Divas (46 page)

Angry words burst from Lola’s mouth, but Niels held up a hand to silence her.

‘Or tells the truth for you, OK, ’ he continued. ‘But all it proves to me is that this Scutellaro is corruptible. Not what he did, or didn’t see you do the day your
father died.’

Lola’s eyes flashed fire.

‘Right, ’ she said with icy coldness. ‘Fine. If you really think I’m capable of killing my own father, there’s nothing more to be said, is there?’ She
snatched the contract off the table and forced it back into its folder.‘I don’t know why I bothered to even try to convince you in the first place!’ she snapped. ‘What was
the point? If you really have any doubt about whether I
killed my own father
for
money
, then I’m completely wasting my time here.’

She put the folder back in her bag and slung the whole thing over her shoulder.

‘I know I’ve got a bit of a sordid past, ’ she said bravely. ‘I know Jean-Marc and I were spoilt idiots who partied much too hard and haven’t done a day’s
work in our lives, either of us. But believe me, we’ve both learned our lesson. Jean-Marc’s at Cascabel, and I haven’t touched drugs since that night at Maud’s. And I
won’t be going near them any more. We’re both cleaning up our acts. You can believe that or not, as you want. I don’t give a damn what you think of me.’

She ticked points off on her fingers.

‘Yes, I was a spoilt party girl. Yes, I lived off the money that my father made and didn’t lift a finger to try to earn any myself. Yes, I cared much too much about getting my
picture in the glossies and sitting in the front row at fashion shows and being famous for doing nothing at all apart from wearing the latest clothes. All of that’s pretty pathetic. I get it.
But
none
of it makes me a murderess. Particularly someone who’d kill her
own father
! Your own brother’s been supporting me ever since I got arrested! Do you really think
he’d do that if he thought I’d killed my father? Do you really think he’s such an idiot that he can’t tell I’m innocent?’

She was almost out of breath by now, she was so angry.

‘So you know what, Niels van der Veer? Go to hell. Fuck you, if you can’t see what kind of person I am. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.’

She turned on her heel.

‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, ’ she said over her shoulder, ‘I’m walking out of here, if you wouldn’t mind telling Marta to buzz the gates open for me.
Don’t bother to call me a cab. The walk back down to town will do me good.’

Lola had failed, completely failed. She was going to have to get herself back to Milan, head to Malpensa airport, and board a plane with Evie’s passport, knowing that she was sure to be
arrested as soon as she stepped back onto American soil.

But strangely, as Lola walked away across the terrace, the heels of her boots clicking loudly on the marble floor of the reception room, she was full of a sense of triumph that she had barely
ever experienced before. Her head was buzzing with excitement. All her life, she had done what her father said, lived the carefree, society-girl existence he had chosen for her. She’d never
said no to him, never done anything he didn’t want, never made a single real decision of her own. There had been nothing to rebel against, because Ben Fitzgerald had wanted only the best for
her.

Lola had achieved more in these past two days than she had managed in her entire over-indulged, rich-girl life. And standing up to Niels van der Veer, telling him to go to hell, was the
culmination of it all. He was the strongest, most powerful, most intimidating man she had ever met; and still, she had managed to tell him exactly what she thought of him, and done it, too, in a
way so articulate that she could be really proud of herself.

She was so high on her own success that she didn’t even hear Niels coming after her, had no idea that he wasn’t still standing on the terrace, until his hand grasped her arm and he
said:

‘Lola – Lola, don’t go. I’m sorry. I really am sorry.’

She stopped, but she didn’t turn around. She made him come to her, walk around her till he was looking down at her. And she shook his hand off her arm for good measure.

‘I deserve that, ’ he said, grimacing.

His silvery eyes were softer than they had ever seemed before; their expression was almost pleading.

‘Don’t go, ’ he repeated. ‘Tell me what you need. Tell me what you came here for.’ He swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, Lola.’

The sound of her name on Niels van der Veer’s lips was so powerful that she would have given him anything he wanted, just to hear him call her by her name again. She
realised that she had hardly ever heard him say it: he had always been snapping at her. ‘
You
, ’ said with contempt in her direction, was probably the best she’d ever got
from him until that moment just now.

