Picture of Innocence (17 page)

It was another sunny afternoon, with a slight breeze
rustling the trees, and she wandered down the garden until the noise from the house faded away. Finally she stopped on one of the terraces. A circular fountain stood there, with water cascading down from a fifteen-feet-high centrepiece into a big pool, where koi carp in various shades of gold and yellow were swimming lazily around.

She sat down on a seat conveniently placed, and taking the comb from her pocket pulled it through her hair. It was half dry already. With a sigh she closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sun. Bliss, she told herself. Just one more day and then no more Lorenzo. She would have her life back. But the pain in her heart told her she lied.

‘Lucy—I have been looking all over for you.’

For a second she thought she had conjured his voice up in her mind, then her eyes flew open. Lorenzo was standing a foot away, his dark gaze fixed on her face.

‘What are you doing out here?’

‘Nothing,’ she muttered. He was wearing a suit, but his jacket and tie were loose, his black hair dishevelled, and he was looking grimly at her, as if she had committed a cardinal sin. Even so she felt herself tense in instinctive awareness of the magnetic attraction of his big body. ‘I didn’t realise I had to ask permission,’ she said sarcastically, to hide her involuntary reaction to him.

‘You don’t. But I rang before lunch and spoke to my mother. She told me you were sick and you saw her doctor—are you all right?’

‘You are a day late. That was yesterday, and I am fine.’

His apparent concern was too little, too late, and she wasn’t fooled by it for a second. It was over. He had
made that plain on Monday and they both recognised it—which was why she had not seen him since.

‘I guess she told you I think it was the wine and the food. Sorry about that. But, hey—look on the bright side, Lorenzo. She must think I am the guest from hell, accusing her of poisoning me. She will
never
invite me back.’

He didn’t so much as crack a smile. If anything, he looked even grimmer.

‘No, she hinted you might be pregnant. Very clever, Lucy, but no way will you catch me in
that
trap.’ His lips twisted in a sneer. ‘If you are pregnant try your last partner—because it has nothing to do with me. I was meticulous with contraception, as you well know,
cara.’

Only Lorenzo could make an endearment sound like an insult, Lucy thought sourly. If she had ever had the slightest glimmer of hope that he might care for her it was snuffed out in that moment.

Flushed and angry now, she rose to her feet. Tilting back her head, she let her green eyes mock him. ‘I’m not pregnant, but thank you for that. It confirmed my sketch of you was spot-on.’

She turned to leave, but he caught her wrist.

His dark eyes flicked over her, from the striking mass of her hair to her pink lips and the curve of her breasts, making her wince at the mixture of contempt and desire she saw in his eyes as they finally met hers.

‘This changes nothing. You will behave yourself tonight, stay silent on your brother and the accident, and I will put you on the plane myself tomorrow—is that understood?’

‘Yes. Message well and truly received,’ she said bitterly, and all the anger and resentment she had bottled
up for so long came pouring out. ‘For your information, I loved my brother, and I believe he did his best on that mountain—unlike you, who would believe the worst of anyone without a second thought. Antonio said you were a ruthless bastard admiringly, almost with pride, but I bet he never realised you actually are. You hate my brother because of the accident. But Damien did what the experts and the coroner all agreed was the correct thing to do in the circumstances. He cut the rope to go and get help for Antonio and he succeeded. The fact that rescue was too late was nobody’s fault—just fate.’

She paused for a moment, remembering. ‘But that was not good enough for
you.
With your arrogance and superior intellect you decided they were all wrong. And you couldn’t resist taking a bit of revenge out on me, because I’m Damien’s sister.’ She shook her head in disgust, her hair flying wildly around her shoulders. ‘The irony of it is, if I was the one hanging over a cliff tied to you I’d bet my last cent you would cut the rope without hesitation. You make me
sick,’
she said contemptuously.

Lorenzo reached out and, catching her shoulders, jerked her forward, crushing her against him. Ruthlessly his mouth ground down on hers, and he kissed her with an angry passion that had nothing to do with love—only dominance. She struggled to push him away, but her hands were trapped between their bodies. And to her self-disgust even now she could sense herself weakening, responding. In a desperate effort of self-preservation she kicked out with her foot and caught his shinbone, and suddenly she was free.

