Читать книгу Mediterranean Tycoons - JACQUELINE BAIRD, Jacqueline Baird - Страница 54

FOR some reason Lucy hadn’t been able to enjoy her lunch—in fact she’d hardly eaten anything. The doctor, noticing, had mentioned that Anna had told him Lucy had been sick that morning and enquired if she still felt unwell.

Unthinkingly Lucy had told him she thought it was the red wine, because she didn’t usually drink, and then added that she was not used to eating such rich food so late.

The doctor had agreed that might be true, but then mentioned the possibilities of gastro enteritis or food poisoning. Anna had looked mortified, and that was why Lucy was now lying on her bed, having submitted to numerous tests.

Lucy liked the elderly man, and at his enquiries had told the doctor about her medical history—including an operation she had undergone a few years earlier, which was one of the reasons she was careful what she ate and rarely drank, and probably why wine affected her so quickly. He had nodded his head and agreed with her.

Her lips twitched and parted in a grin, and she chuckled—then laughed out loud. She was the guest from hell … who had unwittingly implied her hostess had poisoned her. At least Lorenzo would be happy, because when Lucy left there was not the slightest fear of Anna wanting her to visit again.

On the contrary, Anna appeared to be quite happy when Lucy went back downstairs. Dinner was arranged for seven in Anna’s favourite garden room at the side of the house, where a small table was set for the two of them. The meal was light and delicious, and Anna confessed she usually ate there, only using the formal dining room when Lorenzo was home—which Lucy gathered was not very often.

Wednesday was chaotic. The huge house was a hive of activity as caterers, florists and extra staff bustled around the place.

The doctor came early—he was staying the night—and after lunch, when Anna had retired to her room to rest, told Lucy her blood tests were clear. It was probably, as she’d thought, the wine—or maybe the stress of visiting Lorenzo’s home and mother. He remembered when he’d met his late wife’s parents for the first time he’d been sick with nerves before he even got to their house.

Lucy tried to laugh, thanked him, and followed Anna upstairs.

She had a leisurely soak in the huge bath before washing her hair, and then, not feeling in the least tired, decided to go out into the garden and let her hair dry naturally in the fresh air, as she did at home. She pulled on jeans and a light blue sweater and, slipping her feet into soft ballet shoes, she stuck a comb in her pocket and left the house. There were so many people running around she would not be missed.

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.

‘Sorry,’ Lucy murmured, and raised her eyes to his. She saw the desire, the hunger he could not disguise, and knew hers were conveying the same emotion. She caught the hint of regret before the shutters came down and Lorenzo spoke.

‘Very eye-catching dress, but what happened to the black I suggested? ‘ he demanded, and offered her his arm.

Consigned to the bin, along with all her foolish hopes, Lucy thought bitterly, and took his arm, thankful that tonight was the last act of this ridiculous drama.

They joined his mother, Anna hugged and kissed her, and Lucy lost count of the number of people she was introduced to. Teresa Lanza almost squeezed the air out of her and most of the other guests seemed very pleasant.

Then suddenly there was a hush, and Lucy watched as a stunning, tall and dark-haired woman in red on the arm of a much younger man made an entrance, pausing and looking haughtily around for a second or two.

Lucy felt Lorenzo tense beside her, and caught the slight frown on Anna’s face as the couple walked over.

Anna introduced the pair of them to Lucy. ‘Signora Olivia Paglia and her son Paolo.’

With the briefest of acknowledgments in her direction, Olivia wrapped her arms around Lorenzo’s neck and kissed him on both cheeks. It would have been his mouth if he had not moved his head, Lucy thought, her gaze flickering between the two of them as the woman began speaking.

She gathered from her limited understanding of Italian that Olivia was reminding him of his friend, and how much her poor disabled Fedrico would have loved to be here. It was not possible any more, and it was hard for her on her own, but how grateful she was for Lorenzo’s support.

Was Lorenzo really that clueless about what Olivia was doing? Lucy wondered. The only person Olivia was interested in was Lorenzo. It was blindingly obvious. She was playing on his sympathy for his friend with the hope of moving on to him. Or maybe she already had, if the rumoured affair the Contessa had told her of was to be believed. Well, they looked about the same age, and they obviously knew each other very well—they certainly had plenty to say to each other.

As if she wasn’t hurting enough already, another thought struck her. Maybe the reason for Lorenzo insisting she meet his mother and play the lover had nothing to do with his fear of Anna contacting her but was a deliberate ploy to use Lucy as a smokescreen to deflect talk of his affair with his friend’s wife. She wouldn’t put anything past him, and it would explain why except for one lapse he wanted nothing to do with Lucy now she was in Italy.

