Conquer Your Love (7 page)

I spent the
night tossing and turning, always aware of Jett’s presence in my thoughts. When
the clock hit seven a.m
.
I tiptoed
past Sylvie’s guestroom, heading downstairs into the large living room.

Soft sunrays were streaming through the high
bay windows, bathing the room in a bright golden glow. I opened the door to the
veranda and let in the fresh country air and the sound of chirping birds. The
clear blue water of the lake shimmered. In the distance, I could make out two
sailing boats—probably early risers like me, unable to sleep for whatever
reason. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying every minute of
nature I’d never experienced in New York. Everything felt dreamlike in this
beautiful house on this beautiful island. I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave.
At least not for a while.

So much had happened those past four weeks.
Being transferred to Jett’s company. My sexual arrangement with him that turned
into something else. Then Alessandro’s will and finding out there was more to
Jett’s intentions. Was a month all it took to change my world?

 
Jett had hurt me by trying to use me to
get his hands on the estate, yet I still couldn’t deny the fact that we had
amazing chemistry. The time we spent together was one of the best in my
life—I was truly happy. At some point I honestly thought we belonged
together. He was the first man to create so much contradiction inside me: love
and hate.
Lust and contempt.

I had thought by sneaking away from him I’d
put enough time and distance between us so I could recover. He managed to
shatter all my hopes in the blink of an eye. Even though things were definitely
finished between us and I had no intention to rekindle our romance, it bothered
me that I had been genuinely happy to see him. It was wrong in every sense of
the word, but I could do nothing about it. After seeing him again last night, I
had no idea where I was standing in terms of feelings. And I certainly didn’t
want to find out. He could break down my walls too easily. Shatter my
resolution and make me want to give in to my foolish heart. He wasn’t worth the
pain
nor
the feelings of guilt. In the end, I knew I’d
end up hurt again. With his green eyes and his strong body, he once possessed
my body but I wouldn’t want him to possess my heart and soul.

By the time I closed the doors and headed for
the kitchen, the sailing boats were long gone and my stomach grumbled,
reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since the evening before. Opening and closing
cupboards, I peered inside to familiarize myself with the contents. Whoever did
the shopping had stocked up on everything from fresh fruit and vegetables, to
bread, bacon, and cheese, probably expecting or believing Sylvie and I could
cook. Sylvie barely knew how to make an omelet and I wasn’t much better. As I
filled the coffee filter the bell rang, startling me. My heart began to hammer
in my chest and certainly not because I was scared. I hadn’t told Jett I was
staying at the
Lucazzone
estate, but for some reason
I expected to see him here. Sort of looked forward to it. When I opened the
door and realized it was Clarkson, I couldn’t help the disappointment washing
over me.

Forcing my mouth into a smile, I motioned him
to come in. Dressed in a suit, he looked as though he was coming straight from
the office and, judging from his no-nonsense expression, he obviously thought
seven a.m. was the appropriate time for a business meeting.

“Good morning, Brooke.” He returned the smile
and his glance scanned the front of my bathrobe. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

I ignored the urge to ask him to stop by
later—preferably when I was showered and dressed, and Sylvie wasn’t still
sleeping off her hangover. Instead, I wrapped my bathrobe tighter around my
body and decided to lie.

“No. I’ve been up for a while.” My voice
sounded a little hoarse from the lack of sleep, but you could attribute it to
anything from a sore throat to a heated verbal discussion the previous night. I
headed for the kitchen, expecting him to follow. “Do you want coffee?”

“That’d be lovely.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“No, thank you. I have to watch my cholesterol
level.”

He laughed briefly and I smiled because it was
the polite thing to do. It had always bugged me to laugh when people said that
line. There’s nothing funny about a health concern so why would you try to
laugh it off? Opening a cupboard, I rose on my toes to reach a mug and filled
it with the still hot coffee, then handed it to him.

“Please, take a seat.” I pointed at the
polished mahogany table. He sat down and I followed suit, choosing the chair
opposite from his. My hand wrapped around my half-full coffee mug but I didn’t
take a sip until he did.

“It’s such a beautiful day,” Clarkson started.
I hope you and Sylvie are enjoying your stay. Is she still asleep?” It seemed a
harmless question, but for some reason I cringed inwardly. I didn’t like him
asking questions about her. He was twice her age and it felt creepy.
Too personal.

 
Maybe he was trying to be polite, like
most Brits I had met.

“How’s Mr.
Lucazzone
today?” I had never been particularly good at small talk or changing the
subject gracefully. Luckily, Clarkson didn’t seem to mind.

He inclined his head and his expression
changed into a frown. “I saw him last night and he was better than most days.
But his health is declining rapidly. I’m afraid he won’t last much longer,
Brooke.” His tone was layered with worry, and I wondered whether he and the old
man had been close.

I was about to say that I was sorry when
Sylvie entered the kitchen dressed in a bathrobe similar to mine, only she
looked so much hotter. Her blond hair was tied up in a high ponytail and her
blue eyes, even though rimmed by dark shadows, looked sparkling and energized.
I had no idea how she did that when I felt as though a train had just hit me,
and I hadn’t even touched any alcohol.

At the sight of Clarkson, Sylvie’s eyes popped
wide open. I could almost hear her thoughts. What was he doing here so early? I
waved her closer and pressed my coffee mug into her hands—not that she
needed it.

Clarkson’s eyes fixed on her and remained
there for a long time. I bit my lip hard and begged my brain to come up with
something—anything—to break the uncomfortable silence but, as
usual, it remained surprisingly blank when it came to making small talk.

