Millionaires: Rafaello's Mistress / Damiano's Return / Contract Baby

About the Author

LYNNE GRAHAM was born in Northern Ireland and has been a keen Mills & Boon^® reader since her teens. She is very happily married, with an understanding husband who has learned to cook since she started to write! Her five children keep her on her toes. She has a very large dog, which knocks everything over, a very small terrier, which barks a lot, and two cats. When time allows, Lynne is a keen gardener.

Look out for Lynne Graham’s latest exciting new trilogy, available from March to May in Mills & Boon^® Modern^™.

Millionaires

Rafaello’s Mistress

Damiano’s Return

Contract Baby

Lynne GRAHAM

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Rafaello’s Mistress

Lynne Graham

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN Glory walked into the London headquarters of Grazzini Industries, every male head in the vicinity swivelled to watch her.

Her face was unforgettable: wide slanted cheekbones, bright eyes the colour of bluebells and a wide, full pink mouth. Even with her honey-blonde hair caught back, and clad in khaki combats and a casual top, she attracted attention. All the men stared: they couldn’t help themselves. That stunning face and lush figure endowed her with an extraordinary degree of sex appeal.

Impervious to the attention that she was receiving, Glory was engaged in frantically talking up her flagging courage. Rafaello would listen to her, of course he would listen. So what if it had been five years since they had last met? So what if they had parted on bad terms? He had hurt her so much that even now she could not bring herself to recall how she had felt back then but she knew she had not hurt him. Powerful, influential businessmen were not known for their sensitivity. Maybe she had dented his ego a little but then he had never suffered from any lack in that department. She wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover that Rafaello barely recalled their painfully brief fling.

Yet she remembered every day, every hour, every minute. She remembered how naïve and trusting and stupid she had been. She remembered that last night she had hoped to spend with him and the resulting humiliation followed by the agony of loss and rejection. The oldest story in the book, she told herself, fighting to suppress those debilitating memories. She had wanted love but he had only wanted a temporary distraction. He might so easily have become her first lover but they had broken up before she trusted him enough to say yes.

Left alone in the steel-walled lift as it climbed higher and higher, Glory rested her hot, damp brow against the cooling metal surface. Pull yourself together, girl. Chin up, hold your head high. Never mind that her nerves were eating her alive. Or that her wardrobe did not run to a smart suit. Or that she felt horribly intimidated by Rafaello’s giant steel and glass office building. None of that mattered, she told herself. She was here to help her family: her dad, her kid brother, Sam.

Stepping out on to the top floor into an atmosphere of exclusive comfort and elegance, Glory approached the smart reception desk.

‘I have an appointment with Mr Grazzini …’ Her voice emerged all small and crushed by the sheer weight of her nervous tension.

The attractive brunette looked her up and down with a faint frownline etched between her perfect pencilled brows. ‘Your name, Miss …?’

‘Little. Glory Little,’ Glory supplied hurriedly.

‘Please take a seat …’ The cool ice-blue leather seating area was indicated.

Glory reached for a glossy women’s magazine. She flicked through fashion pages adorned by women wearing single garments that cost more than she earned in six months. Interest wandering, she glanced around herself, hugely impressed by her surroundings but anything but comfortable with them. Though it was certainly no surprise to her that Rafaello was doing extravagantly well in business. He had started out rich and would no doubt go on getting richer. Didn’t it run in his genes? He had once told her that the Grazzini clan had started coining it as merchants during the Middle Ages.

No wonder they hadn’t ended up together, she reflected, striving to see the humour of her own pitiful ignorance at the age of eighteen. Youthful bravado had persuaded her that things like different backgrounds and what some people called ‘breeding’ didn’t matter in a world approaching the second millennium. To think otherwise was incredibly old-fashioned, she had told a less naïve friend, who had implied that Rafaello could only be after ‘one thing’. When her father had tried to warn her off too, she had just laughed and pointed out that Rafaello didn’t give two hoots about silly stuff, like her having left school at sixteen!

‘Miss Little …?’

Snatched from her teeming thoughts, Glory glanced up to see a young man in a smart suit studying her. Clutching her bag, she got up. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Grazzini will see you now.’

Glory managed a rather strained version of her usual sunny smile and looked down at her watch. ‘Right on the dot of ten o’clock. Rafaello hasn’t changed a bit. He was always dead keen on punctuality.’

In receipt of that chatty response, the young man looked taken aback. Glory flushed, hot embarrassed colour drenching her peaches and cream complexion right to the roots of her hair. She had said more than was required and city people didn’t gush like that and offer up unnecessary facts at the drop of a hat. But nerves had always run away with Glory’s tongue and, given the chance, she tended to rush to fill every awkward silence. Not this time, however. She knew why he had looked momentarily astonished and knowing did nothing for her self-esteem. The guy just could not imagine someone as ordinary as her ever having been on first-name terms with his rich and sophisticated employer.

‘I’m Mr Grazzini’s executive assistant,’ he informed her. ‘The name’s Jon … Jon Lyons.’

‘My name’s Glory,’ she said in turn, grateful her companion wasn’t being as stand-offish as she had expected and scolding herself for her own prejudice.

