Mediterranean Tycoons: Untamed & Unleashed. Jacqueline Baird

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—