life years ago, before her brother had talked Antonio into the reckless lifestyle that had got him killed. As for Lucy—he knew exactly what type of woman she was and yet the thought of her with another man did nothing to help his self-control.
‘You, of course,’ Elaine answered. ‘Lucy told me all about you.’
‘Did she, now?’ Lorenzo said, never taking his eyes off Lucy. He saw her nervously chew her bottom lip and she would not look him in the eye. ‘I’m surprised at you, Lucy. You know perfectly well I am not married—never have been, and never likely to be. Which makes me wonder what other fairytales you have told your friend,’ he drawled, shaking his head mockingly. ‘We really do need to talk.’
‘He is not married? ‘ Elaine queried, and looked at Lucy.
Lucy finally met her friend’s puzzled gaze. ‘Not to my knowledge—and if you recall I never said he was, Elaine. I think you must have jumped to the wrong conclusion after giving me the benefit of your own dubious wedding experiences.’
Elaine looked from Lucy to Lorenzo and back again. ‘Ah, well, that is different.’ She chuckled, obviously amused. ‘Well, good luck, Lucy, in sorting out your problems. I’ll just get my bag and leave.’ And she disappeared down the hall, to reappear a minute later, with a cheery wave and a goodbye as she closed the door and left.
There was silence. Lucy glanced up and found Lorenzo’s gleaming dark eyes resting on her. Something in his look made her stomach curl and she flushed hotly.
‘Time for you to leave, Mr Zanelli,’ she said curtly. ‘We have nothing more to discuss and I need to lock up.’ She glanced back at him. ‘I don’t want any more customers or uninvited visitors.’
He did not respond—didn’t move. He was towering over her, intimidating her with his presence, and suddenly the hall seemed smaller. Lucy had had enough. ‘Goodnight, and good riddance. Is that plain enough for you?’ she mocked, parroting the words he had said to her the last time she had seen him, and she reached for the handle to open the door again.
But Lorenzo was quicker, and before she could react a strong hand had clamped around her waist and pulled her hard against his body, trapping her arm against her side while the other hand slid beneath the heavy fall of her hair to tug her head back. Deliberately he bent and pressed his mouth against the pulse that beat erratically in her throat, and she felt it like a flame.
‘Don’t,’ she gasped, and pushed against his chest with her hand while his mouth seared up her slender neck. ‘Let go of me, you great brute. I hate you,’ she flung at him savagely.
‘No, you don’t.’ His head came up. His eyes were black in his hard, masculine face, and Lucy could not control the slight tremor in her limbs. ‘You want me. But then women like you can’t help themselves,’ he said contemptuously.
She punched his chest with a curled fist, but it was like hitting a brick wall. She lifted her knee and suddenly he whirled her round, making her head spin. Before she could draw breath, let alone find her feet, his head lowered, and she moaned in protest as his mouth came down hard and ruthless against her lips, forcibly parting them, demanding her surrender.
For a moment she made herself stay rigid in his arms, but then her mouth trembled in helpless response and she succumbed to the powerful passion of his kiss. When he finally released her she stumbled back and deliberately wiped her hand across her mouth, but to her shame she could not wipe away so easily the warring sensations inside her.
‘You should not have done that, Mr Zanelli,’ she snapped.
Lorenzo stared down at her, his broad shoulders tense, his face expressionless. ‘Maybe not, but you provoked me—and if I have succeeded in shutting you up long enough to listen it was well worth it. And you can drop the “Mr Zanelli”—you know my name and you have used it too intimately to pretend otherwise. Now, we can go up to your apartment and I’ll tell you why I am here.’
Lucy looked at him warily, silently conceding it was a bit childish calling him Mr Zanelli. Her real problem was that she didn’t trust him, but short of throwing him out—which was a physical impossibility—she hadn’t much choice but to listen to what he had to say.
‘And it isn’t what you are thinking,’ he drawled, with a sardonic lift of one ebony brow. Though his body was telling him different …
‘I’ll listen, but not here,’ Lucy conceded. ‘I usually go into town on Saturday evening to eat. You can come with me.’ She wanted Lorenzo out of her home and among other people—simply because her own innate honesty forced her to admit she didn’t trust herself alone with him.
‘My car or yours?’ Lorenzo asked as, after locking up the gallery, they walked out into the front yard that doubled as a car park.
‘Neither.’ Lucy flicked a glance up at him. ‘We can walk down the hill—it is not far.’
Stepping onto the grass verge that ran down the side of the road and Lorenzo joined her, but didn’t look too comfortable when a Jeep whizzed past with a group of four young men on board.
‘Hi, Lucy!’ they all yelled, and waved. Lucy waved back.
‘Friends of yours?’ Lorenzo asked.
‘Yes—students in my weekly art class at the high school. Now, why don’t you start talking? I’m listening.’
Another car went by and tooted its horn, and Lucy waved again.
‘No. I’d prefer to wait until we reach the restaurant,’ Lorenzo said, adding, ‘Less interruptions.’ And more time for him to regain his self-control.
He’d had no idea she taught art—but then he did not really know her except in the biblical sense. And he didn’t want to. Lucy Steadman infuriated him, enraged him and aroused him, and he did not like it—did not like her. But he did need her silence, and in his experience the best way to get anything from a woman was to humour her for a while—let her think she was in control.
Lucy hid a smile. He was in for a rude awakening if he was expecting a restaurant.
Lorenzo looked around with interest when they reached the main road. Set in a narrow valley, Looe was very picturesque, with a stone bridge that spanned the tidal river to the other side of town. Lucy led him down the main street that wound its way alongside the harbour and the river to the beach. He couldn’t believe the number of tourists around, or the amount of people that Lucy knew. Every few yards someone stopped her to say hello.
He wasn’t really surprised. With her long hair flowing over her shoulders, the feather-laden earring fluttering in the breeze and her brilliant smile she looked like some rare exotic butterfly. But there was no mistaking she was a woman, and the pressure in his groin that had plagued him from the minute he set eyes on her was becoming a problem again.
Ten minutes later, sitting on the harbour wall, Lorenzo glanced warily down at the box Lucy handed him, and then at her.
‘I got you pizza because you’re Italian. The fish and chip shop sells all sorts,’ she said, opening the carton containing her fish and chips.
‘Thanks.’ Lorenzo opened the box. ‘I think … ‘ he drawled, eyeing what passed for a pizza in an English holiday town with some trepidation. He didn’t want to know what the assorted toppings and cheeses were,
