Page 2 of Tair

Had someone left a scarf on the site? She doubted it; her crew knew more about seeds and weeds than fashion accessories. Also, her client would be arriving soon, so why was she still talking to this plank?

“We broke up over a year ago, Justin, and I don’t fancy getting back together,” she said, cutting off the last of his narcissistic babbling. “I’m at work now, and must get on. Cheers.”

“Don’t you hang up on me.” His tone shifted from jovial to shrill as he added, “I didn’t want to get nasty, Lucia, but my patience is about to run out.”

After what he’d done to her in south Florida, did the man really expect her to give into him? He’d all but ruined her life. “That won’t help your cause. It’s a dead horse, Justin. Please stop flogging it.”

He uttered a huffy sound. “Again with the snotty jokes. You hate the media, but I don’t. Remember that entertainment reporter from the Times who kept trying to interview you? I have him on speed dial. Bet he’d love to hear about your twisted relationship with Sir Anthony.”

She frowned. “I’ve never told you anything about my dad.”

“You didn’t have to.” His voice grew shrill as he added, “He’s the reason why you never liked having sex with me, right?”

“No, sorry, that was because you were a bloody awful lover.” Lucy shouldn’t have said that, but her patience was at an end. She could well imagine the lurid headlines he’d create running in every scandal rag across the globe, but not even that could scare her back into Justin’s arms. She took the little notebook she carried and jotted down his threat. “Why don’t I call the Times and tell them that? Would make an interesting advance rebuttal to your sodding lies.”

“I’m not joking, Limey,” her ex said. “I press one button, offer that guy some juicy details, and your lurid past will be splashed everywhere. They might even take away your green card this time.”

“I’m an American citizen, you daft twit, but do whatever you like. Just be sure you’ve decent counsel, because you’ll have the law on you in at least two countries. Possibly three.” Hanging up on the blustering that followed might make things worse, but Lucy didn’t care. She switched off her phone, pocketed her notebook and sighed. Now she’d have to change her number. Would she have to move again, too?

I’ll call Dad’s PR chap and tell him about the Times reporter when I get back to the office, too.

Sir Anthony Brooke had a full-time publicist who managed the actor’s affairs and kept his name as pristine as possible. Since he’d been knighted, her father’s public image had been polished so much it acted like a magnifier, making even the smallest criticism seem so much more than it was. Yet Lucy suspected that Justin wouldn’t act on his threat right away, in hopes of persuading her to go along with him. That would give Anthony’s people time to find some dirt on him. That Lucy still had to think about things like this made her wonder if she’d ever escape her famous parents’ toxic influence in her life.

I’m the love child of Britain’s greatest living actor and Italy’s most celebrated operatic soprano. Likely not.

Lucy had known from an early age that her parents were not like ordinary people. Most couples met, fell in love and married before they had children. Her British father, Anthony Brooke, had had a torrid but secret love affair with her Italian mother, Chiara Marino. With their polar opposite personalities and demanding careers, even that tenuous relationship should have ended badly, but then Chiara had unexpectedly become pregnant. As a practicing Catholic she couldn’t have an abortion. Unlike her, Anthony was delighted at the prospect of becoming a parent. They refused to marry, however, and quarreled throughout the pregnancy about what to do with Lucy.

He promised we could co-parent you, Chiara once told her. Bastardo. I should have looked up what that meant.

Her mother certainly hadn’t settled down after learning she was pregnant, which was why Lucy had ended up being born in America. Chiara had come to New York to shop and stayed for a performance of Madame Butterfly at the Metropolitan Opera House when she went into premature labor. The ER doctor wouldn’t allow her to fly back to Milan, and Lucy was born two hours later, which had infuriated Chiara.

“You did this on purpose, cara,” her mother would always say. “I had to stay another month while they cooked you in the plastic box with holes of gloves. I could not tell if you were la mia bambina, or an underdone chicken.”

After surviving her premature birth, a small but thriving Lucy was whisked off to London to meet her father, who could only spare her an hour before going back on location for his latest film. Chiara then took her to Milan, where she promptly turned her over to an Italian nanny so she could go on tour for her latest opera. After learning about this, Anthony sent a British governess to make sure she could speak English. Fortunately both women got along famously, and did all they could to make Lucy’s early years happy and healthy.

Lucy rarely saw her parents, and they were usually too busy to spend any time with her. She spent half a year in Milan and then the other half in London, but she had no happy memories of shared holidays or vacations with her mother and father. Even being together as a couple for photographs with Lucy seemed too much trouble for them. On those very rare occasions they did meet in either city, all Anthony Brooke and Chiara Marino did was bicker, nag, shout at each other or lock themselves in their bedroom.

Your mother and I are like magnets, love, Anthony had once said after having yet another horrendous fight with his wife in front of her. When we’re close we can’t stay away from each other, but when we come together our poles flip. That’s why she stays in Italy and I live in the United Kingdom. We like each other better with most of Europe between us.

Now Lucy pocketed her phone again and walked the rest of the way to the shawl, which appeared to be made of actual silk. Lucy knew because she had a big box full of dry-clean only Ferragamo scarves that she never wore, along with handmade Italian shoes and bags that Chiara had been sending her for years. She should really donate the stuff, because she didn’t care about pricey accessories. She wore work boots every day, and scruffy slippers every night. Her wardrobe these days consisted of comfortable old jeans, cotton t-shirts and one nice dress for in-person meetings with clients who expected a businesswoman. She also didn’t wear make-up, and kept her pale blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail or braid.

It should have made her incognito, but she’d also inherited her mother’s striking features and splendid curves, and her father’s unearthly green eyes, pale coloring and tall stature. The combination made her resemble a Valkyrie. Add to that her un-American accent, which was either coldly British or hotly Italian depending on her mood, and Lucy couldn’t escape attention no matter how much she tried.

Could her client have come to the property early, and left this shawl here for her? No, it’s not for me, and even if it is, I don’t need it. Lucy had learned long ago to harden herself against expecting gifts. I don’t need anything.

After this meeting and sign off she’d go back to the office and check her messages, and then she’d have the rest of the weekend to herself. Two full days of absolutely no one to see and nothing to do, which weighed on her like a pair of burlap sacks filled with sand.

Right, then, I’m lonely. What else is new?

Take the pretty thing. The voice in her head sounded oddly like her father’s assistant, only with a much heavier accent. Your luck, ’twill change.

Lucy slipped her phone into her pocket and walked down the fence toward the colorful object. She had left a few relatively healthy orange trees from the old grove on this side of the garden, and their white blossoms already perfumed the air, making her breathe in more deeply. On closer inspection the vibrant cloth resembled a rainbow-colored silk shawl with a heavy ivory fringe—something her famous mother would wear, which made her stop in her tracks. She took out her phone again and did a quick check of her mother’s schedule; she would be performing Verdi’s La Traviata tonight. She would never travel during her work season, unless...

Doing some quick math, which told her it was dinnertime in Milan, Lucy surmised that her mother would be awake—if she were still in Italy.

Finally she called a number only two people in the world knew besides her, and as soon as the line clicked she asked, “Mama?”

“Ciao, patatina,” a lovely voice answered, making each word a symphony. “Che cos’è?”