Mediterranean Tycoons: Untamed & Unleashed. Jacqueline Baird
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he thought he was hallucinating.
Lucy Steadman … It couldn’t be?
Her mousy hair was not mousy at all, but a kaleidoscope of colour, with hints of red and gold, swept up at the sides and held with a garland of rosebuds on the crown of her head, revealing her delicate features and then falling in soft silken waves down her back.
His dark eyes moved slowly in stunned amazement over her shapely body. The strapless sea-green dress she wore enhanced the creamy smoothness of her skin and clung lovingly to her full firm breasts, a handspan waist and slim hips. How had he ever imagined she was fat? he asked himself, and could not take his eyes off her.
She had the most supple, sexiest body he had ever seen, and he felt an instant stirring in his own as she glided down the aisle. The natural sway of her pert derrière forced him to adjust his pants. And this was the woman he had told he never wanted to see again.
Though on the plus side he suddenly realised his sexual antennae hadn’t been at fault after all, but working perfectly when he had kissed her—which put paid to his mid-life crisis theory.
He had parted with his last lover Madeleine, a New York accountant, at New Year, because unfortunately she had begun to hint at commitment … something he was averse to.
But he definitely did need a woman—and a weekend affair with the luscious Lucy would suit him perfectly on so many levels. She lived in England—he divided his time mostly between Italy and New York. He could sate himself in her sexy little body with no danger of ever having to see her again. Unworthy of him, he knew, but he couldn’t help thinking there would be a satisfying kind of justice in bedding Damien Steadman’s sister and walking away …
Seated on the bride’s side of the church, a misty-eyed Lucy watched as her friend Samantha and James Morgan, with eyes only for each other, took their wedding vows. No one could doubt the deep love they shared, and if ever a girl deserved happiness it was Sam, she thought.
Lucy had arrived at Samantha’s parents’ house, set on the cliffs above Looe, at eight that morning. They had all had breakfast together, and the rest of the time Lucy had spent in a kind of controlled chaos, getting dressed with the hairdresser and make-up artist fussing around her, while trying to keep Samantha calm and getting her ready for the service at two-thirty.
An hour ago Lucy had left for the church with the pageboy in a limousine, and—apart from having to take the little boy around the back of the old church for a pee—so far everything was going like a dream for her best friend.
Lucy had first met Samantha as a child, when she had spent every summer with her parents at their holiday home in Looe. They had both attended the children’s Holiday Club and become friends. But after her mother died her father had refused to holiday in Cornwall any more, and consequently Lucy had lost touch with Samantha. It had only been after she had finished art college and inherited the family holiday home in Looe, setting up house and her own business there, that they had renewed their friendship.
Samantha had been one of the first customers in her art and craft gallery, and they had instantly recognised each other. They had both had troubled teen years—Lucy had lost both her parents, and Samantha had been diagnosed with leukaemia at the age of thirteen and fought a five-year-long battle to full recovery. Lucy knew that was the reason Samantha had got pregnant within two months of meeting James. Convinced her leukaemia treatment had left her infertile, she had never considered contraception necessary.
Lucy sighed. She was a romantic at heart. After all, Samantha had suffered before meeting James and falling in love. Getting married with a baby on the way was the perfect happy ending.
‘Lucy, time to sign the register.’ The best man, Tom, took her arm.
Ten minutes later the church bells began to peal, and the bride and groom walked back down the aisle as man and wife.
Lucy followed behind with Tom. She had met him at the rehearsal on Thursday night—he was James’s best friend and a banker in the City. But nothing like the hateful, hard-faced banker she had met in Verona: Lorenzo Zanelli. Tom was fun.
The ceremony over, feeling totally relaxed, she glanced around the colourful congregation.
‘You look beautiful, Lucy,’ a deep, slightly accented voice drawled, and she almost dropped her posy of roses at the sight of the man sitting in the pew, his dark head tilted back, watching her.
She looked down into a pair of mocking eyes, her mouth hanging open in shock. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was invited.’
‘Move, Lucy—we are holding up the traffic.’ She shut her mouth and was grateful for Tom’s hand at her back, urging her on down the aisle.
Lorenzo Zanelli at Samantha’s wedding—it wasn’t possible.
Unfortunately it was, she realised as she spent the next half-hour at the bidding of the photographer as the wedding photos were taken. Somehow every time she looked up Zanelli seemed to be in her line of vision. Not surprising, she told herself. At over six feet, with broad shoulders and bold features, he had a presence about him that made him stand out in any crowd, and the superbly tailored silver-grey suit he wore with easy elegance simply enhanced his magnificent physique.
Seated at the top table at the wedding reception, Lucy tried to dismiss Zanelli’s presence from her mind and give all her attention to Tom. He was easy to talk to, and when the meal was over and the speeches began his was one of the best.
The bride and groom opened the dancing, and then everyone else joined in. Tom turned out to be a good dancer and he made her laugh. When the music ended he led her to the side of the dance floor and said, ‘Do you mind if I rescue my girlfriend now? She’s bound to be feeling lonely, seated with strangers. I’ll take you back to the table first.’
‘Not necessary.’ She smiled. ‘I am going to find the powder room.’
‘Okay!’
But Tom had barely been gone two seconds before Lorenzo Zanelli appeared at her side.
‘Lucy, this is a pleasant surprise—can I have this dance?’
She tilted her head back to look a long way up into his harshly attractive face. ‘I seem to recall you never wanted to see me again,’ she said bluntly. ‘So why bother?’
‘Ah! Because I have never really seen you until now … ‘ He stepped back and deliberately let his dark gaze roam over her, from head to toe and back up, to linger for a moment on the soft curve of her breasts revealed by the strapless dress, before his dark eyes lifted to capture hers with an unmistakable sensual gleam in their black depths.
Lucy fought down the blush that rose up her throat, but she could do nothing about the sudden hardening of her nipples against the soft silk of her gown.
‘What is your English saying, Lucy? To hide one’s light under a bushel?’ His deep, melodious voice made his accent more pronounced. ‘I never knew what a bushel was, but now thanks to you I do—a big, black shapeless garment.’ One black brow rose enquiringly. ‘I am right, yes?’
‘No.’ But she could not help her lips twitching. Even the Contessa had remarked on the ill-fitting suit.
‘So I ask again—dance with me?’ And before she knew it he had caught her hand in his.
The same tingling feeling affected her arm, and she burst into speech. ‘How do you know James Morgan?’ she demanded, slightly breathless, Lorenzo was not as staid as she had thought—he could turn on the charm like a tap—but she did not want to dance with him. She didn’t like the man, and he had made it plain what he thought of her: nothing … But her own innate honesty forced her to admit she didn’t trust herself up close to him. Tentatively she tried to ease her hand from his, but with no success. His long fingers tightened around hers.
‘His mother is Italian and her parents’ home is on the shores of Lake Garda. James and I met as teenagers when he visited with his family in