of a childhood he’d rather forget. The place he’d consigned to oblivion when he’d left aged eighteen, with his father’s curses echoing in his ears.
‘If you leave Lycander you will not be coming back. I will take all your lands, your assets and privileges, and you will be an outcast.’
Just the mention of Lycander was sufficient to chase away his appetite and bring a scowl to his face—a grimace that deepened as he stared down at the document. The temptation to crumple it up and lob it into the recycling bin was childish at best, and at twenty-six he had thankfully long since left the horror of childhood behind.
What on earth could Roberto Bianchi have left him? And why? The Count had been his mother Eloise’s godfather and guardian—the man who had allowed his ward to marry Stefan’s father, Alphonse, for the status and privileges the marriage would bring.
What a disaster that had been. The union had been beyond miserable, and the ensuing divorce a medley of bitterness and humiliation with Stefan a hapless pawn. Alphonse might have been ruler of Lycander, but he had also been a first class, bona fide bastard, who had ground Eloise into the dust.
Enough. The memories of his childhood—the pain and misery of his father’s Toughen Stefan up and Make him a Prince Regime, the enduring ache of missing his mother, whom he had only been allowed to see on infrequent occasions, his guilt at the growing realisation that his mother’s plight was due to her love for him and the culminating pain of his mother’s exile—could not be changed.
Alphonse was dead—had been for three years—and Eloise had died long before that, in dismal poverty. Stefan would never forgive himself for her death, and now Stefan’s half-brother, Crown Prince Frederick, ruled Lycander.
Frederick. For a moment he dwelled on his older sibling. Alphonse had delighted in pitting his sons against each other, and as result there was little love lost between the brothers.
True, since he’d come to the throne Frederick had reached out to him—even offered to reinstate the lands, assets and rights Alphonse had stripped from him—but Stefan had refused. Forget it. No way. Stefan would never be beholden to a ruler of Lycander again and he would not return on his brother’s sufferance.
He’d built his own life—left Lycander with an utter determination to succeed, to show his father, show Lycander, show the world what Stefan Petrelli was made of. Now he was worth millions. He had built up a global property and construction firm. Technically, he could afford to buy up most of Lycander. In reality, though, he couldn’t purchase so much as an acre—his father had passed a decree that banned Stefan from buying land or property there.
Stefan shook his head to dislodge the bitter memories—that way lay nothing but misery. His life was good, and he’d long ago accepted that Lycander was closed to him, so there was no reason to get worked up over this letter. He’d go and see what bequest had been left to him and he’d donate it to his charitable foundation. End of.
Yet foreboding persisted in prickling his nerve-endings as instinct told him that it wouldn’t be that easy.
* * *
Holly Romano tucked a tendril of blonde hair behind her ear and stared at the impressive exterior of the offices that housed Simpson, Wright and Gallagher, a firm of lawyers renowned for their circumspection, discretion and the size of the fees they charged their often celebrity clientele.
Last chance to bottle it, and her feet threatened to swivel her around and head her straight back to the tube station.
No. There was nothing to be afraid of. Roberto Bianchi had owned Il Boschetto di Sole. The Romano family had been employed by the Bianchis for generations and therefore Roberto had decided to leave Holly something. Hence the letter that had summoned her here to be told details of the bequest.
But it didn’t make sense. Roberto Bianchi had been only a shadowy figure in Holly’s life. In childhood he had seemed all-powerful as the owner of the place her family lived in and loved—a man known to be old-fashioned in his values, strict but fair, and a great believer in tradition. Owner of many vast lands and estates in Lycander, he had had a soft spot for Il Boschetto di Sole—the crown jewel of his possessions.
As an employer he had been hands-off. He had trusted her father completely. And although he’d shown a polite interest in Holly he had never singled her out in any way. Plus she’d had no contact with him in the past eighteen months, since her decision to leave Lycander for a while.
The aftermath of her wedding fiasco had been too much—the humiliation, the looks of either pity or censure, and the nagging knowledge that her father was disappointed. Not because he questioned her decision to cancel the wedding, but because it was his dream to see her happily married, to have the prospect of grandsons and the knowledge Romano traditions and legacies were secured.
There had also been her need to escape Graham. At first he had been contrite, in pursuit of reconciliation, but when she had declined to marry him his justifications had become cruel. Because he had never loved her. And eventually, at their last meeting, he had admitted it.
‘I wooed you because I wanted promotion—wanted an in on the Romanos’ wealth and position. I never loved you. You are so young, so inexperienced. And Bianca...she is all-woman.’
That had been the cruellest cut of all. Because somehow, especially when she had seen Bianca, a tiny bit of Holly hadn’t blamed him. Bianca was not just beautiful, she seemed to radiate desirability, and seeing her had made Holly look back on her nights with Graham and cringe.
Even now, eighteen months later, standing on a London street with the autumn breeze blowing her hair any which way, a flush of humiliation threatened as she recalled what a fool she had made of herself with her expressions of love and devotion, her inept fumbling. And the whole time Graham would have been comparing her to Bianca, laughing his cotton socks off.
Come on, Holly. Focus on the here and now.
And right now she needed to walk through the revolving glass door.
Three minutes later she followed the receptionist into the office of Mr James Simpson. It was akin to stepping into the past. The atmosphere was nigh on Victorian. Heavy tomes lined three of the panelled walls, and a portrait hung above the huge mahogany desk of a jowly, bearded, whiskered man from a bygone era. And yet she noticed that atop the desk there was a sleek state-of-the-art computer that indicated the law firm had at least one foot firmly in the current century.
A pinstripe-suited man rose to greet her: thin, balding, with bright blue eyes that shone with innate shrewd intelligence.
Holly moved forward with a smile, and as she did so her attention snagged on the other occupant of the room—a man who stood by the window, fingers drumming his thigh in a staccato burst that exuded an edge of impatience.
He was not conventionally handsome, in the drop-dead gorgeous sense, although there was certainly nothing wrong with his looks. A shade under six feet tall, he had dark unruly hair with a hint of curl, a lean face, a nose that jutted with intent and intense dark grey eyes under strong brows that pulled together in a frown.
Unlike Holly, he hadn’t deemed the occasion worthy of formal wear and was dressed in faded jeans and a thick blue and green checked shirt over a white T-shirt. His build was lean and lithe, and whilst he wasn’t built like a power house he emitted strength, and an impression that he propelled his way through life fuelled by sheer force
