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He closed his eyes and could almost see her, her delicate face framed with dark hair, her gentle smile.
But what about the Romano claim?
Not his concern—he hadn’t made this will. Roberto Bianchi had decided that the grove should go either to Holly Romano or himself. So be it. This was his way back to Lycander and he would take it. But he was damned if he’d jump to Roberto Bianchi’s tune.
* * *
Holly watched as Stefan re-entered the room, his stride full of purpose as he faced the lawyer.
‘I’ll need a copy of the will to be sent to my lawyers asap.’
James Simpson rose from behind his desk. ‘Not a problem. Can I ask why?’
‘Because I plan to overturn the terms of the will.’
The lawyer shook his head and a small smile touched his thin lips. ‘With all due respect, you can try but you will not succeed. Roberto Bianchi was no fool and neither am I. You will not be able to do it.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ Stefan said, a stubborn tilt to the square of his jaw. ‘But in the meantime perhaps it would be better for you to tell us any other provisions the Count saw fit to insert.’
‘No matter what the outcome, Thomas Romano retains the right to live in the house he currently occupies until his death, and an amount of three times his current annual salary will be paid to him every year, regardless of his job status.’
Holly frowned. ‘So in other words the new owner can sack him but he will still have to pay him and he can keep his house?’
She could see that sounded fair enough, but she knew that her father would dwindle away if his job was taken from him—if he had to watch someone else manage Il Boschetto di Sole. Especially Stefan Petrelli—the son of the woman he had once loved, the woman who had rejected him and broken his heart.
‘Correct.’ James Simpson inclined his head. ‘There are no other provisions.’
Stefan leant forward. ‘In that case I would appreciate a chance to speak with Ms Romano in private.’
Suspicion sparked—perhaps Stefan Petrelli thought he could buy her off? But alongside her wariness was a flicker of anticipation at the idea of being alone with him. How stupid was that? Hard to believe her hormones hadn’t caught up with the message—this man was the enemy. Although perhaps it didn’t have to be like that. Perhaps she could persuade him to cede his claim. After all, he hadn’t set foot in Lycander in years—why on earth did he even want Il Boschetto di Sole?
‘Agreed.’
The lawyer inclined his head. ‘There is a meeting room down the hall.’
Minutes later they were in a room full of gleaming chrome and glass, where modern art splashed bright white walls and vast windows overlooked the City and proclaimed that Simpson, Wright and Gallagher were undoubtedly prime players in the world of law.
‘So,’ Stefan said. ‘This isn’t what I was expecting when I woke up this morning.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
His gaze assessed her. ‘Surely this can’t be a surprise to you? You knew Roberto Bianchi, and it sounds like the Romanos have been an integral part of Il Boschetto di Sole for centuries.’
‘Roberto Bianchi was a man who believed in duty above all else. I thought he would leave his estate intact. Turns out he couldn’t bear the thought of the grove being sucked up by a corporation.’
‘Why?’
Holly stared at him. He looked genuinely bemused. ‘Because to Count Roberto Il Boschetto di Sole truly was a place of sunshine—he loved it, heart and soul. As my father does.’ She gave a heartbeat of hesitation. ‘As I do.’
Something flashed across his eyes—something she couldn’t fathom. But whatever it was it hardened his expression.
‘Yet you live and work in London?’
‘How do you know where I work or live? Did you check me out?’
‘I checked out your public profiles. That is the point of them—they are public.’
‘Yes. But...’ Though really there were no ‘buts’—he was correct, and yet irrationally she was still outraged.
‘I did a basic social media search—you work for Lamberts Marketing, as part of their admin team. That doesn’t sound like someone whose heart and soul are linked to a lemon grove in Lycander.’
‘It’s temporary. I thought working for a marketing company for a short time would give me some useful insights and skills which will be transferrable to Il Boschetto di Sole. My plan is to return in six months.’
Yes, she loved London, but she had always known it was a short-term stay. Her father would be devastated if she decided not to return to Lycander, to her life on Il Boschetto di Sole. She was a Romano, and that was where she belonged. Of course he wouldn’t force her return—but he needed her.
Ever since her mother had left Holly had vowed she would look after him—especially since he’d been diagnosed with a long-term heart condition. There was no immediate danger, and provided he looked after himself he should be fine. But that wasn’t his forte. He was a workaholic and the extent of his cooking ability was to dial for a take away.
Guilt panged anew—she shouldn’t have left in the first place. The least she could have done for the man who had brought her up singlehandedly from the age of eight was not abandon him. But she visited regularly, checked up nearly daily, and she would be home soon.
Stefan stepped a little closer to her—not into her space, but close enough that for a stupid moment she caught a whiff of his scent, a citrus woodsy smell that sent her absurdly dizzy.