She glanced at Anna, who was greeting someone else, and then back at Lorenzo and Olivia, who were still talking. She moved to one side, totally disgusted. Then she caught sight of the latest arrival, and a genuine smile slowly curved her lips as she walked forward to meet her.

‘Contessa,’ she said, and was greeted with a delighted laugh.

‘Lucy!’ The Contessa put her arms around her and kissed her on both cheeks, then stepped back. ‘Let me look at you.’

Grinning, Lucy gave a twirl. ‘What do you think? Does it suit me?’

‘Perfectly—as I knew it would. You look lovely and it brings back so many happy memories for me. I was nineteen, and wore it the night I first met my husband. Now,’ she said, taking Lucy’s arm, ‘come and show me this painting I’ve heard about.’

Lucy was happy and relieved to go along with the Contessa. ‘It is on an easel in the lounge, I believe.’ Arm in arm, they started to walk.

‘Good—and later you can tell me what on earth you are doing with Lorenzo Zanelli. He is far too serious for you—though to be fair there is no doubting he is a very attractive man, and definitely all male. But be warned—he is the type of man a woman can enjoy making love with, but to talk with, to really know—never. He has too much pride and passion in his work. Everything else is on the periphery of his life, especially his women—and there must have been a few.’

‘I guess so,’ Lucy said. ‘But I am not doing anything with him. I am going home tomorrow,’ she stated as they approached the double doors. And if the Contessa noticed the hint of bitterness in her tone she did not remark on it.

Before they could walk through into the lounge, Lorenzo appeared.

‘Contessa … ‘ He spoke to her in Italian.

But she answered in English, with a mischievous glance at Lucy. ‘No need to apologise, Lorenzo, for not greeting me on arrival. I could see you were occupied with Signora Paglia, and Lucy more than made up for your lapse.’ As a put-down it was brilliant and she smiled at Lucy, her sparkling eyes brimming with merriment. ‘Lucy is going to show me her latest work of art—shall we, dear?’

Lorenzo stood frozen to the spot and watched as the two petite women—one old, one young—both beauties, walked into the lounge, the sound of their laughter floating back to him. He had never been so elegantly dismissed in his life.

He was about to follow them when Olivia caught his arm again.

‘Lorenzo, you never told me your little friend was an artist and had painted a portrait of your brother—how sweet. And she looks very sweet in that vintage dress. But secondhand clothes have never appealed to me—I prefer new.’

He looked at the tall brunette hanging on his arm. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Didn’t you know? The Contessa gave Lucy the dress she is wearing. Teresa Lanza overheard them talking, and apparently the Contessa wore it the first time she met her husband. Heaven knows how many years ago that was, but at least it saved you having to buy one for your mother’s little protégée. She probably had nothing suitable for an occasion like this.’

Olivia really was a bitch, Lorenzo finally realised, and from now on Fedrico was going to have to look after his own business affairs. Disabled or not, there was nothing wrong with the man’s brain.

Shrugging off her arm, he said, ‘Excuse me,’ and strode into the lounge.

He spotted Lucy with the Contessa, sitting on a sofa with a group of people standing around them. Lucy was laughing at something young Paolo Paglia had said. Lorenzo took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and walked over to the group.

‘Champagne, Lucy?’

Lucy heard Lorenzo’s voice, though she had not seen him approach, and her smile dimmed as she looked up at him and took the glass he offered. If his interest in her had been genuine, and he’d seen her as more than just a body in his bed, he might have noticed she never drank the stuff.

She listened as he effortlessly joined the conversation. But his very presence so close was affecting her hard-won poise—and it was getting worse.

For a man who could hardly wait to get rid of her, and was prepared to pay to do so, he had an odd way of showing it, Lucy thought two hours later. Lorenzo had insisted on sticking with the Contessa and Lucy. He had totally charmed the Contessa, and kept touching Lucy—her arm, her waist. She knew it was just for show, but by the time he escorted them to the buffet laid out in the dining room she was beginning to wonder.

The Contessa left after the buffet, and the band began to play.

Lorenzo led Lucy on to the dance floor and took her in his arms. For a moment it was like the first time they’d danced together—a perfect fit. Held close against his long body, Lucy stopped wondering, and her soft heart began to hope.

Then Lorenzo burst her bubble by speaking.

‘Did you hope to insult me by wearing the gown the Contessa gave you?’

It was like a douche of ice water over her head.

‘Did I succeed?’ Lucy asked, stiffening in his arms.

His dark eyes clashed with hers, something moving in the inky depths. ‘Not really—it looks beautiful. But if you wanted a new dress you had only to ask. I would have bought you as many as you like.’

‘I think you have paid quite enough already to get me here,’ she said. ‘As have I. And isn’t it time you mingled with your other guests?’

‘You are right,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe I have been a little neglectful.’ And he led her off the dance floor and through into the lounge, where Anna sat with a few friends.

