade her to do the portrait if she left it with him.

Relaxed and feeling much more like his usual self, he flew out to New York on Monday, having set in motion his investigation into the Steadman’s deal, but no longer sure he was going to do anything about it.

He would sell the shares on the allotted date, as planned, and give his mother the painting in a few weeks. That would satisfy her and put an end to the whole affair.

He returned two weeks later. On entering the outer office he saw his secretary smiling widely. She presented him with the new edition of a monthly society magazine, opened at the centre page.

‘Nice wedding. I recognised the bridesmaid—your new girlfriend, apparently—but I never would have suspected what was under that black suit. What a body—
lucky you!’ She grinned. ‘And the report you requested is on your desk.’

‘What the hell?’ He swore and grabbed the magazine, groaning at the headline: ‘English wedding for Signor Aldo Lanza’s nephew, James Morgan.’ Then there were two pages of pictures of the bridal party, including Lucy, smiling broadly, and all the Italian guests, with accompanying names and captions. In one, Lucy was pinned to his side. She looked stunning, smiling up at him with her small hand resting on his shirt-front, and he was grinning down at her. The intimacy of the shot was undeniable, and the caption read: ‘Lorenzo Zanelli with the bridesmaid, a long-time friend and companion.’

He read some more, then stormed into his office, slamming the door behind him.

He sat down behind his desk, fuming. The brief scandal of being linked to Olivia, a married woman, paled into nothing compared to this. Of course they had connected Lucy to her brother and resurrected the tragic accident in detail. As if he needed reminding of it.

It was all the fault of Teresa Lanza, but there was not a damn thing he could do about it. Now he knew why his mother had looked so guilty. She must have known this was coming out. The wedding had been too late in June to make the July edition, but it had certainly made the August one.

He threw it to one side and picked up the report on Steadman’s. By the time he’d read it he was so enraged he slammed down the document and leapt to his feet, the deadly light of battle in his eyes. This was no longer anything to do with business or family, but strictly personal.

If there was one thing Lorenzo revelled in it was a challenge—be it at sea, sailing his yacht, or in the
world of high finance—and now Lucy had become a real challenge. Pacing the floor, he realised he had seriously underestimated her. Far from being not cut out for business, she had come up with a plan to save Steadman’s—and it was very imaginative and economically sound. Any bank—including his—would judge it a decent investment and back the venture.

To be beaten by a slip of a woman was unthinkable to him. Lucy had effectively sidelined him as a partner in Steadman’s, and the factory was to stay open. The housing development and much more was to be built at the opposite side of town, in seven acres taken from the eight-acre river frontage garden of the house Lucy owned, in a deal she had made with Richard Johnson the property developer and third partner in Steadman’s. Between them, they had the majority.

Whether she had slept with the man or not he didn’t know—and didn’t care. She was clever—he’d give her that—but better men and women than her had tried and failed to outsmart him, and there was no way she was getting away with it.

A few telephone calls later Lorenzo had left the bank and boarded his private Lear jet to Newquay Airport, a ruthless gleam of triumph in his dark eyes. A car and driver waited for him when his plane landed. He was back in his normal ruthless business mode, and about to make Lucy an offer she could not refuse.

L
UCY
put down the telephone and walked slowly back into the gallery, her mind in turmoil. The call had been from Mr Johnson, her partner in the development deal. He had pulled out. No real explanation had been given—just a terse comment that he was not interested in doing business with her any more and then he’d hung up. She’d tried to ring back but the cell had gone directly to messages.

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 reached 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?