“I’ll let you ladies get dressed,” Clarkson
eventually said. “Mr.
Lucazzone
wishes to see you
today. If you could be ready in half an hour, I’d be more than happy to drive
you to the hospital.” His tone was friendly but I thought I heard a clear
decisiveness of tone, a force that allowed for no objection. He smiled, and I
realized I was probably over-analyzing things the way I always did.

I nodded and followed Sylvie upstairs.

***

Clarkson pulled the car into a visitor spot in
the hospital’s parking area, and we headed for the pretty yet inconspicuous
building. With its yellow façade, it would have blended right in with the other
buildings on the street were it not for the double security glass doors and the
large windows. Like many clinics in Italy, this particular one was a private
institution—a two-story,
six bedroom
home in a
secluded Bellagio area, not far from the lake shore. The place was a surgically
sanitary haven for the rich who were on the verge of leaving this world. As we
entered and walked through the hall we were met by the sight of plush leather
chairs, bouquets of flowers on every table, and soft music playing from
invisible speakers. Smiling nurses in green linen uniforms pushed patients in
wheelchairs along the spotless hallways into the stunning green yard that faced
a small pond. Sylvie and I waited near the open terrace door as Clarkson
announced our presence to the receptionist.

We followed Clarkson to the second floor and
down the broad hall, past several closed doors. My stomach was in knots and my
breathing came in whistling heaps. While I was nervous to finally meet
Alessandro
Lucazzone
, I also harbored a strong
dislike of hospitals to the point of having a panic attack. The smell of
sanitizer and disease reminded me too much of my sister. Before she died she
had been hospitalized for months, during which we came to visit often, each
time working hard on putting on a brave face and maintaining a fake façade of
normalcy. As a thirteen-year-old, I understood the importance of keeping up the
protective walls that would shield our family from the devastating realization
of having a drug addict as a sister and daughter. I had tried hard to see the
positive side of our visits, and in my juvenile fantasy the hospital with its
sickening scents and scary, white walls had been a safe haven that would help
my sister get well. The impression was shattered when Jenna died and, in his
grief, my father shot himself. In his last few hours, while he lay attached to
various tubes and machines, the white sheets were soaked with my mother’s
tears, and the room echoed with useless prayers that didn’t keep him alive.
That’s when I realized hospitals were places of death. You went there to visit
your loved ones before they were taken from you forever, reminding you that
life could be lost in the blink of an eye.

 
I
had managed to avoid entering hospitals ever since my father passed away, but
even years couldn’t wipe away the memories of powerless dread, of endless
prayers that would go unheard.

“This is it.” Clarkson pointed at a closed
door. I took a deep breath to calm my racing heart and wiped my hands on the
soft material of my knee-length skirt. What would I say to this stranger who
had never met me and yet had decided to leave his estate to me? Saying ‘thank
you’ felt wrong because, even though I
was
thankful, I didn’t want him to think that inheriting what belonged to him was
all that mattered to me.

“Mr.
Lucazzone
wishes to speak with Brooke alone,” Clarkson said to Sylvie.

“You still have time to run,” she whispered to
me, ignoring the lawyer. I smiled at her weak attempt at infusing some humor to
ease my nerves.

“Ready?” Clarkson nodded encouragingly and knocked
twice, then opened the door, stepping aside. Moistening my parched lips, I
walked into the room, leaving Sylvie outside.

The old man
was
sitting in a wheelchair near the high bay window overlooking the gardens, his
head resting on a pillow, his veined hands, the color of parchment, were
sitting atop a blanket. In the bright afternoon sun, the whiteness of his bones
shimmered beneath the thin skin, building a strong contrast to the purplish hue
of his lips. To his right stood a middle-aged woman in a pale green uniform,
her black hair with silver-gray streaks was tied at the nape of her neck. A
nurse, I thought, and yet her glance seemed far too protective—hostile,
even. I knew instantly we wouldn’t be friends.

As the door clicked shut behind us, the old
man moved his head, his light blue eyes as sharp as ice. I inched closer on
shaky feet, stopping a few inches away from him, unsure whether to speak or let
Clarkson take the lead. My tongue flicked nervously over my parched lips, and
it wasn’t just because of my paranoia of hospitals. It was Alessandro
Lucazzone
who decided to address me.

“
Seniorina
Stewart.
Brooke.” Despite his high age, his voice was still clear and strong—like
that of a man half his age—and out of sorts with his aged body. He eyed
me carefully and a genuine smile lit up his face, erasing my unease at meeting
him.

“How are you, sir?” Bending down to him, I
grabbed his outstretched fingers and let him kiss my hand. His grip felt cold
and dry, but not unpleasant.

“My niece—so beautiful. Already I feel
better,” he said in heavily accented English, releasing my hand. I smiled
shyly. Even though his words were sparse, his tone was warm and welcoming. Not
strange—just friendly, making me feel as though I was family. A feeling I
hadn’t felt since Jenna and my father died. The sparkle of pride in his eyes
conveyed just how much he meant his words. Alessandro had been gay, marrying my
ancestor for money. Or maybe he had loved her, in his own way. I didn’t know
and even if I did, it wasn’t my place to judge. All that mattered was that my
presence made him feel better, because no one deserved to suffer.

“Thank you for inviting me.” I glanced from
the nurse to Clarkson in the hope someone would translate. In the end,
Alessandro made it clear he understood me perfectly.

“
Alessia
, bring us
tea.” He waved decisively at the nurse and watched her usher out the door, then
motioned Clarkson to step closer. The lawyer pressed his ear to the old man’s
mouth but in the silence of the room I could hear his whisper. “Give me a few
minutes with her.”

Clarkson nodded and peeked over his shoulder
at me. I looked away hastily, even though I knew he had caught me listening.