When he’d said ‘Lola’, three times, almost – for him – imploringly, it had melted her as if she’d been made of wax, and Niels had been holding a
blowtorch.

But at least she hadn’t let him see. That was the key, she was realising as she grew up. You could feel anything in the world you wanted, as long as you could disguise it when you needed
to.

So, eventually, she had consented to follow him back out to the terrace, and he had asked what she needed, and called Marta to organise her breakfast – whatever she wanted, everything they
had that she might like – and gone off to make a series of phone calls. And now she was sitting here, in the shade of the umbrella, watching the shining waters of Lake Como ripple gently in
the breeze, sipping freshly squeezed blood-orange juice, and picking at the feast that a maid had carried out on a silver tray and arranged on the table.

There was a whole salver of the sweet pastries Italians ate for breakfast: almond croissants, dusted with a matt covering of icing sugar; brioches golden and shiny with egg-yolk glaze; little
fruit tarts, rich with pastry cream and dotted with bright red berries; pains au chocolat, drizzled with zigzags of dark confectioner’s chocolate. And of course, a cup of cappuccino, the milk
thick and perfectly foamed.

But in case she preferred to eat something savoury, there were platefuls of tempting little morsels. Bright green broad beans, podded, mixed in with tiny cubes of pecorino cheese, placed on
slices of prosciutto and rolled up into little packets, drizzled with extra-virgin Tuscan olive oil; slices of
torta salata,
the Italian version of the French quiche, made with spring peas
and new-season chives; a mousse of radicchio, sitting in a pool of savoury cream, toast fingers on the side to dip into it; a dish of smoked salmon and swordfish, sliced so fine she could see the
pattern of the china below, arranged in the centre of a circle of lemon wedges and feathery silver-green fennel leaves.

Everything simple and elegant and of the best quality, nothing showy.

I should send Marta a really nice present,
she thought.
Something from Fendi. She’s very classic, she’d love Fendi. Even if I never come back here again, I should apologise
properly for all the trouble we caused.

‘Lola?’

Niels appeared in the open doors to the terrace.

‘I’ve arranged everything, ’ he said. ‘The plane’s refuelling now. Have you had enough to eat?’

She nodded, standing up and reaching for her bag. Niels looked at the table, still brimming with food.

‘You’ve hardly touched anything!’ he said. ‘Did you not like the breakfast?’

Oh, for God’s sake,
Lola thought, rolling her eyes.
I had a prosciutto parcel, some smoked salmon, some salad
and
half a croissant! I ate so much I feel sick! Do you
not
know
women like me barely eat anything to keep ourselves as slim as we are? Do you think I’m a size two because I have a really, really fast metabolism?

Men
, she sighed.
They don’t want you to be fat, but they
hate
it when you tell them how much you diet. Bloody hypocrites, all of them.

‘I’m fine, really, ’ she said, smiling at him.

He looked away.

‘Come on, ’ he said, turning and plunging down the stone staircase to the side of the terrace.

Niels was leading her down a gravel path, along the side of the house, past what, in a month or so, would be a spectacular rose garden, when the flowers that were budding now started to bloom.
He was walking so fast, taking such long strides, that she had to trot inelegantly to keep up with him. The path began to rise again, taking them through a thickly grown tunnel of boxwood planted
steeply up round the side of the villa. And then the hedges rose on either side to a topiary arch, the ground levelled out, and they emerged into a clearing cut into the woodland, a big circle of
poured grey concrete, painted with the unmistakeable markings that identified a helicopter landing pad.

Not that Lola needed to see them. The Sikorsky helicopter sitting in the centre of the concrete was indication enough.

As soon as the pilot saw Niels come through the arch of hedge he started up the engine, the blades spinning in a whir of noise. Niels crossed to the open door, climbed in and held out a hand to
Lola, helping to swing her up. They took the two back seats, strapping themselves in, donning big padded ear protectors, as the co-pilot checked that they were settled and told the pilot they were
clear for takeoff. A few seconds later, they were lifting off the ground in a constant blur and hum of noise, Lola craning her head sideways to watch as the beautiful Palladian lines of Villa
Aurora were gradually obscured by the surrounding fir trees. The Sikorsky dipped down, back over the Villa Serbelloni, to cross the lake once again.

