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‘That’s kind of you to say so. Now, do you want me to open a bottle of wine or not?’ he asked as he rose from his chair, carrying the report with him.
‘Are you sure that’s wise, under the circumstances?’
Laurence’s smile was wry. ‘I don’t think a glass or two is going to make much difference at this stage.’
CHAPTER ONE (#u1fb875c8-6713-5890-9303-ec164a92ab67)
VERONICA SMILED AS she accompanied her last client of the day to the front door. Duncan was eighty-four, and a darling, despite suffering terribly from sciatica. But he wasn’t a complainer, which Veronica admired.
‘Same time next week, Duncan?’
‘Can’t, love. Wish I could. You keep me going, you really do. But it’s my granddaughter’s twenty-first next week and I’m flying up to Brisbane for her party. Thought I might stay a week or two at my son’s place while I’m there. Be warmer, for starters. This last winter in Sydney has got right into my bones. I’ll give you a call when I get back.’
‘Okay. Now, you have a good time, Duncan.’
She watched Duncan shuffle his way down Glebe Point Road in the direction of the small terraced house where he lived. Most of her clients were locals, elderly people with lots of aches and pains, though she did treat a smattering of students from nearby Sydney University. Young men, mostly, who played rugby and soccer and came to her for help with their various injuries.
Frankly, she preferred dealing with her older male clients. They didn’t try to hit on her.
Not that she couldn’t handle the occasional pass. Veronica had been handling male passes since she’d reached puberty, the natural consequence of having been born good-looking. No point in pretending she wasn’t. She’d been very blessed in the looks department, with a pretty face, dark, wavy hair, good skin and large violet eyes.
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 taxes. I have to tell you that, on a property of this considerable value, the taxes will not come cheap. Since you are not a relative, they stand at eight percent of the current market value.’
‘Which is what, exactly?’
‘Laurence’s villa should sell for somewhere between three-and-a-half and four million euros.’
‘Heavens!’ Veronica had a substantial amount of money in her savings account—she spent next to nothing these days—but she didn’t have eight percent of four million euros.
‘If that is a problem, then I could lend you the money. You could repay me when you sell.’
His gesture surprised her. ‘You would do that? I mean...it could take some time to sell such a property, couldn’t it?’
‘Not in this circumstance. I would like to buy Laurence’s villa myself. I often visited him there and I love the place.’
Veronica should have been grateful for such an easy solution. But for some reason she was reluctant just to say yes, that would be great, yes, let’s do that.
He must have picked up on her hesitation, despite her not saying a word.
‘If you’re worried that I might try to cheat you,’ he said, sounding somewhat peeved, ‘you could get an independent valuation. Which amount I would be happy to pay in full. And in cash,’ he added, highlighting just how rich he was.
Veronica rolled her eyes, never at her best when confronted by people who trumpeted their wealth. Jerome’s parents had been very rich. And had never let her forget it, always saying she was a very lucky girl to be marrying their one and only child.
Hardly lucky, as it turned out.
‘Perhaps you would like some time to think about all this,’ the Italian went on. ‘I imagine this has all come as a shock.’
‘More of a surprise than a shock,’ she said.
‘But a pleasant one, surely?’ he suggested smoothly. ‘Since you didn’t know Laurence personally, his death won’t have upset you. And the sale of his villa will leave you very comfortably off.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she mused aloud.
‘I do hope you don’t think me rude, Miss Hanson, but I noticed your birth date on the will. I know women don’t like to talk about their ages but could you please confirm for me that the details are correct?’ And he rattled off the date.
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she said, frowning. ‘Though how this Laurence person knew it, I have no idea.’
‘So you were twenty-eight as of last June.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a Gemini.’
‘Yes. Though I don’t think I’m all that typical.’ According to a book on star signs she’d once read, she could be light-hearted and fun-loving one day, and serious and thoughtful the next. That might have been true once but she seemed to be stuck these days on the serious and thoughtful. ‘You believe in star signs, Mr Fabrizzi?’
‘Of course not. It was just an idle remark. A man is master of his own destiny,’ he stated firmly.
Spoken like a typically arrogant male, Veronica thought, but didn’t say so.
‘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?’