If she had hurt him Lucy was glad. He deserved a hell of a lot more than a kick in the shin for what he had done to her.

‘You are coming with me,’ he said and, catching her
wrist, pulled her forward. ‘As for cutting the rope—I would never tie myself to
you
in the first place,’ he said scathingly, his eyes deadly. ‘Cutting the rope is not why I despise your brother. It is because I have proof that he could have saved Antonio and chose not to.’

Lucy drew in a sharp breath. ‘That is a horrible thing to say and I don’t believe you,’ she lashed back at him. ‘Maybe it is your own guilty conscience looking for a scapegoat. According to Antonio you spent most of your time in America with a string of different women and he rarely saw you.’

‘That’s it,’ he snarled. ‘I will show you the evidence and that will be the end.’ And he almost frogmarched her back to the house.

Oblivious to the surprised looks from the dozens of people in the hall, he marched her to the rear of the house, pushed open a door, and led her into the study.

‘Sit,’ he instructed, and shoved her onto a well-worn black leather sofa. He walked over to a large desk and, opening a drawer, withdrew something, then walked back to stand towering over her.

‘You need proof of what an apology for a man your brother was?’ He flung a handful of photographs down on the low table in front of her. ‘These are pictures taken on the day of the so-called accident that killed Antonio. Look at them.’

He leant over and spread them out in front of her. The first he pointed to was of Antonio and Damien, their faces almost as red as the jackets they wore, laughing. Moisture glazed Lucy’s eyes as she stared at the picture. They both looked so young, so vibrant, so full of life—and now they were both dead.

‘That is the pair of them arriving at the base camp to
prepare for the climb the next morning. Note the date and time on all of them.’

Lucy didn’t see the point. The date of the accident was imprinted on her mind for all time. But she did as he said. Three more were general shots the same day, and within the same hour. Only the fifth—a landscape shot—was of the following day, at two in the afternoon.

‘So they look happy?’ She brushed a tear from her eye. ‘What am I supposed to see?’

‘See the small figure in red on the landscape shot that is your brother. These photographs were given to me by a friend, Manuel, who is an expert climber. Damien and Antonio were not at his level, but were experienced climbers. They joined the climbing club together at university, climbed regularly in Britain, in the Alps, and on other continents when they toured the world.’ He looked down at her, his black eyes blazing with anger. ‘According to Manuel, from the position of your brother on the mountain at that time any reasonably experienced climber could have made it to the base camp in three hours—four at the very most. But it was dark when your brother called the rescue service—
seven hours
after that photograph was taken—too dark to start the search. A complete novice could have got down faster. He let Antonio die.’

Lucy looked up at him. For a second she thought she saw a glimmer of anguish in his eyes, and then it was gone, and he was watching her, waiting, supremely confident in his belief, his dark gaze challenging her to deny the evidence he was presenting her with.

Should she bother? Lucy asked herself. She knew Lorenzo. When he made up his mind about something nothing changed it. He was always right. He had decided
she was a promiscuous woman the first time she went to bed with him for no other reason than that she had … He looked at a few photographs and decided they were proof her brother was a murderer, though he had not used that term.

‘You really believe that?’ Lucy said quietly.

‘Yes—the proof is in front of you. Antonio is dead. I lost a brother, and Damien cost my mother her son and devastated her life.’

Lucy’s eyes widened. She’d been devastated at Antonio’s death, maybe, but Anna still had Lorenzo—her life was hardly over. And she was fed up with being the bad guy—or girl, in her case.

‘It didn’t do a lot for my life, either, or I would not be sitting here listening to this,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I have finally realised everything is black and white with you, Lorenzo. Good or bad—no in between. You are always right. Does it ever occur to you not everyone is as strong as you are? Perhaps after hanging onto Antonio for over an hour Damien was weak? Perhaps he passed out and didn’t remember? Or maybe the clock was wrong? ‘ she ended facetiously.

