painting was all light and warmth, but the sketch was the opposite—dark and red-eyed. There was no mistaking the facial likeness to him, and the little witch had added horns above the ears, and a tail. The tail was long and a given—because the sketch was a caricature of Lorenzo as a huge black rat.
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 theworld of high finance—and now Lucy had become a real
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 theworld of high finance—and now Lucy had become a real
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