The Italian's Unexpected Love-Child. Miranda Lee
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Veronica feeling slightly flustered. Which irritated the hell out of her. She thought she was over being affected by any member of the opposite sex, especially one with Leonardo Fabrizzi’s dubious reputation.
Giving herself a mental shake, she retreated down the hallway and made her way up the stairs to the extension her mother had had built a few years back, a necessity once Nora had started up her home-help business on the Internet. The upstairs section included a small sitting room, a well-appointed office and a spacious bedroom and en suite. As it turned out, the extension had become a real blessing after Jerome’s death, with Veronica able to convert her mother’s old front bedroom into a treatment room for her own home-based physiotherapy business.
It wasn’t until Veronica reached the upstairs landing that her thoughts returned to the annoyingly fascinating Italian and the astonishing reason behind his call. All of a sudden, an idea of who Laurence Hargraves might be zoomed into her head. An astonishing idea, really. Not very logical, either, knowing her mother. But the idea persisted, bringing with it a strange wave of alarm. Her heartbeat quickened and her stomach tightened, sending a burst of bile up into her throat. She swallowed convulsively, telling herself to get a grip.
What you are thinking is insane! Insane and illogical! The man was English, not Australian. Besides, Mum would not lie to me—not over something like this.
Finally, after scooping in several deep breaths, she lifted her hand to tap on her mother’s office door, annoyed to see her hand was shaking. Her mouth went dry. And her heart started pounding again. Not quite a panic attack, but something close.
‘Yes?’ came her mother’s impatient query.
It took an effort of will to turn the knob and go into the room.
‘Mum,’ she said on entering, pleased that her voice wasn’t shaking as well.
Her mother didn’t look up from where she was frowning at the computer screen.
‘Yes?’ she repeated distractedly.
Veronica walked over to perch on the corner of her mother’s desk, gripping the edges with white knuckles. ‘Mum, does the name Laurence Hargraves mean anything to you?’
Veronica had seen people go grey with pain in the course of her work; seen all the blood drain from their faces. But she’d never seen her mother go that particular colour.
Strangely enough, as she watched her mother’s reaction, Veronica no longer felt panic. Just dismay. And the fiercest disappointment. Because now she knew the answer to the mystery, didn’t she?
‘He was my father, wasn’t he?’ she said bleakly, before her mother admitted to anything.
Nora groaned, then nodded. Sadly. Apologetically.
Veronica groaned as well, her face screwing up with distress, her hands balling into fists in defence of the flood of emotion which threatened to overwhelm her. Not since she’d discovered the awful truth about Jerome had she experienced such shock and anger. Funny how you could suspect something, but when you were actually faced with some awful truth your first reaction was still pained disbelief, quickly followed by outrage and anger.
‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’ she threw at her mother in anguished tones. ‘Why give me that cock-and-bull story about my father being some impoverished sperm donor from Latvia? Why not just tell me you had an affair with a married man?’
‘But I didn’t have an affair with Laurence!’ her mother denied, her face flushing wildly. ‘It wasn’t like that. You don’t understand,’ she wailed, gripping her cheeks with both hands as tears filled her eyes.
For the first time in her life, Veronica felt no pity for her mother’s tears.
‘Then how was it, Mum?’ she asked coldly. ‘Make me understand, especially why you didn’t tell me the truth about my father’s identity.’
‘I... I couldn’t tell you. I gave Laurence my word.’
Veronica could not believe she was hearing this. She’d given her word to some adulterer? The mind boggled.
‘Well, your precious Laurence is dead and gone now,’ Veronica snapped. ‘So I don’t think your giving him your word matters any more. I dare say you’ll also be surprised to hear that my errant father has left me something in his will,’ she finished up caustically. ‘I’ve just received a call from the executor. I’m now the owner of a villa on the Isle of Capri. Lucky me!’
Nora just stared at her daughter, grey eyes blinking madly.
‘But...but what about his wife?’
‘She’s dead too,’ Veronica said bluntly. ‘Quite a few years ago, apparently.’
‘Oh...’
‘Yes. Oh.’
Her mother just sat there, stunned and speechless.
‘I think, Mum,’ Veronica bit out, her arms crossing angrily as she tried to contain her emotions, ‘That it’s time you told me the truth.’
LEONARDO EMAILED OFF a copy of the will then settled back down at his desk, trying to put his mind to studying the designs for next year’s winter range. But his mind wouldn’t cooperate. It remained firmly on the call he’d just made to Sydney, Australia.
Who in hell was Veronica Hanson? And why had Laurence never mentioned her?
A great-niece, perhaps? Leonardo speculated. Most people did like to leave their estates to relatives.
Though, if that were the case, why not leave her some money as well? Why just leave her the villa, then leave the rest of his considerable portfolio of cash, bonds and shares to cancer research?
It was a mystery all right.
Hopefully, Miss Hanson’s mother would provide some pertinent information.
Glancing at his watch, Leonardo saw that less than ten minutes had passed since he’d hung up. He could hardly expect a call back this soon.
Unfortunately.
Leonardo’s sigh was one of exasperation. He had no hope of concentrating on anything until he heard back from Miss Hanson. Patience had never been one of his virtues. But he had no alternative on this occasion but to wait.
Still, he didn’t have to wait in here, at his desk, pretending to work. Jumping up, he decided to get himself some coffee, bypassing his PA’s offer to get it for him with the excuse that he needed some air.
Leonardo needed some air a lot. He’d described himself as a businessman to Miss Hanson. But whilst Leonardo had quite enjoyed setting up his top-of-the-range sportswear company—and making a huge success of it—being just a businessman was not the way Leonardo ever saw himself. He was a sportsman, a man of action. A doer, not a pencil pusher. He actually hated offices and desks. Loathed meetings of any kind. And despised sitting for too long.
His spirits lifted once he was outside the building and into the fresh air. The sun was shining and a mild breeze was blowing. Milan in late August was glorious, though too busy, of course, the streets filled with tourists.
Leonardo breathed in deeply and headed for his favourite cafe, which was tucked away down a cobbled side street and never too crowded. There, his espresso was already waiting for him by the time he reached the counter, the female barista having spotted him as he strode into their establishment. He drank the strong black liquid down in one gulp, as was his habit. She smiled at him as he smacked his lips in appreciation, her big brown eyes flashing flirtatiously. She was a very attractive girl, with the kind of dark eyes and hair which Leonardo especially liked.
‘Grazie,’ he said, then placed the empty cup back on the counter, keeping his own smile very brief and not in any way flirtatious.