Picture of Innocence (10 page)

‘Time for you to leave, Mr Zanelli,’ she said curtly. ‘We have nothing more to discuss and I need to lock up.’ She glanced back at him. ‘I don’t want any more customers
or
uninvited visitors.’

He did not respond—didn’t move. He was towering over her, intimidating her with his presence, and suddenly the hall seemed smaller. Lucy had had enough. ‘Goodnight, and good riddance. Is that plain enough for you?’ she mocked, parroting the words he had said to her the last time she had seen him, and she reached for the handle to open the door again.

But Lorenzo was quicker, and before she could react a strong hand had clamped around her waist and pulled her hard against his body, trapping her arm against her side while the other hand slid beneath the heavy fall of her hair to tug her head back. Deliberately he bent and pressed his mouth against the pulse that beat erratically in her throat, and she felt it like a flame.

‘Don’t,’ she gasped, and pushed against his chest with her hand while his mouth seared up her slender neck. ‘Let go of me, you great brute. I
hate
you,’ she flung at him savagely.

‘No, you don’t.’ His head came up. His eyes were black in his hard, masculine face, and Lucy could not control the slight tremor in her limbs. ‘You want me. But then women like you can’t help themselves,’ he said contemptuously.

She punched his chest with a curled fist, but it was like hitting a brick wall. She lifted her knee and suddenly he whirled her round, making her head spin. Before she could draw breath, let alone find her feet, his head lowered, and she moaned in protest as his mouth came down hard and ruthless against her lips, forcibly parting them, demanding her surrender.

For a moment she made herself stay rigid in his arms, but then her mouth trembled in helpless response and she succumbed to the powerful passion of his kiss. When he finally released her she stumbled back and deliberately wiped her hand across her mouth, but to her shame she could not wipe away so easily the warring sensations inside her.

‘You should not have done that, Mr Zanelli,’ she snapped.

Lorenzo stared down at her, his broad shoulders tense, his face expressionless. ‘Maybe not, but you provoked me—and if I have succeeded in shutting you up long enough to listen it was well worth it. And you can drop the “Mr Zanelli”—you know my name and you have used it too intimately to pretend otherwise. Now, we can go up to your apartment and I’ll tell you why I am here.’

Lucy looked at him warily, silently conceding it
was
a bit childish calling him Mr Zanelli. Her real problem was that she didn’t trust him, but short of throwing him out—which was a physical impossibility—she hadn’t much choice but to listen to what he had to say.

‘And it isn’t what you are thinking,’ he drawled, with a sardonic lift of one ebony brow. Though his body was telling him different …

‘I’ll listen, but not here,’ Lucy conceded. ‘I usually go into town on Saturday evening to eat. You can come with me.’ She wanted Lorenzo out of her home and among other people—simply because her own innate honesty forced her to admit she didn’t trust herself alone with him.

‘My car or yours?’ Lorenzo asked as, after locking up the gallery, they walked out into the front yard that doubled as a car park.

‘Neither.’ Lucy flicked a glance up at him. ‘We can walk down the hill—it is not far.’

Stepping onto the grass verge that ran down the side of the road and Lorenzo joined her, but didn’t look too comfortable when a Jeep whizzed past with a group of four young men on board.

‘Hi, Lucy!’ they all yelled, and waved. Lucy waved back.

‘Friends of yours?’ Lorenzo asked.

‘Yes—students in my weekly art class at the high school. Now, why don’t you start talking? I’m listening.’

Another car went by and tooted its horn, and Lucy waved again.

‘No. I’d prefer to wait until we reach the restaurant,’ Lorenzo said, adding, ‘Less interruptions.’ And more time for him to regain his self-control.

He’d had no idea she taught art—but then he did not really know her except in the biblical sense. And he didn’t want to. Lucy Steadman infuriated him, enraged him and aroused him, and he did not like it—did not like
her.
But he did need her silence, and in his experience the best way to get anything from a woman was to humour her for a while—let her think she was in control.

Lucy hid a smile. He was in for a rude awakening if he was expecting a restaurant.

Lorenzo looked around with interest when they reached the main road. Set in a narrow valley, Looe was very picturesque, with a stone bridge that spanned the tidal river to the other side of town. Lucy led him down the main street that wound its way alongside the harbour and the river to the beach. He couldn’t believe the number of tourists around, or the amount of people
that Lucy knew. Every few yards someone stopped her to say hello.

He wasn’t really surprised. With her long hair flowing over her shoulders, the feather-laden earring fluttering in the breeze and her brilliant smile she looked like some rare exotic butterfly. But there was no mistaking she was a woman, and the pressure in his groin that had plagued him from the minute he set eyes on her was becoming a problem again.

Ten minutes later, sitting on the harbour wall, Lorenzo glanced warily down at the box Lucy handed him, and then at her.

‘I got you pizza because you’re Italian. The fish and chip shop sells all sorts,’ she said, opening the carton containing her fish and chips.

‘Thanks.’ Lorenzo opened the box. ‘I think … ‘ he drawled, eyeing what passed for a pizza in an English holiday town with some trepidation. He didn’t want to know what the assorted toppings and cheeses were, but it was nothing like any pizza
he
had ever seen.

‘I am ready to listen, so fire away,’ Lucy said, shooting Lorenzo a sidelong glance, secretly amused. He was eyeing the pizza as if it was going to jump up and bite him, not the other way around. How were the mighty fallen … He must want something from her pretty badly to lower himself to sitting on a harbour wall and eating a takeaway pizza.

‘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.