For a second his body tensed, and she would have sworn he caught his breath, and then he frowned—as though he’d lost track of the conversational thread just as she had.
Focus.
‘I’d like to discuss a deal,’ he said eventually, as the frown deepened into what she was coming to think of as his trademark scowl. ‘What will it take for you to walk away from this? I understand that you are worried about your father—but I would guarantee that his job is safe, that nothing will change for him. If anything, he would have more autonomy to do as he wishes with the grove. And you can name your price—what do you want?’
Holly’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t want anything.’
‘You don’t even want to think about it?’ Disbelief tinged each syllable.
‘Nope.’
‘Why not?’ The question was genuine, but lined with an edge—this was a man used to getting his own way.
‘Because the Romanos have toiled on that land for generations—now we have a chance to own the land in our own right. Nothing is worth more than that. Nothing. Surely you see that?’
‘No, I don’t. It is just soil and fruit and land—the same as any other on Lycander. Take the money and buy another lemon grove—a new one that can belong to the Romanos from the start.’
His tone implied that he genuinely believed this to be a viable solution. ‘It doesn’t work like that. We have a history with Il Boschetto di Sole—a connection, a bond. You don’t.’
His frown deepened but he remained silent; it was impossible to tell his thoughts.
‘So why don’t you take your own advice? You have more than enough money to buy a score of lemon groves. Why do you want this one?’
‘That’s my business,’ he said. ‘The point is I am willing to pay you well over the market price. I suggest you think carefully about my offer. Because I am also willing to fight it out, and if I win then you will have nothing. No money and no guarantee that your father will keep his job.’
For a second her blood chilled and anger soared. ‘So if you win you would take his job from him?’
‘Perhaps. If I win the grove it will be mine to do with as I wish.’
For a second a small doubt trickled through her—what if she lost and was left with nothing? But this wasn’t about money; this was about the land of her father’s heart. This was her opportunity to give her father something infinitely precious, and she had no intention of rolling over and conceding.
‘No deal. If you want a fight, bring it on. This meeting is over.’
Before she could head around the immense table he moved to intercept her. ‘Where are you going? To marry the first man you find?’
‘Perhaps I am. Or perhaps I already have a boyfriend ready and eager to walk me to the altar.’
As if. Post-Graham she had decided to eschew boyfriends and to run away screaming from any altar in sight.
‘Equally, I’m sure there will be women queuing round the block to marry you.’
He gusted out a sigh, looking less than enamoured at the thought. ‘For a start, I’m pretty sure it’s not that easy to just get married—there will be plenty of red tape and bureaucracy to get through. Secondly, I have a better idea than instant matrimony, even if it were possible. Let’s call a truce on the race to the altar whilst my lawyers look at the will and see if this whole marriage stipulation can be overturned. There has to be a better way to settle this.’
‘No argument here—that makes sense.’ Caution kicked in. ‘In theory...’ Because it could be a trick—why should she believe anything Stefan Petrelli said? ‘But what’s to stop you from marrying someone during our ‘truce’ as a back-up plan?’
Call her cynical, but she had little doubt that a millionaire prince could find a way to obliterate all red tape and bureaucracy.
‘The fact that even the thought of marriage makes me come out in hives.’
‘Hives may be a worthwhile price to pay for Il Boschetto di Sole.’
‘Point taken. In truth there is nothing to stop either of us reneging on a truce—and it would be foolish for either of us to trust the other.’ Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked at her. ‘The lawyers will work fast—that’s what I pay them for. We’re probably only talking twenty-four hours—two days, tops. We’ll need to stick together until they get back to us.’
Stick together. The words resonated in the echoey confines of the meeting room, pinged into the sudden silence, bounced off the chrome and glass and writhed into images that brought heat to her cheeks.
Something sparked in his grey eyes, calling to her to close the gap between them and plaster herself to his chest.
‘No way.’ The words fell from her lips with vehemence, though whether it was directed at herself or him she wasn’t sure.
In truth, he looked a little poleaxed himself, and in that instant Holly wondered if this attraction could be mutual.
Then, as if with an effort, he shrugged. ‘What’s the alternative? Seems to me it’s a good idea to spend one weekend together in the hope that we can avoid a year of marriage.’
Deep breath, Holly. His words held reason, and no way would she actually succumb to this insane attraction—she’d steered clear of the opposite sex for eighteen months now, without regret. Yet the whole idea of sticking to Stefan Petrelli caused her lungs to constrict. Go figure.
‘How would it work?’
‘I suggest a hotel. Neutral ground. We can get a suite. Two bedrooms and a living area.’
