Picture of Innocence. Jacqueline Baird
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sense, but his face was fascinating. There was strength in his bold features—a powerful character that was undeniable—and the subtle hint of sensuality about his mouth intrigued her. Her gaze lingered on the perfectly chiselled lips, the bottom fuller than the top, and she found herself imagining what his kiss would taste like … sensuous and beguiling. A tiny shudder vibrated through her body and, shocked by her physical response to an uncharacteristic flight of fantasy, she swiftly raised her eyes and ignored her strange reaction to a man she had every reason to dislike.
Lucy excused her totally unprecedented lapse with the wry thought that Lorenzo Zanelli was the sort of man to make anyone look twice. In fact she would like to paint a portrait of him, she mused, slipping back in to her professional comfort zone.
‘Miss Steadman, I know why you are here.’
His deep, slightly accented voice cut into her reverie, and she blinked just in time to see his dark eyes flick disdainfully over her. She felt the colour rise in her cheeks with embarrassment at having been caught staring. ‘You do?’ she murmured inanely. Of course he did—she had written to him.
Her original reason for this trip to Italy was to personally deliver a portrait she had painted of an Italian countess’s recently departed husband. The lady had commissioned the painting after walking into Lucy’s art and craft gallery with the friend she’d been visiting in England. Lucy had received via the post dozens of photographs of the man, and she had been thrilled that her work was finally going to get some recognition beyond the local scene.
Not that she was seeking fame—realistically, in today’s world where a pickled sheep or an unmade-bed made millions—she knew she was never going to get it, but it was nice to feel appreciated for what she did excel at. She had a natural gift for catching the likeness and character of any subject, be it a stuffed dog—her first ever commission!—or a person. Her paintings in oils—full-figure or portrait, large canvas or miniature—were good, even if she did say so herself.
She had confirmed her trip to Verona with the Countess when she had finally managed to get an appointment with Signor Zanelli. After a phone call that had got her nowhere she had written to the Zanelli Bank, asking for its support in staving off the forced buy-out of Steadman Industrial Plastics by Richard Johnson, one of the largest shareholders in her family’s firm. She had received a short letter back from some manager, stating that the bank did not discuss its policy on individual investments.
She had very reluctantly, as a last resort, written another letter and marked it ‘Personal and Private', addressing it to Lorenzo Zanelli himself. From all she had heard about the man she had formed the opinion he was a typical super-rich alpha male, totally insensitive to other people and with the arrogant conviction that he was always right. He never changed his mind, not even when a formal inquest said otherwise, and she disliked him intensely.
Lorenzo Zanelli had been horrible to Damien after the inquest into the mountaineering accident that had caused Antonio’s death, accosting him outside the courthouse and telling him coldly that while legally he might have been found innocent of any fault as far as he was concerned Damien was as guilty as hell, and might as well have cut Antonio’s throat instead of the rope. Her brother, devastated by the loss of his friend, had felt badly enough as it was. Lorenzo Zanelli had made him feel a hundred times worse and he had never really recovered.
As far as Lucy was aware there had been no contact between the two families since, and it had come as a shock to her to discover after Damien’s death the Zanelli bank was a third silent partner in her family firm. Lorenzo Zanelli was the last man she wanted to ask for a favour but she had no choice. Trying to be positive, she’d told herself maybe she was wrong about Lorenzo—maybe it had been his grief at losing his brother that had made him say horrible things to Damien, and with the passage of time he would have a much more balanced view.
So Lucy had swallowed her pride and written to him, blatantly mentioning her family’s friendship with his brother Antonio. She had informed him she was visiting Verona for a day or two, and had almost begged for a few minutes of the man’s time before finally being granted an appointment today.
The continuation of Steadman Industrial Plastics as a family firm was dependent on Lucy persuading Zanelli to agree with her point of view. Not that she had any family left, but to the residents of the small town of Dessington in Norfolk, where she’d been born and had grown up, Steadman’s was the main employer, and even though she had not lived there since graduating from college she did still visit occasionally, and she did have a social conscience—which she knew Richard Johnson did not.
She was pinning her hopes on Signor Zanelli. But now, after what she had heard about him and being faced with the man in person, she was having serious doubts.
She had arrived in Verona at ten this morning—well, not exactly in Verona. The budget airline she had travelled with had landed at an a airport almost two hours away. She’d just had time to book into her hotel and get here on time, and her flight back was tomorrow evening at eight. On her arrival at his office the great man’s secretary had taken her name, made a phone call, and then told her in perfect English that Signor Zanelli was going to be delayed. She had asked her if she would like to reschedule the appointment and, flicking through a diary, had suggested three days’ time.
Lucy had countered with a request for the next morning, sacrificing her plan to explore the town and the famed arena. Her appointment with the Contessa was in the afternoon. The secretary had told her it was not possible, but she could wait if she liked. She had had no choice but to agree.
‘Miss Steadman?’
He repeated her name and, startled out of her wandering thoughts, she glanced up at him, green eyes clashing with brown. The arch look he gave her was all male arrogance.
‘You’re a determined little thing, I’ll give you that,’ he drawled and, turning to his secretary, said something in Italian that sounded like ‘ten minutes—then call’ before throwing over his shoulder, ‘Come, Miss Steadman. This will not take much time.’
Lucy bit back the response that sprang to mind. It had already taken a heck of a lot of her time. Pausing for a moment, she tried to smooth the creased black linen skirt she wore—a pointless exercise—and watched the broad back of the man as he disappeared into his inner sanctum, the door swinging closed behind him. He might be strikingly attractive, but he was certainly no gentleman, and her nerves tightened a notch.
‘You’d better go in now,’ the secretary said. ‘Signor Zanelli does not like to be kept waiting.’
Given how long she had been waiting—her appointment had been for two and it was now after three—Zanelli had some nerve, she thought, her temper rising. Dismissing the odd effect he had on her own nerve, she squared her shoulders and, taking a few deep breaths, walked across the room and into the man’s office.
He was standing behind a large antique desk, talking rapidly into a telephone which he put down when he saw her.
‘Take a seat.’ He indicated a chair in front of the desk as he sank into a big black leather one behind it. ‘Then say what you have to say, and make it quick—my time is valuable.’
He had not waited for her to sit down. In fact he was well on the way to being the rudest man she had ever met, and she had been right to dislike him sight unseen, Lucy decided, her green eyes sparking angrily.
She said without thinking, ‘I can’t believe you are Antonio’s brother.’
Antonio had been handsome and lovable, and her brother Damien’s best friend at university. Lucy had been fourteen when her brother had brought Antonio home the first time for the mid-term break, and she had developed a terrific crush on the young Italian—so besotted she had actually started taking Italian language lessons at school. Antonio, only four years older, but a decade older in experience, had not taken advantage—quite the opposite. He had treated her as a friend and had not made her feel foolish at all. Unlike this hard-faced man, looking at her across the wide expanse of the desk with cold eyes and without a tender bone in his body, she was sure.
‘You