Mediterranean Tycoons: Untamed & Unleashed: Picture of Innocence / Untamed Italian, Blackmailed Innocent / The Italian's Blackmailed Mistress. JACQUELINE BAIRDЧитать онлайн книгу.
Teresa got. She showed me all the photos they took of you and Lucy together at the wedding, and it was very good of her to make these copies for me. Teresa said you seemed very close, and you told her you had known Lucy for quite a while. She also told me that Lucy has no family left—her father died, and then her brother last year. She is all alone in the world. You could have told me, Lorenzo.’
He picked up his wine glass and drained it in one gulp. ‘I did not know myself until recently,’ he said, appalled at the way the conversation was going. ‘As for Teresa Lanza, she must have misunderstood me. I never said I had known Lucy for quite a while. I said I had known of her for a while. I have met her twice—once at the wedding, and once before that on business.’ Thinking fast, he saw an opportunity to rid himself of at least one problem and explain to his mother why it made sense to sell the shares in Steadman’s.
‘As you apparently know, Lucy Steadman is an artist. She has no interest in plastics whatsoever. She was in Verona recently, to deliver a painting, and at her request we had a meeting at the bank to discuss the sale of Steadman Industrial Plastics. I didn’t mention it to you in case it upset you. I know how pleased you were about Antonio investing in the firm, planning for the future, and you may have wanted the bank to hang on to Steadman’s for sentimental reasons that make no financial sense to the other partners.’
‘Oh! You’re right—I would have liked to keep the link to Antonio, so I can understand your reasoning. But I see now selling is the obvious thing to do. Tying an artist to a plastics factory is laughable. In fact I want you to ask her here for a visit.’
Lorenzo could not believe what he was hearing. ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’ he asked, barely hiding his astonishment.
‘Why—to offer her my condolences on the loss of her brother and father, of course. I should have done it long ago. Besides which, if I met Lucy I could commission her to paint a portrait of Antonio. By all accounts the portrait she has done of the Contessa della Scala’s husband is wonderful. So you will ask her for me?’
It was more of a command than a request, but one he had no intention of fulfilling.
‘As I said, Mamma, I hardly know the girl. But what I do know is she is dedicated to her work and runs an art and craft gallery in Cornwall. The summer is her busiest period, so she could not get away even if she wanted. And I don’t know her well enough to ask.’
‘Lorenzo, I am not so old I can’t recognise a lover’s kiss—and if you don’t ask her I will. I’ll ring her. You must have her phone number.or the bank will.’
The hell of it was his mother would. She might be frail, but she had a stubborn streak. Suddenly Lorenzo realised his weekend affair was in danger of becoming a millstone around his neck, and he had no one to blame but himself … He had been so intent on getting Lucy into bed all his thinking had been concentrated below the belt. His innate control and common sense had flown out of the window.
Silently he cursed. It had never entered his head that the Lanzas would take pictures of the wedding guests. There was one of him with his arm lodged firmly around Lucy’s waist while they talked, and the most damning of all had to be Aldo’s work—it was him kissing Lucy in the garden, just before the man had interrupted them …
‘We were not lovers. It was too much champagne and a friendly kiss—that is all. But all right … I’ll call Lucy,’ he conceded, and left shortly after.
Back in his apartment, Lorenzo stood by the window, looking out over the city without actually seeing it, a glass of whisky in his hand. Antonio, as the baby of the family, had been his mother’s favourite, though she had tried not to show it, and with hindsight Lorenzo recognised Antonio had been indulged by all of them. He knew his mother was not likely to give up on the idea of meeting Lucy and commissioning a portrait of Antonio any time soon … He crossed the room and flopped down on the sofa, draining his glass and putting it on the table. Whisky was not the answer.
The hell of it was Lorenzo could not see a way out of the situation without involving Lucy Steadman.
Basically he had two options. He could do as his mother asked and mention commissioning a portrait of Antonio to Lucy, invite her to visit his mother. The big flaw in that scenario was that Lucy knew of his run-in with Damien, which he wished to keep from his mother. She had been hurt enough, and didn’t need bitterness added to her memories. The whole idea was a non-starter as far as he was concerned.
He had cut Lucy out of his life and wanted it to stay that way—and after the brutal way he had left her he was sure she would refuse any invitation from him pointblank. But if by some fluke Lucy did accept, he had no doubt as a woman scorned she would take great delight in telling his mother of his run-in with Damien just to spite him. A ruthless gleam sparked in his dark eyes. That was never going to happen—because Lucy wasn’t going to get the chance.
The second option—the one that appealed to his cynical mind and which, with his experience of women, he knew would succeed—was the only option. He would offer Lucy a big fat bribe. He would give her the bank’s shares in Steadman’s in return for her refusing any overtures his mother might make and for her silence on the accident if she did contact her.
Lucy had disturbed his peace of mind long enough. He had taken an old girlfriend out to dinner in New York and given her only a goodnight kiss when she had been expecting a whole lot more—as had he until he’d realised he felt no inclination to take the stunning brunette back to his apartment or anywhere else.
Lucy had wanted him to vote with her on the Steadman’s deal. Well, this way she could have the shares outright and do what the hell she liked with them. The money was nothing to him, and he had wasted far too much of his time dwelling on Lucy Steadman as it was. Finally all connection with the despised family would be severed for good.
He flicked on his cell phone to dial Lucy’s number, having got it from the bank and entered it in his speed dial, and then stopped. She would certainly hang up on him. Better to catch her by surprise, even though it meant he would have to see her again. Definitely for the last time, he told himself, and ignored the stirring in his body at the thought.
Instead he rang his lawyer, and told him what he needed by morning.
‘Lucy! ‘ Elaine cried, and dashed into the small kitchen at the back of the gallery, where Lucy was standing with the teapot in her hand, about to pour out a couple of much needed cups of tea, after a very successful day’s trading, to enjoy while they closed up.
‘What’s the panic? A late influx of customers?’ Lucy queried.
‘No—just one. A man asking for you. I can see now why you were so upset over the Lorenzo guy. Scumbag he may be, but he is here—and what a hunk. I bet he is great in bed. Not that I’m suggesting you should make the same mistake again.’
Lucy paled, then blushed, then paled again, her stomach churning at the thought of seeing Lorenzo again.
‘Go,’ Elaine said, taking the teapot from her hand and pushing her towards the hall. ‘Get rid of him—and if you need help call me.’
She didn’t need help—not any more, not on any level. She was over him. But that didn’t stop the painful details of the last time they’d been together flashing through her mind. Why he was back she didn’t know—and didn’t want to know. He could not have made it plainer: he’d used her, paid her, and despised her simply for who she was.
Straightening her shoulders and flicking her hair back from her face, Lucy walked down the hall, determination in every step she took. She would not allow any man to use her and walk over her ever again.
Lorenzo appeared in the open doorway of the gallery and her heart lurched at the sight of him. She hesitated. He was casually dressed, in a white linen shirt open at the throat and washed denim jeans that hung low on his hips and clung to his muscular thighs like a second skin—designer, no doubt, she thought, and glanced up. Her green eyes clashed with deep brown, and it took every ounce of will-power she possessed to hold his gaze as her traitorous heart