Mediterranean Tycoons

‘We have a problem, Lucy.’

There is no we were the words that sprang to mind, but Lucy resisted the urge to taunt him with the words he had used the last time they were together. Let him hang himself, she thought. There was something immensely satisfying in knowing that whatever Lorenzo was after he was not going to get it. Instead she picked up a chip and ate it.

‘We do?’ she queried. Stringing the superior devil along was going to be fun. Breaking off a piece of battered cod, she popped it in her mouth and glanced up at him with fake concern, licking her lips.

‘Yes.’ Lorenzo tore his gaze away from the small pink tongue running along her top lip. ‘Remember the wedding?’ She arched a delicate brow in his direction. Stupid question—of course she did. ‘Unfortunately Teresa Lanza called in to my mother to fill her in about the wedding—including the fact that Lucy Steadman was the bridesmaid. Then she showed her the photographs she had taken—quite a few of you and I.’

‘Is this story going anywhere?’ Lucy cut in. She had finished her fish and chips, and she had finished with Lorenzo, but sitting close to him on the wall, with the brush of his thigh against her own, was testing her resolve to the limit. Stringing him along had lost its appeal.

‘The upshot is that my mother wants me to invite you to visit her in Italy. She also wants to commission a portrait of Antonio. Obviously I don’t want you anywhere near her. I can put her off for a while, but unfortunately she is determined lady. If I don’t ask you she says she will ask you herself. If she does, you are to refuse any offer she makes.’

‘Don’t worry—I will. I’m not a masochist. Listening to you denigrating my brother and I was more than enough,’ Lucy said and, standing up, walked along the harbour to the nearest littler bin and deposited the carton in it.

Lorenzo followed her. She noted he hadn’t eaten even half the pizza as he tipped it in the bin, and wasn’t surprised. But she was surprised he had come all this way to tell her not to speak to his mother. That hurt. As if she needed telling again how low he thought her.

She walked on.

‘Wait, Lucy.’ He grasped her upper arm. ‘I have not finished.’

‘I have,’ she said flatly, glancing up at him and doing her best to ignore the warmth of his hand around her arm. ‘I’ve got the message loud and clear. I am not usually impolite, but if by any remote chance your mother calls me I will make an exception and tell her to get lost. As you said, no contact of any kind ever again between a Steadman and a Zanelli can only be a good thing—and you can start by letting go of my arm and getting out of my life for good.’

His face darkened, and if she wasn’t mistaken he looked almost embarrassed, but he did let go of her arm and she carried on walking back the way they’d come.

‘I don’t want you to be rude to her,’ he said, walking along beside her. ‘My mother does not know what I know about Damien. She believes your brother did his best to try and save Antonio, and I don’t want her disillusioned and hurt again. You must make no reference whatsoever to my argument with Damien. Total silence on the subject—do you understand?’

He glanced down at her, and Lucy had the spiteful thought that he had had no problem disillusioning her when she had for a moment imagined herself falling in love with him, or hurting her feelings. Why should his mother be exempt?

‘Okay, I’ll let her down gently but firmly and keep silent about you,’ she said, with a hint of sarcasm in her tone that went straight over his arrogant head.

‘Good. I propose that you regretfully suggest any reminder of Damien and Antonio upsets you so much you could not possibly face the prospect of bringing it all back—something along those lines. I’ll leave the excuses up to you—women are good at dissembling—and in return I will give you the bank’s holding in Steadman’s. Naturally my lawyer has drawn up a confidentiality agreement that will be binding on both sides. I have it in the car. All I need is for you to sign and it is a done deal.’

Lorenzo obviously adored his mother, and wanted to protect her, but he was just as controlling with the frail little woman as he was with everything else, Lucy thought. For a second she had been sympathetic to his predicament of trying to save his mother from any hurt, even though she knew he was wrong about Damien, but his insulting comment that women were basically good at lying, and his offer to buy her off with his bank’s share of Steadman’s, had killed any sympathy she felt stone-dead.

