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He thought he heard a slight choking sound, then a supercilious little laugh. ‘Um, well, Miss Redmond admitted to the indiscretion, Mr Delisantro, this afternoon.’
He raked his fingers through his hair.
Damn it, why had she told them? But even as he asked himself the question he could see the guilty flush on her cheeks when she’d admitted to being a virgin—as if she’d tricked him or something—and he knew the answer. Because she was an honest and forthright and hopelessly trusting person. Unlike him.
And to think he’d accused her of being an operator. What a joke. Eva Redmond was about as devious as Snow White.
‘Here at Roots Registry we couldn’t possibly condone that kind of behaviour,’ Crenshawe continued with the same self-righteous indignation. ‘We’re a reputable company in every respect and we value our reputation above all else.’
‘But not your employees,’ Nick remarked coldly, his anger at the man rising.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Delisantro?’
‘You heard me—how long did Eva work for you?’
‘Approximately three years,’ Crenshawe replied with affronted dignity. Nick could almost see him puffing up his chest.
‘And during that time, did she ever do anything like this before?’
‘Well, no, of course not. She was a quiet and, we thought, demure employee—we never had any reason to suspect she would—’
‘But even so you didn’t think she was worthy of a second chance?’ Nick interrupted again. The creep had sacked Eva without a moment’s notice and by the sounds of it was intending to blacklist her too—and all because she’d succumbed to the explosive physical chemistry between them that even Nick, with all his sexual experience and cynicism, hadn’t been able to resist.
‘Some things simply aren’t excusable,’ the man said, but he’d lost a lot of his bluster and sounded more confused than self-righteous.
‘Yeah, right,’ Nick sneered, but even as his scorn for the bureaucratic jerk curdled his stomach he knew he had to take a large share of the blame for Eva’s predicament.
‘So I take it you won’t be making a complaint?’ the man said tentatively.
‘Of course not,’ Nick barked, thoroughly sick of the whole situation now.
He hadn’t felt this guilty about anything since he’d refused to return to the UK seven years ago and see Carmine Delisantro one last time, despite his sister Ruby’s tearful pleas.
He’d done the same thing then that he’d done a week ago. Put himself and his feelings, his wants and desires first, above everyone else’s. He hadn’t wanted to see Carmine again, because he’d been so bitterly ashamed of how he’d behaved as a teenager towards the man who had raised him. He’d thought at the time it had been the right thing to do, not to risk digging up all that anger and unhappiness and resentment about the miserable circumstances of his birth all over again. But as the years had passed, and he’d never been able to forget Ruby’s phone calls, and the funeral invitation that he’d thrown into the trash as soon as he’d received it, he’d finally had to admit the truth. That he’d taken the easy way out. He hadn’t done the right thing—he’d just done the right thing for him.
‘Well, that being the case, Mr Delisantro,’ Crenshawe’s voice buzzed in his ear, distracting him from the unpleasant memories, ‘I’m eager to talk to you on another matter entirely,’
‘What other matter?’
‘As I believe Miss Redmond informed you, she was working on the Alegria account.’
Here it comes, Nick thought bitterly. The real reason for Crenshawe’s call. ‘Yeah, what about it?’
‘We have reason to believe that Vincenzo Palatino Vittorio Savargo De Rossi, the fifteenth Duca D’Alegria, is your paternal grandfather.’ The eagerness in Crenshawe’s voice sickened Nick, but he listened.
Maybe he could work this to his advantage. Crenshawe wanted something from him, and he wanted something for Eva.
‘I already told Eva, I couldn’t give a flying—’ He paused, bit back the swear word that wanted to come out. ‘I couldn’t care less about this duc or his relationship to me.’
‘I understand, Mr Delisantro. But I thought you should know that your connection to De Rossi, if it’s confirmed, could possibly make you the sole heir to a substantial fortune in Italian real estate and assets. Not to mention the Alegria Palazzo on the banks of Lake Garda.’
‘So what? I don’t need it,’ Nick said, and meant it.
Money had been the driving force of his existence at the lowest point of his life. How to get it had become an obsession that had consumed him every second of every day, so that he could eat, stay clean, stay healthy, find shelter. When you’d been at the very bottom, when the pursuit of a few pennies meant the difference between eating or going hungry, between curling up over a tube grate or having a hostel bed for the night, you discovered just how important money was. And you’d do anything you had to do to get hold of it.
But after he’d clawed his way out of the gutter he’d flung himself into at sixteen, and begun the long, slow and difficult process of remaking himself into the man he had eventually become, he’d made a conscious effort not to let money control his life any more. Sure, he’d pursued it with almost feral intensity long after he’d needed to, but he’d eventually learnt the painful lesson that to get over his past, he had to get over the insecurity of his years on the street, and the ‘anything for a buck’ mentality that had turned him into a less-than-stellar human being.
He knew that was still a work in progress. His decision not to go and see Carmine Delisantro on his deathbed, and his reckless pursuit of Eva were proof of that. But he had more than enough money now, not just to survive, but to prosper, and he certainly had no need of De Rossi’s fortune. Maybe by some trick of genetics he was related to this guy, but he wasn’t related to him in any genuine sense.
