Jerome had called her a natural beauty.
Jerome...
Veronica closed her eyes for a few seconds as she tried to wipe all thought of that man from her mind. But it was impossible. Jerome’s sudden death had been hard enough to handle, but it was what she’d learned after his death that had truly shattered her.
She still could not believe that he’d been so...so wicked.
Naive of her, she supposed, given what her mother had suffered at the hands of the man she’d married. Still, as she’d grown up, Veronica had never bought into her mother’s cynicism towards the opposite sex. She’d always liked men. Liked and admired them. Yes, she’d grown up understanding that some men were players. But she’d always steered well clear of those. When a couple of her boyfriends had proved to be a bit loose on the moral side, neither of them had lasted long.
Veronica wasn’t a prude. But she couldn’t abide men who flouted society’s rules just for the hell of it—who were disrespectful, insensitive or downright reckless. Her perfect man—the one she’d always envisaged marrying—would be none of those things. He’d be successful, and preferably handsome. But most importantly he would be decent and dependable. After all, he wasn’t going to be just her husband. He was going to be the father of her children. At least four children, she’d always pictured. No single-child family for her.
When Jerome had come along, she’d thought he was perfect husband-and-father material.
But Jerome had not been perfect at all. Far from it.
Veronica gritted her teeth as she walked down the hallway towards the kitchen. She supposed she still had her work. Her personal life might be a non-event, with her dreams of a happy family shattered and her trust in relationships totally destroyed, but her professional life was still there. There was a lot of satisfaction in easing other people’s pain.
Veronica was just filling the kettle with water when her mobile rang.
Probably someone wanting to make an appointment, she thought as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. She didn’t get many personal calls these days.
‘Yes?’ she answered a little more abruptly than usual. Thinking about Jerome had left a residue of simmering anger.
‘Is that Miss Veronica Hanson?’ a male voice asked; a rich male voice with a slight accent. Possibly Italian.
‘Yes, speaking,’ she confirmed.
‘My name is Leonardo Fabrizzi,’ he said, at which point Veronica almost dropped her phone. Her fingers clutched it more tightly as she tried to get her head around who was on the other end of the line.
Because surely there couldn’t be too many Italians called Leonardo Fabrizzi in this world?
It had to be him. Though perhaps not. The world was full of coincidences.
‘Leonardo Fabrizzi, the famous skier?’ she blurted out before she could think better of it.
There was dead silence for a few tense seconds.
‘You know me?’ he said at last.
‘No, no,’ she denied quickly, because of course she didn’t know him. Though, she’d met him. Once. Several years ago, at an après ski party in Switzerland. They hadn’t been properly introduced, so of course he would not recognise her name. But he’d been very famous at the time, a world-champion downhill racer with a reputation for recklessness, both on the slopes and off. His playboy status was well deserved, she’d learned that night, shuddering at how close she’d come to becoming just another of his passing conquests.
‘I... I’ve heard of you,’ she hedged, her voice still a little shaky. ‘You’re famous in the ski world and I like skiing.’
More than liked. She’d been obsessed with the sport for a long time, having been introduced to it as a teenager by a classmate’s family. They’d been very wealthy and had taken her along on their skiing holidays as company for their very spoilt but not very popular daughter.
‘I am no longer a famous skier,’ he told her brusquely. ‘I retired from that world some time ago. I am just a businessman now.’
‘I see,’ she said, not having skied herself since Jerome had died. Her interest in the sport—and most other things—had died along with the man she’d been going to marry.
‘So how may I help you, Mr Fabrizzi?’ It suddenly occurred to her that maybe he’d come here to Australia on business and was in urgent need of treatment after a long flight. He might have looked up Sydney physiotherapists online and come up with her website.
‘I am sorry,’ he said in sombre tones, ‘But I have some sad news to tell you.’
‘Sad news?’ she echoed, startled and puzzled. ‘What kind of sad news?’
‘Laurence has died,’ he told her.
‘Laurence? Laurence who?’ She knew no one called Laurence.
‘Laurence Hargraves.’
Veronica was none the wiser. ‘I’m sorry, but that name means nothing to me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘That is strange, because your name meant something to him. You’re one of the beneficiaries in his will.’
‘What?’
‘Laurence left you something in his will. A villa, actually, on the Isle of Capri.’
‘What? Oh, that’s ridiculous! Is this some kind of cruel joke?’
‘I assure you, Miss Hanson, this is no joke. I am the executor of Laurence’s will, and have a copy of it right in front of me. If you are the Miss Veronica Hanson who lives in Glebe Point Road, Sydney, Australia, then you are now the proud owner of a very beautiful villa on Capri.’
‘Goodness! This is incredible.’
‘I agree,’ he said, with a somewhat rueful note in his voice. ‘I was a close friend of Laurence and he never mentioned you. Could he have been a long-lost relative of some kind? A great-uncle or a cousin, perhaps?’
‘I suppose so. But I doubt it,’ she added. Her mother was an only child and her father—even if he knew of her existence—certainly wouldn’t have an English name like Hargraves in his family. He’d been an impoverished university student from Latvia who had sold his sperm for money and wasn’t 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