Had there been undue emphasis on the word ‘two’? A glance at his expression showed tension in his jaw—clearly he wasn’t overly keen on the logistics of them sticking together either. But she couldn’t come up with an alternative—couldn’t risk him heading to the altar, and definitely couldn’t trust him. And this was doable. A suite. Separate bedrooms.
So... ‘That could work.’
‘What are your plans for the weekend? We can do our best to incorporate them.’
‘Nothing I can’t reschedule.’
In fact her plans had been to work, chill out and continue her exploration of London—maybe meet up with a colleague for a quick drink or to catch a film. But such a programme made her sound like a complete Billy-no-mates. In truth she had kept herself to herself in London, because she’d figured there was no point getting too settled in a life she knew to be strictly temporary.
‘I do have some work to do, but I can do that anywhere with internet. What about you?’
‘I’ve got some meetings, but like you I should be able to reschedule. Though I do have one site visit I can’t postpone. I suggest we go there first, then find a hotel and swing by our respective houses for some clothes.’
‘Works for me.’
It would all be fine.
One weekend—how hard could it be?
CHAPTER THREE (#uc12d64b0-4620-5973-a65c-20aa59a01404)
STEFAN FIDGETED IN the incredibly comfortable Tudor-style seat that blended into the discreetly lavish décor of the Knightsbridge hotel. Gold fabrics adorned the lounge furniture, contrasting with the deep red of the thick curtains, and the walls were hung with paintings that depicted the Tudor era—Henry VIII in all his glory, surrounded by miniatures of all his wives.
The irony was not lost on Stefan—his own father was reminiscent of that monarch of centuries ago. Cruel, greedy, and with a propensity to get through wives. Alphonse’s tally had been four.
Stefan tugged his gaze from the jewelled pomp of Henry, fidgeted again, drummed his fingers on the ornamental desk, then realised he was doing so and gritted his teeth. What was wrong with him?
Don’t kid yourself.
He’d already identified the problem—he was distracted by the sheer proximity of Holly Romano. Had been all day. To be fair, it wasn’t her fault. Earlier, at his suggestion, she’d remained in the car whilst he conducted the site visit; now they were in the hotel and for the most part she was absorbed in her work. Her focus on the computer screen nearly absolute.
Nearly.
But every so often her gaze flickered to him and he’d hear a small intake of breath, glimpse the crossing and uncrossing of long, slender jean-clad legs and he’d know that Holly was every bit as aware of him as he was of her.
Dammit!
Attraction—mutual or otherwise—had no place here. Misplaced allure could not muddy the waters. He wanted Il Boschetto di Sole.
An afternoon of fact-finding had elicited the news that the lemon grove wasn’t just lucrative—a fact that meant nothing to him—but was also strategically important. Its produce was renowned. It generated a significant amount of employment and a large chunk of tax revenue for the crown.
Ownership of Il Boschetto di Sole would bring him influence in Lycander—give him back something that his father had taken from him and that his brother would grant only as a favour. For it to come from a place his mother had loved would add a poignancy that mattered more than he wanted to acknowledge. Perhaps there he could feel closer to her—less guilty, less tormented by the memory of his betrayal.
He could even move her urn of ashes from the anonymous London cemetery where her funeral service had taken place. For years he had done his best, made regular pilgrimage, laid flowers. He had had an expensive plaque made, donated money for a remembrance garden. But if he owned the grove he would be able to scatter her ashes in a place she had loved, a place where she could be at peace.
His gaze drifted to Holly Romano again. He wanted to come to a fair deal with her, despite her vehement repudiation of the idea. His father had never cared about fairness, simply about winning, crushing his opponent—Stefan had vowed never to be like that. Any deal he made would be a fair one. Yes, he’d win, but he’d do it fair and square and where possible he’d treat his adversary with respect.
He pushed thoughts of Alphonse from his mind, allowed himself instead to study Holly’s face. There was a small wrinkle to her brow as she surveyed the screen in front of her, her blonde head tilted to one side, the glorious curtain of golden hair piled over one shoulder. Every so often she’d raise her hand to push a tendril behind her ear, only for it to fall loose once more. There came that insidious tug of desire again—one he needed to dampen down.
As if sensing his scrutiny, she looked up.
Good one, Petrelli. Caught staring like an adolescent. ‘Just wondering what you’re working on. Admin isn’t usually so absorbing.’
There was a hesitation, and then she spun the screen round to show him. ‘It’s no big deal. One of the managers at work has offered to mentor me and she’s given me an assignment.’ She gave a hitch of her slender shoulders. ‘It’s just some research—no big deal.’
Only clearly it was—the repetition, her failed attempt to appear casual indicated that.
