He read some more, then stormed into his office, slamming the door behind him.
He sat down behind his desk, fuming. The brief scandal of being linked to Olivia, a married woman, paled into nothing compared to this. Of course they had connected Lucy to her brother and resurrected the tragic accident in detail. As if he needed reminding of it.
It was all the fault of Teresa Lanza, but there was not a damn thing he could do about it. Now he knew why his mother had looked so guilty. She must have known this was coming out. The wedding had been too late in June to make the July edition, but it had certainly made the August one.
He threw it to one side and picked up the report on Steadman’s. By the time he’d read it he was so enraged he slammed down the document and leapt to his feet, the deadly light of battle in his eyes. This was no longer anything to do with business or family, but strictly personal.
If there was one thing Lorenzo revelled in it was a challenge—be it at sea, sailing his yacht, or in the world of high finance—and now Lucy had become a real challenge. Pacing the floor, he realised he had seriously underestimated her. Far from being not cut out for business, she had come up with a plan to save Steadman’s—and it was very imaginative and economically sound. Any bank—including his—would judge it a decent investment and back the venture.
To be beaten by a slip of a woman was unthinkable to him. Lucy had effectively sidelined him as a partner in Steadman’s, and the factory was to stay open. The housing development and much more was to be built at the opposite side of town, in seven acres taken from the eight-acre river frontage garden of the house Lucy owned, in a deal she had made with Richard Johnson the property developer and third partner in Steadman’s. Between them, they had the majority.
Whether she had slept with the man or not he didn’t know—and didn’t care. She was clever—he’d give her that—but better men and women than her had tried and failed to outsmart him, and there was no way she was getting away with it.
A few telephone calls later Lorenzo had left the bank and boarded his private Lear jet to Newquay Airport, a ruthless gleam of triumph in his dark eyes. A car and driver waited for him when his plane landed. He was back in his normal ruthless business mode, and about to make Lucy an offer she could not refuse.
LUCY put down the telephone and walked slowly back into the gallery, her mind in turmoil. The call had been from Mr Johnson, her partner in the development deal. He had pulled out. No real explanation had been given—just a terse comment that he was not interested in doing business with her any more and then he’d hung up. She’d tried to ring back but the cell had gone directly to messages.
Monday was usually a slow day, and she was on her own. Much as she wanted to go upstairs and scream at the devastating news she had received she couldn’t.
In between serving customers she racked her brains, trying to find a solution. She called her lawyer, who was as shocked at the news as she was, but told her he would make some enquiries and find out exactly what had happened and get back to her. She called her bank and they were no help—other than to remind her she now had to pay the mortgage on two properties.
By five-thirty Lucy had run out of ideas.
A little old lady was wandering around the pottery exhibits, and Lucy made herself walk across and ask if she could help. Five minutes later she had wrapped a hand-painted vase and taken the money, and watched as the lady left. Wearily she rubbed her back and, head spinning, sank down on the seat behind the till. Automatically she began to count the day’s takings.
Now what was she going to do? she asked herself, eying the cash. Ordinarily she would have considered it a good day, but as she had taken a mortgage out on the gallery, because the bank had insisted on her having capital available up-front before considering the development loan, she was now in serious trouble.
She heard the sound of footsteps on the polished wood floor and her head whipped up. When she saw who it was all the breath was sucked from her body, her pulse racing almost as much as her mind.
‘You!’ she exclaimed, rising to her feet, unable to tear her eyes away from the man walking towards her. Lorenzo. There was nothing casual about him today. He was wearing an expertly tailored navy suit, and she knew by his hard, expressionless face that there was nothing casual about his visit.
Inexplicably a shiver of fear snaked down her spine.
‘Lucy.’ He said her name and his eyes looked straight into hers. She saw the glint of triumph in the dark depths and she knew.
‘It was you,’ she said, her lips twisting bitterly, anger nearly choking her. ‘You got to Mr Johnson didn’t you? You bastard.’
‘Such language, Lucy. Really, that is no way to do business—your customers would be horrified. I told you once before business is not your thing, but I have to concede you gave it a damn good try. Your plan was excellent, but did you really think for one minute I would allow you to get the better of me? ‘ he demanded, with an arrogant arch of one dark eyebrow.
‘You admit it was you?’ she said, horrified and furious.
‘Yes. I made your new partner an offer he could not refuse,’ he said, and turned round to stroll to the front door. She thought he was leaving, but instead he locked the door and turned back, staring at her with narrowed eyes, his expression unreadable. ‘I’ve warned you before about security. You really should not sit counting money on your own. Any sneak thief could come in and rob you.’
‘Like you,’ she spat. ‘Robbing me of Steadman’s.’
Her anger drained away as the enormity of her predicament hit her. Lorenzo must have bought out Richard Johnson, so he was now the major shareholder in Steadman’s and he would certainly close the factory.
‘But why?’ she asked, shaking her head. ‘We were still going to buy you out on the agreed date, at a profit you told me yourself was good. You’d have been finished with Steadman’s for ever—just what you always wanted.’ She didn’t understand …
‘Not quite.’ His eyes scanned provocatively down her shapely body, making her remember things she had fought hard to forget without much success. Colour rose in her cheeks as he walked towards her. ‘I want more, Lucy.’ His smile was chilling.
‘More money?’ she asked. ‘But that does not make any sense. Buying out Mr Johnson must have cost you money, and you wanted to sell to make more money—or so you told me to up the offer the first time we met.’ Lucy was no financial genius, as Lorenzo purportedly was, but even she could see the huge flaw in his deal.
‘No, not money,’ he said, his dark eyes fixed intently on her flushed face. ‘A drink will do for a start. But upstairs—in comfort.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘After you,’ he said, mocking her.
‘No,’ she said defiantly. ‘I can find another partner … ‘ Even as she said the words she knew it was futile. Lorenzo now held all the cards.
‘You already have, Lucy—me. I told you once before it was my way or no way. You obviously didn’t listen.’
She didn’t bother to answer. There was no point.
She turned back to the till, suddenly bone-weary, all the fight draining out of her, and mechanically finished cashing up. She locked the till and with the money in her hand walked past Lorenzo and upstairs