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‘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, w
ith 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.
