Читать книгу Mediterranean Tycoons - JACQUELINE BAIRD, Jacqueline Baird - Страница 56

LORENZO guided the car through the gates and up the drive, a smile on his face. Lucy had married him in the cathedral in Verona on a fine October day—a vision in white and a picture he would carry in his mind for ever. And eight months later their son Antonio had been born—conceived, Lucy was sure, on the night he’d proposed to her. Lorenzo had his doubts, but didn’t argue with his wife. She had filled his life with laughter and love, and she collected friends as other people collected stamps. Last week had been Antonio’s first birthday, and they had thrown a party for their friends, and his little friends and their families, with a funfair set up in the garden.

Today was Lorenzo’s birthday. He had spent the last four days in New York and could not wait to get home and get Lucy alone. He loved his family, but sometimes a man just needed his wife—and he was hard with anticipation. He had it all planned. He was going to surprise Lucy and fly her to Venice, take her to the Hotel Cipriani, where he had booked a suite for the night. They could share an intimate dinner … just the two of them.

* * *

Lucy combed Antonio’s soft black hair. He had woken from his afternoon nap an hour ago, and was now dressed and ready for the party. She kissed his cheek and handed him to the nanny to take downstairs. She had not wanted a nanny but Lorenzo had insisted, saying if she wanted to continue with her art it made sense.

He was right. He had arranged for one of the tower rooms to be converted into a studio for her, but she still had the gallery and visited regularly and showed her work there. Elaine now ran it, with Miss Carr the temp—who, having gone full-time, had ended up marrying the woodcarver in residence, confirmed bachelor Leon. In fact all four of them were here now, and downstairs with Anna.

Lucy walked along to the master suite and quickly showered and dressed. Sometimes she had to pinch herself to believe how lucky she was. Lorenzo had made her the happiest woman in the world. She knew he loved her—he showed it in myriad ways—and he had given her a wonderful son she worshipped and adored. He was a great father. How she had ever thought he was staid and boring was inconceivable to her now.

When they’d married he had asked her where she wanted to live, saying he would buy or build her a house anywhere she chose. She’d chosen to live in the house by the lake with his mother. He’d been surprised, but had agreed. They stayed at the villa in Santa Margherita a lot of weekends, and already he was trying to teach Antonio to sail on a specially built boat in the swimming pool. She’d told him he was crazy—the baby had only just learnt to walk—but he’d just laughed and made love to her by the pool.

He still worked hard, and commuted to Verona daily. Sometimes he drove, but he had a new toy—a helicopter which he piloted himself. Tonight he was driving home, thank heaven, otherwise he would be back too soon and ruin her surprise.

Three months ago he had surprised her. They had gone to Dessington for the grand opening of the new development, and she had discovered he had bought her old home. She had auctioned it off and converted it into a hotel with James Morgan. Not an ordinary hotel, but a centre where cancer sufferers and their families could have a holiday. Lorenzo knew her mum had died of cancer, and James had done it for Samantha.

They two were arriving any minute, with their son Thomas, and with one last look at her reflection in the mirror Lucy dashed downstairs just in time to welcome them.

Lorenzo stopped the car under the portico, leapt out and dashed into the house—and stopped dead. A huge banner was strung around the balcony, with ‘Happy Fortieth Birthday’ written on it, and the hall was full of people. His dark eyes went unerringly to Lucy.

She was walking towards him, a brilliant smile on her face, her eyes sparkling with love and laughter. The gown she wore should have been censored, was his second thought. His first was wow … A shimmering gold, the dress had a halter-neck and no back, he noted, as she turned for a second to speak to someone, and the bodice plunged between her breasts—slightly larger now, since she had breastfed their son. It nipped in at her tiny waist, then fell smoothly over hips to her feet. And he was in danger of embarrassing himself—but then Lucy always had that effect on him.

She reached up and looped her arms around his neck. ‘Surprise, surprise—happy birthday, Lorenzo darling.’

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her as the crowd started cheering. ‘You will pay for this,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘I had plans for an intimate dinner for two in Venice. We have to communicate better—starting now.’

And then Antonio came, hurtling to his feet, and he picked his son up and spun him around, and kissed his mother on the cheek. Then he was shaking hands and greeting people, but he put a hand around Lucy’s waist and kept her by his side as he made for the stairs, telling Gianni and various others that he needed to get changed. And huskily telling Lucy she was going to help him.

‘Lorenzo, we can’t,’ Lucy said, eyeing him with loving amusement as he shed his suit and shirt, dropping them on the bed room floor as usual.

Wearing only boxers, he caught her to him. ‘Yes, we can, Lucy. I love you more and more each day. You have given me a wonderful son and you have made me the happiest man in the world. But it has been four days, and right now I ache to be inside you.’ And gathering her close, a hand curving around her nape, he kissed her long and deep, his fingers deftly loosening the haltertop.

Lucy closed her eyes. He was right. She could feel the passion, the desire vibrating between them, and when he slipped her dress down to pool at her feet and carried her to the bed she wanted him with a hunger that could not be denied. She always did and always would.

Later, she slipped off the bed and told Lorenzo to wait. She crossed to the dressing room and, taking the parcel she had hidden there, returned to the bed. ‘Happy birthday,’ she said, and handed him her gift.

Grinning, he ripped off the paper—and stopped, his dark eyes fixed on the painting. He stared for so long in silence, she began to worry.

‘I thought it was time there was a portrait of you above the fireplace in the lounge, and your father’s was relegated to the hall,’ she said. ‘But if it’s not good enough.’

He turned his head, and she saw the moisture in his eyes. ‘Good enough? It is magnificent—the best gift, after our son, you could possibly give me. The days. the hours you must have spent … I am humbled and flattered that you see me so well.’ And, slipping the painting gently to the floor, he reached for her.

Lorenzo Zanelli’s surprise fortieth birthday party was talked about for months afterwards in the homes of Verona—mainly because it had taken him three hours to get changed for the party, particularly as his wife was helping him!