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With the last guest gone, he strode into the salon. He was too tense to sleep, and spotted the doctor still seated on a sofa. He shrugged off his jacket and pulled off the bow-tie, crossing to the drinks cabinet and pouring cognac into two glasses. He handed one to the doctor and sat down in a chair opposite.
‘Brilliant party, my boy.’
Lorenzo agreed, and automatically asked him about his mother’s health.
‘Nothing to worry about. Her blood pressure is fine, and Anna is better than she has been in years. Lucy has given her a new lease on life. You as well, Lorenzo, I shouldn’t wonder. You are a very lucky man.’ He beamed at him, sipping his glass of cognac, more than slightly drunk. ‘That young woman of yours is a true gem—beautiful and talented, with a heart as big as a lion, loving and compassionate … maybe too compassionate for her own good. If I had been her doctor I don’t think I’d have advised a teenager to do it.’
‘Do what?’ Lorenzo asked, draining his glass. He placed it on the low table and reclined back in his chair. Had Lucy had an abortion? he wondered cynically, knowing how the doctor felt about such a procedure, being deeply religious.
‘Why—give one of her kidneys to her brother, of course.’
A rushing noise filled Lorenzo’s head. The colour leached from his face, and he sat up straight and stared at the doctor with horrified eyes. ‘Lucy did what? When?’ he demanded in a hoarse voice.
‘Surely you must know? When her brother returned to England—after the climbing accident. Apparently the Swiss clinic he spent a day in said he was naturally a bit exhausted, but fine, and discharged him. A couple of weeks later his own doctor and local hospital weren’t much better, and three months later he ended up in the Hospital for Tropical Diseases in London. They finally diagnosed him as having a rare disease, probably picked up in South America at the beginning of the year, that attacked the kidneys. The only solution was a transplant. Lucy was a perfect match—not that it did much good. She told me her brother died last year.’
‘Lucy … ‘ Lorenzo groaned her name as the enormity of what she had done hit him. ‘Will she be all right?’ he asked, terrified of the answer.
‘Yes, she is fine—very fit. One kidney is almost as good as two. I got her blood results this morning. No food poisoning—nothing wrong at all. Probably, as she said, the wine and too much rich food. She is a very sensible girl, who rarely drinks and watches what she eats. I think Anna was hoping Lucy might be pregnant, but she isn’t—and she is not on the pill, either. Doesn’t believe in putting anything in her body that is not necessary to her health—very wise.’ He suddenly stopped and added belatedly, ‘But I should not have told you—doctor-patient confidentiality and all that.’ Rising to his feet, he said, ‘Time I went to bed. Goodnight, Lorenzo.’
But Lorenzo didn’t hear. He was fighting to breathe, his heart pounding in his chest as the full weight of what the doctor had revealed exploded in his mind. Lucy—his Lucy—with the laughing eyes and the brilliant smile. It would kill him if anything happened to her. And in that instant he knew he loved her—probably had from the day she’d walked into his office and he had kissed her.
A host of other memories flooded though his mind: their first night together, when he’d carried her upstairs and she’d given herself to him so willingly. For the first time in his life he’d lost control. He should have known then he loved her.
He remembered kissing the scar at the base of her spine and asking her how she’d got it the second night they were together—when, after the first rush of passion, they had made long, slow love … caressing, exploring and having fun together. She had said it was just a cut, and, so engrossed in what she was doing to him by then, he’d never queried her answer. Later that night he had delivered a cruel cut of his own, and he couldn’t bear to think how brutal he had been.
He had actually accused her brother of manslaughter and ended their weekend affair with a ruthlessness as insulting to her as it was shaming to him. Groaning, he buried his head in his hands.
Lucy was never going to forgive him—how could she? He was the staid, arrogant banker she’d called him, who thought he was always right. She had tried to tell him this afternoon, when he’d shoved his so-called proof at her. She had accused him of seeing things in black and white and suggested her brother might have been weakened or passed out. But had he listened? No.
Lorenzo had no idea how long he sat there with every day of the last few months he’d spent with Lucy replaying in his mind—every word, every action. He had read somewhere that love was a kind of madness and, given the crazy way he had behaved since he’d met Lucy, he could believe it.
Finally he got to his feet, and with a steely glint of determination in his eyes walked upstairs. He hesitated for a second outside her bedroom, then opened the door and walked in.
He crossed to the bedside and stared down at where she lay on her back, her beautiful face illuminated by the bedside light, her eyes closed peacefully in sleep. His conscience told him the way he had behaved towards her was despicable and he should leave now. Let her go home as planned, and get on with her life without him. But he was not that altruistic. What he wanted he fought tooth and nail to get—and he wanted her with a passion, a depth of love, he had never imagined possible. Just the thought of never seeing her again tore him apart. She stirred slightly.
‘Lucy.’ He said her name and sat down on the side of the bed. ‘Lucy.’ he said again, and raised his hand to rest it on her shoulder.
Somewhere in her dreams Lucy heard Lorenzo call her name, and her eyelashes fluttered. She moaned a soft, low sound—'Lorenzo … ‘ Her lips parting in the beginning of a smile. Then she heard it again, louder, and blinked. ‘Lorenzo?’ she repeated, and felt his touch. She opened her eyes. This was no dream—he was sitting on her bed. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, knocking his hand away and scrambling back against the pillows, tugging the coverlet to her neck and suddenly very aware of her naked state.
‘I had to see you—to talk to you—make sure—’
‘Are you out of your mind?’ she cried. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Yes—out of my mind with loving you.’
Loving her.
Her green eyes opened wide. She had to be still dreaming. But, no—Lorenzo was there, larger than life, minus his jacket, his shirt open at the neck. His black hair looked as if he had run his hands through it a hundred times, and his face was grey, but it was the pain in his eyes that shocked her most.
‘You look more like a man on death row than a man in love,’ she tried to joke. She could not—would not—believe what he had said.
‘Oh, Lucy,’ he groaned. ‘I might as well be if you don’t believe me. I love you—it is not a joke.’ And, reaching out, he curved his hands around her shoulders. ‘The only joke is on me, for not realising sooner,’ he said, staring down at her with haunted eyes. ‘Dio, I hope I am not too late.’
Lucy hung on to the coverlet as if her life depended on it and looked at him. This was a Lorenzo she had never seen before. Gone was the hard, emotionless man. She could see the desperation in his eyes, feel it in the unsteady hands that held her, and she could feel herself weakening, beginning to believe him … Her pulses were beating erratically beneath her skin, her heart pounding.
‘I have sat downstairs for ages, wondering how to explain my actions … the appalling way I have behaved towards you since the day we met … and the only explanation I have is because I love you.’
Her heart squeezed inside her. ‘That has to be the dumbest reason I have ever heard for declaring you love someone.’ She wanted to believe him, but with a cynicism she had never had until she’d met him she said, ‘What is this? Some ploy to get a farewell lay? Well, you are wasting your time. I know exactly how contemptuous you think I am—a promiscuous, greedy woman who can’t help herself around men and who you can pay off. But you’re wrong.’
