The Italian's Unexpected Love-Child. Miranda Lee
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even on her birth certificate, which said ‘father unknown’. ‘I’ll have to ask my mother. She might know.’
‘It is very puzzling, I admit,’ the Italian said. ‘Maybe Laurence was a patient of yours in the past, or a relative of a patient. Have you ever worked in England? Laurence used to live in England before he retired to Capri.’
‘No, I haven’t. Never.’ She had, however, been to the Isle of Capri. For a day. As a tourist. Many years ago. She recalled looking up at the hundreds of huge villas dotted over the hillsides and thinking you would have to be very rich to live in one of them.
Veronica wondered if Leonardo Fabrizzi was still rich. And still a playboy.
Not that I care, shot back the tart thought.
‘It is a mystery, all right,’ the man himself said. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that you can take possession of this property once the appropriate papers are signed and the taxes paid.’
‘Taxes?’
‘Inheritance taxes. I have to tell you that, on a property of this considerable value, the taxes will not come cheap. Since you are not a relative, they stand at eight percent of the current market value.’
‘Which is what, exactly?’
‘Laurence’s villa should sell for somewhere between three-and-a-half and four million euros.’
‘Heavens!’ Veronica had a substantial amount of money in her savings account—she spent next to nothing these days—but she didn’t have eight percent of four million euros.
‘If that is a problem, then I could lend you the money. You could repay me when you sell.’
His gesture surprised her. ‘You would do that? I mean...it could take some time to sell such a property, couldn’t it?’
‘Not in this circumstance. I would like to buy Laurence’s villa myself. I often visited him there and I love the place.’
Veronica should have been grateful for such an easy solution. But for some reason she was reluctant just to say yes, that would be great, yes, let’s do that.
He must have picked up on her hesitation, despite her not saying a word.
‘If you’re worried that I might try to cheat you,’ he said, sounding somewhat peeved, ‘you could get an independent valuation. Which amount I would be happy to pay in full. And in cash,’ he added, highlighting just how rich he was.
Veronica rolled her eyes, never at her best when confronted by people who trumpeted their wealth. Jerome’s parents had been very rich. And had never let her forget it, always saying she was a very lucky girl to be marrying their one and only child.
Hardly lucky, as it turned out.
‘Perhaps you would like some time to think about all this,’ the Italian went on. ‘I imagine this has all come as a shock.’
‘More of a surprise than a shock,’ she said.
‘But a pleasant one, surely?’ he suggested smoothly. ‘Since you didn’t know Laurence personally, his death won’t have upset you. And the sale of his villa will leave you very comfortably off.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she mused aloud.
‘I do hope you don’t think me rude, Miss Hanson, but I noticed your birth date on the will. I know women don’t like to talk about their ages but could you please confirm for me that the details are correct?’ And he rattled off the date.
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she said, frowning. ‘Though how this Laurence person knew it, I have no idea.’
‘So you were twenty-eight as of last June.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a Gemini.’
‘Yes. Though I don’t think I’m all that typical.’ According to a book on star signs she’d once read, she could be light-hearted and fun-loving one day, and serious and thoughtful the next. That might have been true once but she seemed to be stuck these days on the serious and thoughtful. ‘You believe in star signs, Mr Fabrizzi?’
‘Of course not. It was just an idle remark. A man is master of his own destiny,’ he stated firmly.
Spoken like a typically arrogant male, Veronica thought, but didn’t say so.
‘You’re sure you know of no one called Laurence Hargraves?’ he persisted.
‘Absolutely sure. I have a very good memory.’
‘It is all very curious,’ the Italian admitted.
‘True. I’m finding it pretty curious myself. So, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Firstly, how old was my benefactor?’
‘Hmm. I’m not quite sure. Let me think. Late seventies, is my best guess. I know he was seventyish when his wife died, and that was some years back.’
‘Quite elderly, then. And a widower. Did he have any children?’
‘No.’
‘Brothers and sisters?’
‘No.’
‘What did he die of?’
‘Heart attack. Though I found out after the autopsy that he also had liver cancer. He told me the weekend before he died that he was going to London to see a doctor about his liver. Instead, all he did was make a will, then dropped dead shortly after leaving his solicitor’s office.’
‘Goodness.’
‘Perhaps a mercy. The cancer was end stage.’
‘Was he a heavy drinker?’
‘I wouldn’t have said excessively so. But who knows what a lonely man does in private?’
Veronica was taken aback at how sad he suddenly sounded. This evidence of empathy made her like Leonardo Fabrizzi a little bit, which was a minor miracle. Playboys were not her favourite species.
Though maybe she was doing him an injustice. Maybe he had changed. It was, after all, several years since the night he’d cast his charismatic eye on her and casually suggested she join him and the blonde dripping all over him for a threesome.
No, she thought with a derisive curl of her top lip, men like that didn’t change. Once a player, always a player.
‘If you give me your email address,’ he continued, ‘I’ll send you a copy of the will and you can get back to me with your decision in a day or two. Alternatively, I could ring you at this time tomorrow and we can talk some more. Would that be suitable?’
‘Not really.’ She and her mother always went down to the local Vietnamese restaurant for dinner early on a Saturday evening. ‘What time is it in Italy at the moment?’ she asked, not liking the idea of waiting to make a decision. ‘You are in Italy, aren’t you?’
‘Si. I’m in Milan. In my office. It is nine-twenty.’
He really did speak beautiful English, very polished with correct grammar, all in a mild but disturbingly attractive accent. Veronica had always found Italian men attractive, having met quite a few during her obsessive skiing years.
One, however, stood out amongst all the rest...
‘Right,’ she said crisply. ‘The thing is, I would like to talk to my mother first. Ask her if she ever knew a Laurence Hargraves. Maybe she can clear up this mystery for us. But, no matter what I find out, I can’t see there will be any problem with your buying the villa, Mr Fabrizzi. Much as it would be lovely to have a holiday home on Capri, I really can’t afford it. I will ring you back in about an hour or so. Okay?’
‘Certo.