‘Watch what you say,’ Lorenzo murmured as he led her over and she sat down beside Anna on the sofa.

The doctor made way for her with a smile and, perching on the cushioned arm. Lorenzo said a few words to the small group which made them smile.

Lucy managed not to flinch as he finally glanced down at her and she recognised the familiar ruthlessness in the tight line of his mouth.

‘I’ll see you later, cara.’

The indifference in his eyes chilled her to the bone. She watched as he walked back into the hall and saw he was quickly surrounded by a crowd of sophisticated friends, all laughing and talking—including Olivia Paglia, competing with the rest for Lorenzo’s attention. She looked as if she was winning.

Lucy turned her head away and, pinning a smile on her face, listened as Anna introduced her to Luigi, a small dark man, obviously Italian, but whose English was faultless—as was almost everyone’s here, she thought. But then at this level of society that was probably to be expected.

‘My congratulations, Lucy. Your portrait of Antonio is amazing—especially for someone so young,’ said Luigi.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled, and when he said he was an art historian the conversation flowed.

For the remainder of the evening Lucy stayed where she was, only moving after Luigi rose to take his leave, kissing both Lucy and Anna goodnight. Then Anna excused herself, as it was nearly midnight and time for her to retire. The rest of the group stood up.

Anna kissed Lucy on the cheek. ‘It was good of you, my dear, to spend so much time with us oldies. Now, come—I will find that formidable son of mine and tell him he has played host long enough. I will say goodnight, then you two can enjoy yourselves.’

Lucy didn’t think so, but she had no choice but to follow Anna into the grand hall. Lorenzo’s dark head bent towards his mother as they said goodnight and then Anna moved towards the stairs.

Lucy was left standing like a lemon, wishing she was anywhere else but here. She could feel Lorenzo looking down at her, and reluctantly glanced up.

‘Are you enjoying the party, Lucy?’ he asked, but his eyes were still dark pools, no glimmer of interest in their depths. ‘You seem to have been a big hit with everyone—especially Luigi … a good man to know in your line of work.’

Then just behind her she heard a young man’s voice.

‘At last the lovely Lucy has joined the dance.’

She felt an arm slip around her waist, and quickly pulled away. Another arm wrapped around her—this time Lorenzo’s—and she heard the laughter of the people around, and a mocking, ‘Well held, Lorenzo.’

‘Careful, cara.’ He smiled. ‘Paolo is only a boy.’

But there was no amusement in the dark eyes staring coldly down into hers.

‘I can see that,’ said Lucy, her cheeks burning and her green eyes sparkling up at him ‘Excuse me a moment.’

She spun out of Lorenzo’s grasp and swiftly moved through the crowd, making her way upstairs without a backward glance. She had been ignored, laughed at and mocked, and she had finally had enough of the injustice of it all.

Kicking off her shoes, she picked them up and made her way to the bathroom. She stripped off her clothes and washed her face and unpinned her hair. Then, wrapping a towel around her body, she crossed to the dressing room and found her suitcase. She began to pack.

Carefully she wrapped the dress she had worn for the party in tissue. It was a beautiful gift from a lovely lady, though Lucy doubted she would ever wear it again. She left out jeans and a sweater to wear when she left. She wanted nothing and no one to delay her departure, and if she didn’t meet the usual designer-clad elegant standard of the ladies Lorenzo usually transported in his private jet, she didn’t give a damn!

She walked back into the bedroom and, switching on the bedside light clicked off the main one. Dropping the towel, she climbed wearily onto the big bed. She pulled the satin and lace cover over her and laid her head down on the plump pillows. It was comfortable, and she heaved a deep, heartfelt sigh. This time tomorrow she would be at home in her own bed, all her problems solved, financially solvent, and free …

She should be ecstatic, so why did she feel so hurt, so defeated? She knew the answer. After Lorenzo’s outburst this afternoon she had recognised at last the implacability of his contempt for her. Was it possible to desire someone and hate them at the same time? Yes, she thought bitterly. Lorenzo could.

From the very beginning when she had felt they’d made love Lorenzo had felt … nothing … She moved her hand slowly over her naked body, remembering. Not strictly true. She thought of the dark desire, the passion in his black eyes, the need he could not hide when buried deep inside her.

Then she remembered his comment on Monday night. The only time his brain stopped working and planning was in a moment of intense sexual relief … The only time he stopped despising her … And then she knew she didn’t care what proof he thought he had. She had suffered enough pain to last a lifetime because of him.

Her eyes filled with moisture; in a house full of people she had never felt so alone in her life.

Turning, she buried her face in the pillow and gave way to grief for all those she had loved and lost, letting the tears fall. For her mother, her father, her brother—but most of all for the love she had never had and never would have from Lorenzo.