Picture of Innocence. Jacqueline Baird
years later, with the grief and rage dimmed, he could look at the tragedy with some perspective, but it still did not sit easy with Lorenzo. He doubted he would have cut a rope on his friend, but then he had never been in that position—and Damien Steadman had eventually raised the alarm.
It was the eventually that disturbed him more now—that and the lingering taste of Lucy Steadman’s lush mouth beneath his. Where the hell had that thought come from? he wondered. She was far too young, never mind the rest of her faults.
His decision to sell the Steadman’s shares was the right one. His last connection to the Steadman family would be finally cut. He’d explain it to his mother somehow, and thankfully would never see Lucy Steadman again.
Banishing her from his mind, he sat down at his desk, clicked on the computer and called his secretary.
The following afternoon, after a restless night in the strange hotel bed, during which a large dark man who looked suspiciously like Lorenzo Zanelli had seemed to slip in and out of her dreams with a surprisingly erotic frequency, and a morning spent exploring Verona, Lucy exited the taxi outside a magnificent old building, feeling excited, if a little hot. But then almost every building in Verona was fabulous and old, she thought wryly.
She carefully placed her leather satchel holding the portrait on the desk in the foyer of the most luxurious apartment building in the city, according to the taxi driver who had brought her here. Looking around, she believed him as she handed her passport to the concierge at his request for identification.
She reached a hand around to rub her lower back. Carrying the satchel around all morning had not been a great idea, but she had not wanted to waste time returning to the hotel.
‘The Contessa della Scala is at home, signorina. Number three—the third floor. But first I must call and tell her you have arrived.’ He handed her passport back and, placing it back in her satchel, she glanced around the elegant foyer towards the elevator.
The doors opened and a man walked out—and her mouth fell open in shock as what felt like a hundred butterflies took flight in her stomach.
Dark eyes clashed with green. ‘You!’ he exclaimed, and in two lithe strides Lorenzo Zanelli was at her side. ‘What do you think you are doing, following me around?’ he demanded and grabbed her arm.
‘Following you around? You must be joking,’ Lucy jeered, the butterflies dying a sudden death at his arrogant assumption. She tried to shake off his hand, but with no luck. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, get over yourself and let go of me.’
‘How did you get in here? This is a secure building.’
‘Through the door. How do you think?’ she snapped.
‘And that is the way you are going out, right now—after I have had words with the incompetent concierge who allowed you to enter.’
At that moment the concierge put down the telephone and turned back to smile at Lucy. But before he could speak Lorenzo Zanelli launched a torrent of Italian at the poor man.
Lucy’s Italian lessons had not been completely wasted, but she could only understand Italian rather than speak the language, so she didn’t try now. She watched with interest as Lorenzo’s voice slowly faded as the concierge responded. She noted the slow dark flush crawl up the tanned olive-toned face and almost laughed out loud. The superior devil was totally embarrassed, and suddenly she was free.
Lorenzo Zanelli looked down at Lucy and saw the amusement in her green eyes, and for the first time since he was a teenager he felt like a prize idiot. What on earth had possessed him to think she was following him? Probably the same irrational urge that had made him kiss her yesterday. He was acting totally out of character—usually he was the most controlled of men—and it had to stop. But she had told him she was going to be in town another day and suggested he might change his mind, so his assumption was not that ridiculous. Obviously he realised she had been winding him up, but however he tried to justify his behaviour he still felt like a fool.
‘I owe you an apology, Miss Steadman,’ he admitted curtly. ‘I am sorry; it seems you have every right to be here.’
‘Apology accepted—but I bet it nearly choked you,’ Lucy prompted with an irrepressible grin. There was something very satisfying in seeing the stiff-necked arrogant banker made to look a fool.
‘Not quite, but close,’ he said, his lips quirking at the corners in a self deprecating smile. ‘So how do you know the Countess della Scala? ‘ he asked.
His smile—the first she had seen from him—made her heart turn over. But, remembering their last meeting and what he was really like, she stiffened. ‘Mind your own business,’ she said bluntly. ‘As I recall you told me quite succinctly yesterday you wanted nothing to do with mine.’ And, brushing past him, she walked to the elevator and stepped inside.
The petite, elegant Countess was an absolute delight, Lucy thought ten minutes later, sitting in a comfortable chair and watching the elderly lady reclining on a sofa and examining the eighteen-by-twelve portrait of her husband that her manservant held a few feet away from her.
‘I love it—absolutely love it,’ she said, then instructed the manservant to place it on the table while she decided where to hang it. She turned back to Lucy. ‘You have captured my beloved husband perfectly. All my friends will be green with envy, and I can see a lot more commissions coming your way and a great future ahead of you.’
‘I hope so.’ Lucy grinned. ‘But thank you. I’m glad you like it, because it was a real pleasure to do—he was a very handsome man.’
‘Oh, he was—and so jolly. Nothing like Lorenzo Zanelli. The nerve of the man, trying to have you thrown out of the building. Are you sure you are all right.’
‘How on earth did you know about that?’ Lucy asked in surprise.
‘The concierge is a good friend of mine and keeps me informed of everything. Zanelli’s behaviour was disgraceful—I can’t imagine what he was thinking.’
‘I had a brief meeting with him yesterday over something his bank has an interest in, and he jumped to the conclusion I was following him,’ Lucy said with a grin. ‘He obviously has an overblown sense of his attraction to women, or he is just paranoid. I had no idea he lived here.’
‘Ah, my dear—Lorenzo Zanelli doesn’t live here, but friends of his, Fedrico and Olivia Paglia, have an apartment here. Unfortunately Federico was injured in a hunting accident in January and has been in a rehabilitation clinic ever since. There has been the occasional rumour circulating about Lorenzo Zanelli’s involvement with the poor man’s wife, because he has visited Olivia a few times, though I can’t see it myself. He is much more likely to be taking care of her husband’s business affairs than her.’ She chuckled. ‘Zanelli has the reputation of being a loner, a very private man and a workaholic. Olivia Paglia is a real social butterfly—which is why I can’t see the two of them together. They are like chalk and cheese.’
‘They say opposites attract,’ Lucy inserted, fascinated by the Contessa’s conversation.
‘Personally I don’t believe it. But enough gossip. When we first met I was struck by how bright you looked, wearing a brilliant blue top and white tailored trousers. Now, I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, my dear, but that black suit is ill fitting and absolutely dreadful.’
Lucy burst out laughing. ‘I know—it’s terrible. I borrowed it from a friend because turning up in jeans and a top or a colourful kaftan, which is pretty much all I own, didn’t seem very businesslike. Plus, even though I had the portrait packaged I did not want to put it in the cargo hold. It took up most of my hand luggage, and I just managed to squeeze in a spare blouse and underwear.’
An hour later, against all her attempts to refuse, Lucy left with a vintage designer dress courtesy of the Contessa, and shoes to match.
She boarded the plane back to England with a spring in her step.