This was the helicopter she had seen coming in when she was outside the Grand Hotel Villa Serbelloni, she realised. This was how Niels had arrived at Villa Aurora.
Oh God, poor Niels just got
here himself
. He’d probably visited Bellagio for a few days’ rest, swimming in the pool, sunbathing, fishing on the lake; and here he was, dragged out again because she’d
turned up on his doorstep like a bedraggled waif, begging for his help.

Still, he’d just load her onto the Van der Veer jet at Malpensa and then he could jump right back into his helicopter again, return to Villa Aurora, and keep going where he’d left
off before she interrupted his peace and quiet . . .

But that didn’t seem to be at all what Niels had in mind. At the foot of the steps leading up to the jet, she turned, holding out her hand to shake his goodbye. She didn’t feel
remotely comfortable enough with him to kiss him on the cheek, as she normally would have done. She was scared that if she got that physically close to him, she wouldn’t be able to control
her attraction to him.

‘Thank you so much, ’ she said in heartfelt tones. ‘You’ve saved my life, you really have.’

‘You’re a bit premature, Princess, ’ he drawled.

The sun was behind her now, and she could see the fine white lines around his eyes as he narrowed them against its glare.

‘What do you mean?’ she said nervously.

‘I’m coming with you to New York. To make sure everything goes OK, ’ he said nonchalantly. ‘I’ll probably take the jet on to Houston afterwards. I’ve got
meetings planned there for next week – I can get my office to move them forwards.’

‘You’re coming to New York too?’ Lola heard her voice go up a whole register, suddenly higher and squeakier than her dignity would like.

‘What, don’t want my company?’ Niels said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Too bad. I’m not spending a fortune in fuel to take this plane across the Atlantic without seeing
some business benefit from it.’

He glanced at his watch.

‘Come on, Princess, we have a tight flight slot to make. It took all the pull I had to get us cleared for takeoff now. Get your bottom up those steps before we miss it, eh?’

Behind him, a
Vogue
model dressed in a stewardess’s uniform designed by Giorgio Armani tapped him on the shoulder, smiling. She was tall and blonde and the way she was looking at
Niels made Lola’s fingers curl into claws.

‘Mr van der Veer? I hear we’re boarding, ’ she said flirtatiously.

‘Hi, Lesley, ’ Niels said, returning her smile so appreciatively that Lola’s nails sank into her palms. ‘We are, you’re not. How do you feel about an
all-expenses-paid stay in Milan for a few days?’

Lesley’s big green eyes widened.

‘I feel very good about that, Mr van der Veer, ’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Nice of you to ask.’

‘I was hoping you’d say that. Talk to Nazario in the office, he’ll organise everything. And Lesley?’ He held out his hand. ‘That’s not quite all I need from
you . . .’

Lola wasn’t going to stay and watch Niels flirt with his stewardess. She climbed the stairs to the jet, sighing with happiness as she took in the familiar, luxurious surroundings, the
enormous pale beige leather seats, the pristine white carpet, the door to the large (by airplane standards) bathroom at the back of the plane.

She put down her Vuitton bag, stretched to the ceiling, cricking out her back, and sat down in one of the ridiculously comfortable leather seats, buckling herself in.

And then her eyes widened as she finally realised something that should have been obvious to her already.

Niels had just told the stewardess she wouldn’t be needed onboard this flight. Surely that meant he wanted to be alone with Lola?

Oh God
. She felt an instant, automatic rush of heat between her legs. Alone with Niels, miles up in the air. Was it really a good idea?

Yes
!
God yes!
answered the lower part of her body immediately.
I mean, he’s insanely hot, and what else are we going to do for the next eight hours?

Lola consulted an organ rather higher up her body. But even her brain wasn’t much help.

After all
, it pointed out,
you must have had some idea that this must happen when you tracked Niels down in Como. I mean, you generally don’t seem able to be alone with each
other without something of the sort happening, do you? Admit it – you’ve been fantasising about seeing Niels again, haven’t you?