The Italian's Unexpected Love-Child. Miranda Lee

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      ‘You’re sure you know of no one called Laurence Hargraves?’ he persisted.

      ‘Absolutely sure. I have a very good memory.’

      ‘It is all very curious,’ the Italian admitted.

      ‘True. I’m finding it pretty curious myself. So, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

      ‘Not at all.’

      ‘Firstly, how old was my benefactor?’

      ‘Hmm. I’m not quite sure. Let me think. Late seventies, is my best guess. I know he was seventyish when his wife died, and that was some years back.’

      ‘Quite elderly, then. And a widower. Did he have any children?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Brothers and sisters?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘What did he die of?’

      ‘Heart attack. Though I found out after the autopsy that he also had liver cancer. He told me the weekend before he died that he was going to London to see a doctor about his liver. Instead, all he did was make a will, then dropped dead shortly after leaving his solicitor’s office.’

      ‘Goodness.’

      ‘Perhaps a mercy. The cancer was end stage.’

      ‘Was he a heavy drinker?’

      ‘I wouldn’t have said excessively so. But who knows what a lonely man does in private?’

      Veronica was taken aback at how sad he suddenly sounded. This evidence of empathy made her like Leonardo Fabrizzi a little bit, which was a minor miracle. Playboys were not her favourite species.

      Though maybe she was doing him an injustice. Maybe he had changed. It was, after all, several years since the night he’d cast his charismatic eye on her and casually suggested she join him and the blonde dripping all over him for a threesome.

      No, she thought with a derisive curl of her top lip, men like that didn’t change. Once a player, always a player.

      ‘If you give me your email address,’ he continued, ‘I’ll send you a copy of the will and you can get back to me with your decision in a day or two. Alternatively, I could ring you at this time tomorrow and we can talk some more. Would that be suitable?’

      ‘Not really.’ She and her mother always went down to the local Vietnamese restaurant for dinner early on a Saturday evening. ‘What time is it in Italy at the moment?’ she asked, not liking the idea of waiting to make a decision. ‘You are in Italy, aren’t you?’

      ‘Si. I’m in Milan. In my office. It is nine-twenty.’

      He really did speak beautiful English, very polished with correct grammar, all in a mild but disturbingly attractive accent. Veronica had always found Italian men attractive, having met quite a few during her obsessive skiing years.

      One, however, stood out amongst all the rest...

      ‘Right,’ she said crisply. ‘The thing is, I would like to talk to my mother first. Ask her if she ever knew a Laurence Hargraves. Maybe she can clear up this mystery for us. But, no matter what I find out, I can’t see there will be any problem with your buying the villa, Mr Fabrizzi. Much as it would be lovely to have a holiday home on Capri, I really can’t afford it. I will ring you back in about an hour or so. Okay?’

      ‘Certo. I will look forward to your call, Miss Hanson.’

      They exchanged relevant details, after which he hung up, leaving Veronica feeling slightly flustered. Which irritated the hell out of her. She thought she was over being affected by any member of the opposite sex, especially one with Leonardo Fabrizzi’s dubious reputation.

      Giving herself a mental shake, she retreated down the hallway and made her way up the stairs to the extension her mother had had built a few years back, a necessity once Nora had started up her home-help business on the Internet. The upstairs section included a small sitting room, a well-appointed office and a spacious bedroom and en suite. As it turned out, the extension had become a real blessing after Jerome’s death, with Veronica able to convert her mother’s old front bedroom into a treatment room for her own home-based physiotherapy business.

      It wasn’t until Veronica reached the upstairs landing that her thoughts returned to the annoyingly fascinating Italian and the astonishing reason behind his call. All of a sudden, an idea of who Laurence Hargraves might be zoomed into her head. An astonishing idea, really. Not very logical, either, knowing her mother. But the idea persisted, bringing with it a strange wave of alarm. Her heartbeat quickened and her stomach tightened, sending a burst of bile up into her throat. She swallowed convulsively, telling herself to get a grip.

       What you are thinking is insane! Insane and illogical! The man was English, not Australian. Besides, Mum would not lie to me—not over something like this.

      Finally, after scooping in several deep breaths, she lifted her hand to tap on her mother’s office door, annoyed to see her hand was shaking. Her mouth went dry. And her heart started pounding again. Not quite a panic attack, but something close.

      ‘Yes?’ came her mother’s impatient query.

      It took an effort of will to turn the knob and go into the room.

      ‘Mum,’ she said on entering, pleased that her voice wasn’t shaking as well.

      Her mother didn’t look up from where she was frowning at the computer screen.

      ‘Yes?’ she repeated distractedly.

      Veronica walked over to perch on the corner of her mother’s desk, gripping the edges with white knuckles. ‘Mum, does the name Laurence Hargraves mean anything to you?’

      Veronica had seen people go grey with pain in the course of her work; seen all the blood drain from their faces. But she’d never seen her mother go that particular colour.

      Strangely enough, as she watched her mother’s reaction, Veronica no longer felt panic. Just dismay. And the fiercest disappointment. Because now she knew the answer to the mystery, didn’t she?

      ‘He was my father, wasn’t he?’ she said bleakly, before her mother admitted to anything.

      Nora groaned, then nodded. Sadly. Apologetically.

      Veronica groaned as well, her face screwing up with distress, her hands balling into fists in defence of the flood of emotion which threatened to overwhelm her. Not since she’d discovered the awful truth about Jerome had she experienced such shock and anger. Funny how you could suspect something, but when you were actually faced with some awful truth your first reaction was still pained disbelief, quickly followed by outrage and anger.

      ‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’ she threw at her mother in anguished tones. ‘Why give me that cock-and-bull story about my father being some impoverished sperm donor from Latvia? Why not just tell me you had an affair with a married man?’

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