The Italian's Rags-To-Riches Wife. Julia James

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Except when Allesandro returned to Italy, he discovered that Tomaso did not see it that way.

      ‘He’s done what?’ Two days later, Allesandro’s voice was rigid with disbelief.

      But the question was rhetorical. The answer to it was in front of his eyes, in the tersely worded memo that his PA had silently handed him. Signed by the chairman of Viale-Vincenzo, informing him that his services as chief executive would no longer be required.

      A rage such as he had never known permeated through Allesandro. He might still be a major shareholder in Viale-Vincenzo, but now he would no longer even have day-to-day control of the company, let alone the long-term control that the chairmanship would have given him. He knew exactly what was behind this. Tomaso had not accepted Laura Stowe’s refusal to visit him. Allesandro had balked at spelling out just how hostile the girl had been to him. Now he wished he’d been less sensitive of Tomaso’s feelings.

      ‘Get me Tomaso on the phone,’ he ordered savagely. ‘Now!’

      CHAPTER TWO

      LAURA picked up the post that had fallen through the letterbox, her expression bleak. Yesterday’s post had brought grim news. A final reminder from the taxman warned her that late payment would incur interest charges, and a letter from the auction house had valued the remaining antiques at considerably less than the sum the taxman required.

      Despair and fear were gnawing at her. Day by day she was edging closer to the bleak prospect of having to sell Wharton. Her heart clawed at the thought.

      I can’t sell! I just can’t! There has to be something—something I can do to keep it going!

      If she could just pay the taxman, she would have a chance. She could raise a mortgage on the property and then use the money to convert the house into a holiday let, as planned. The lettings would then pay the mortgage and maintenance costs. But if she couldn’t pay the tax…

      Desperation knifed through her again.

      As she continued to consider her bleak future, her hands stilled suddenly on one of the letters. It was a thick white envelope, and the stamp was Italian. Grimly she ripped it open. Inside were three things: a letter, an airline ticket…

      And a cheque.

      A cheque drawn on Viale-Vincenzo. In a sum that brought a rasp to her throat.

      Slowly she looked at the letter, written on company paper. It was not informative, merely drew her attention to the enclosed cheque and ticket. As she flicked open the ticket she saw it was from Heathrow to Rome, and was dated for a week’s time. It was also executive class. Attached to the back of the letter was a second page of closely printed Italian that she could not understand. Obviously this document must explain that the cheque was a gift in return for her visiting her grandfather in Italy.

      Carefully, Laura replaced everything inside the envelope, and went to sit down at the kitchen table. She stared at the envelope in front of her, so different from yesterday’s communication from the Inland Revenue and the auctioneer.

      Suddenly temptation, like an overpowering wave, swept through her.

      I’ll pay the cheque back—every last penny, with interest!—once I’ve got the mortgage through. But the taxman won’t wait—I’ve got to settle that first, in any way I can!

      But not this way, she riposted mentally. She couldn’t touch a penny of Viale money! Her grandfather would turn in his grave if she did—especially after the way Stefano Viale had treated his daughter..

      But surely the Viale family owed him, too?

      They owe you—and your mother, and your grandparents—for all the years of struggle, because of what your father did. They owe you…

      Not a penny in child maintenance had her mother received. It had been Laura’s grandparents who had kept her and her mother, who had brought her up, paid for her education and keep, shod and housed her. Stefano Viale—whose father, according to the handsome lordly gofer who had told her, was one of the richest men in Italy—had not parted with a penny of his money.

      The cheque’s just back-payment. That’s all!

      But if she did take the cheque, she would have to do what it was bribing her to do. Her stomach hollowed. She would have to go to Italy and face her father’s family.

      Her face hardened. She had to save Wharton. It was her home, her haven! She had always lived here, helping to take the burden of its upkeep off her increasingly frail grandparents. She couldn’t lose it now! She just couldn’t! She stared blankly at the cheque in her hand, stomach churning.