‘No, there can be no other explanation, Lucy. The evidence is all there in the coroner’s report. Your brother said he thought it had taken him four hours to reach the camp, not seven. The coroner’s report states Antonio had died not of his injuries but of hypothermia, after spending the night on the mountain, only one or two hours before he was found. He could have lived if it wasn’t for your damned brother. So now you have seen the proof, and now you know why Steadman is a dirty word to me.’

Lucy thought of arguing and looked at him. His face was set hard and she shivered. What was the point?
Lorenzo was a strong man—not the type to accept weakness in others.

‘Have you nothing to say?’ he asked, his dark gaze resting on her.

‘Thank you for showing me the photos.’ She stood up. ‘Can I go now?’

Lorenzo watched her. Damn it, she looked like a schoolgirl in her flat shoes—but he knew she wasn’t. Her head was slightly bowed, her beautiful face pale, her expressive eyes guarded. Her hair was falling in a tangle of waves around her shoulders, and she was wearing denim jeans and a soft blue sweater that clung to her every curve. He felt his body stir, and he hated himself and her for his weakness. With a supreme effort of will he forced himself to relax. It was almost over. After tonight he would be free of Lucy and would never have to see her again. So why was he not relieved?

His mouth hardened along with his resolve. ‘Yes, go,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll see you in the hall at seven—and wear something appropriate. The black you wore the other night will do.’ And, picking up the photos, he strolled over to the desk and returned them to the drawer.

What did he think she would do? Lucy wondered. Turn up in a pair of shorts and a shirt? For a second she was tempted, but quickly dismissed the idea and walked out of the study. She owed it to herself not to disgrace the Steadman name.

Contrary to what Lorenzo seemed to think, she had been well brought up. She had attended a prestigious boarding school and art college. Her family had been reasonably wealthy by any standards, and their home—while not as spectacular as this—lovely. Not overflowing with staff, but there had been a housekeeper who’d arrived at eight every morning and left at four.
Her husband had been the gardener, and the acres of grounds had been well tended. When her parents had entertained extra staff had been hired. Her mother had been a beautiful, loving and elegant lady, whom everyone had adored—especially Lucy. But everything had changed after her mother died.

No, she wasn’t going to dwell in the past—she had done too much of that already. And, flicking her wayward hair back, she ran up the stairs to her room.

Lucy stopped at the top of the stairs and drew in a long, steadying breath. The huge hall looked more like a ballroom, with exquisite floral arrangements and a small raised platform at one side, where a quartet were arranging their music. Already quite a few guests had arrived, the men all wearing tuxedos and the woman glamorous in designer gowns, some short, some long, and all probably costing a fortune.

Suddenly Lucy was really glad that she had at the last minute packed the dress the Contessa had given her. It was perfectly appropriate for this sophisticated party. And no way was she wearing the black dress Lorenzo had suggested. After this afternoon, she was never doing anything he said again.

The dress was by an Italian designer, and a classic mini from the nineteen-sixties. Not too short, ending two inches above her knees, it had a curved neckline that revealed the upper swell of her breasts and skimmed perfectly over her hips and thighs. But it was the fabric that made it sensational—a fine silk jersey almost completely covered in white sequins from neck to hem, except for the dazzling psychedelic pattern of silver sequins down the front. On her feet she wore high-heeled sequined shoes.

Lucy made it down the stairs without stumbling, and heaved a sigh of relief when she got to the bottom safely and glanced around. Lorenzo was walking towards her, his dark eyes blazing. Whether he was angry or something else, she didn’t know. She had seen him conservatively and casually dressed, but wearing a black tuxedo, a white dress shirt and bow-tie he looked more stunningly attractive than any man had a right to, she thought helplessly, unable to take her eyes off him.

‘You are late,’ Lorenzo said.

He had watched Lucy walk down the stairs, a shimmering vision in white and silver, and she took his breath away. Her hair was swept up into a swirl on top of her head, with a few long tendrils left to fall down the back of her neck and either side of her face. She was wearing make-up, understated but perfect, and her big green eyes fringed with thick curling lashes looked even larger somehow. Her lips were a glossy deep pink that made him want to taste them—taste her.
No, not any more,
he reminded himself.