‘I’ll think about your offer as we walk back,’ she said noncommittally. But inside she was seething. He had no qualms about deceiving his mother, albeit he believed it to be for her own good. But that he had the arrogance—the gall—to ask Lucy to do the same, and say that he would pay her for her trouble, was beyond belief. The man thought he could buy anyone and anything, from sex to silence. She almost said no. But a grain of caution—not something she was known for—told her that just in case anything went wrong with her plan to save the factory she should say yes …

Lucy didn’t speak to him or look at him again, but she could feel his eyes on her—could sense the growing tension in him with every step she took until they finally reached her home.

‘So, Lucy, do your agree?’ he asked, stopping by his car.

‘Yes. But with one proviso … no, two,’ she amended. ‘If your mother calls I will not lie to her—though I will remain silent about you and Damien and refuse any invitation she may make politely and finally.’

‘Excellent.’ Lorenzo smiled cynically. Money never failed. He opened the car door to get the briefcase containing the documents.

Lucy wasn’t finished. ‘But as far as the confidentiality agreement goes—forget it. You will have to take my word. And as for commissioning a painting … wait here a minute.’

And while Lorenzo was hastily extracting himself from the car, with a resounding bump on his proud forehead, Lucy ducked inside the house, locking the door behind her.

She made straight for her studio at the rear of the gallery, ignoring the hammering on the front door. When she found what she was looking for among the stack of paintings she looked at it for a long moment, a sad, reflective smile on her face, before picking it up. About to leave, she hesitated. Finding her sketch of Lorenzo, she took that as well.

If Lucy had learnt anything over the last twelve years it was not to dwell on the past and what might have been but to cut her losses and get on with living. Straightening her shoulders, the painting and the sketch under her arm, she retraced her steps. She opened the door to see Lorenzo bristling with anger, his fist raised and ready to knock again.

‘I had not finished,’ he snapped. ‘Let me make it perfectly clear it is my way or no way and your proviso is not acceptable. The confidentiality agreement is a must, and non-negotiable.’

‘Then forget it. I’m not interested in your seedy idea, and I am finished with you and your family.’ Anger taking over her common sense, Lucy shoved the painting and the sketch at him. ‘Here—take these and your mother won’t need to call.’ He was so surprised he took them. ‘I don’t need them or you any more. I have another partner—an honourable man.’ And she slipped back in the house, slamming and locking the door behind her.

Lorenzo barely registered what she’d said. He was transfixed by the painting. It was of his brother Antonio, and it was stunning. Lucy had captured the very essence of him—the black curling hair, the sparkling eyes and the smile playing around his mouth. He looked so alive, so happy with life. It was uncanny. Lorenzo realised something else. For Lucy—who could only have been a teenager at the time—to have painted this, she must have been half in love with her subject.

Then he turned the sketch over, and stilled. The 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 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.

CHAPTER SIX

LUCY 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?

Lorenzo was right about the factory. It only just about broke even, and after the taxes were paid there was little or no profit. So basically the only income she had was from the gallery, which barely covered the two mortgages she’d have to pay until she sold the house in Dessington. Any delay in selling and she’d very quickly go bust, she knew.

A frustrated sigh escaped her.

‘That was a big sigh, Lucy. Something troubling you?’

She cast Lorenzo, her nemesis, a furious look. Lost in her troubled thoughts, she had not realised his heavy-lidded eyes were narrowed, assessing her much like a spider studied a fly caught in its web, she thought, as he smiled.

‘I suppose you find it amusing, trying to wreck my plans. Excuse me if I do not.’

‘Not trying—I have done,’ he said, draining his coffee and cup and placing it on the occasional table. He straightened up. ‘Fifty five percent of Steadman’s now belongs to me. I can keep it open or shut it down. The decision is mine. As for your aspirations to develop the land adjacent to your old home—that depends on me also. Apparently your friendly lawyer called a town meeting to reassure the people and the workers you and Johnson had agreed not to close the factory. He went on to explain how a new development had been proposed and it was going to be sited in some of the eight acres of garden at your family home, donated very generously by you. That was a big mistake, Lucy.’