‘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.’