‘Very unusual …’ Jon Lyons, who was traversing the wide corridor that lay before them at the crawling speed of a snail, paused to throw her a warm and appreciative smile. ‘But very apt.’

Glory resisted the temptation to tell him that she owed her name to the fact that her father had celebrated his only daughter’s birth rather too thoroughly and had then registered her name wrongly on her birth certificate. Instead of getting to be the lofty-sounding Gloriana as her fond mother had planned, she had ended up just being called Glory. Being only five feet one inch tall and blessed with a surname like Little, she was well-accustomed to being teased. And if Jon Lyons was trying to flirt with her, she didn’t want to know.

At the age of twenty-three, she had met far too many men whose sole interest in her related to her embarrassingly lush curves. Dates that turned into wrestling sessions followed by aggrieved and aggressive ‘Why nots?’ had figured all too often in her experience. She cringed from that male attitude, found it demeaning and threatening. It was as if her body wasn’t her own and she was expected to share it whether she wanted to or not. Being bone-deep stubborn and determined to hang on in there waiting for love and commitment, she had always been punitively mean in the sharing stakes.

Her companion kept on trying to chat her up but she played dumb. The closer they got to the imposing door and the foot of the corridor, the more enervated she became and her steps grew shorter and slower. Rafaello would be on the other side of that door waiting for her. But he had agreed to see her, hadn’t he? Wasn’t that hopeful? At least, his secretary had come back to her with an appointment fairly quickly and she wasn’t fool enough to think that she could have got that far without Rafaello’s agreement. Rafaello was rich and important and much in demand. She was really lucky that he was giving her the chance to speak up in her family’s defence, she reminded herself.

So what was she actually going to say to Rafaello? Please, please think again? Please don’t sack my father? Please don’t blame him for my kid brother’s antics?

Sam had done a stupid, stupid thing. Helping himself to the keys entrusted to their parent during the housekeeper’s overnight absence, Sam had thrown an impromptu party in the Grazzini family’s fabulous English home, Montague Park. The party had got out of hand. Panicking at the damage being done, Sam had run to their father for help. Then their father had made his mistake. Instead of admitting his son’s guilt, her father had foolishly and unsuccessfully attempted to cover Sam’s tracks and deny his involvement. Paling as she contemplated the challenge of trying to excuse such dishonest behaviour, Glory walked in through the door spread wide for her. Once over the threshold, she froze.

Her companion, who had remained in the corridor, had to nudge her a few inches deeper into the room to get the door closed behind her. Dry-mouthed, Glory scanned the vast office, her attention jumping from the contemporary glass and wrought-iron furniture to the wall of tinted glass windows and the sheer luxury of so much unoccupied and wholly unnecessary space. Where was Rafaello? Appreciating that he had yet to join her, she breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled again, fighting to get a firmer grip on herself.

But her own mind was working against her like a secret enemy. As she stood there doing the careful breathing exercises that a magazine article had said were a great aid to achieving a calm state of mind, she started getting something rather akin to flashbacks. Her first true sighting of Rafaello Grazzini eight years earlier …

Glory’s father, Archie Little, was the head gardener at Montague Park. Just as his father had been and his father before him, for her ancestors had worked on the Montague estate for a couple of centuries. About seventy-odd years back, Rafaello’s grandfather had married the last of the Montague line and had resisted all pleas to assume his wife’s maiden name. The fair and rather chinless Montagues had been replaced by the infinitely more exotic and good-looking Grazzinis with their dark flashing eyes and aggressive jawlines.

Before her father became head gardener the Littles had lived in the village several miles from Montague Park, but when he was promoted he had been provided with a comfortable cottage on the estate. Her parents had been delighted but Glory had been distraught because all her friends had lived in the village. Being stuck in the midst of several thousand acres of beautiful unspoilt countryside had seemed to her a fate worse than death.

One afternoon soon after that move, out walking and still wallowing in self-pity, Glory had enjoyed one of those rare life-changing experiences: she had seen Rafaello Grazzini on a scrambler motorbike, racing a friend with a breathtaking lack of caution for his own safety. No youthful male had ever appeared to greater advantage to an impressionable fifteen-year-old girl than he did that day. She had watched him wheeling the powerful bike to a halt and wrenching off his helmet. His black hair had blown back from his vibrant dark features, strong and bold against the washed-out colours of a too dry English summer. Glory had discovered right there and then that living in the rural depths had one major consolation: Rafaello Grazzini, six years older, and unlikely to notice she occupied the same earth but very worthy of becoming the target of her first besotted crush.

Only somewhere along the line something had gone wrong, Glory conceded dully. She had not outgrown the crush. Even when he had maddened and mortified her beyond belief in an unfortunate first encounter the following year, she had stayed dangerously loyal and keen. And when, two years later, all her dreams came true and she actually went out with Rafaello it had taken precious little encouragement for her to move from the base of that juvenile infatuation into being passionately in love.

Without warning, a door on the far side of the office opened. Sprung from her unwelcome mental trawl back through past events, Glory jumped as though someone had fired a gun behind her and spun round.

‘I’m afraid I was waylaid by one of the directors,’ Rafaello murmured, cool as a long drink of icy water on a hot day.

Glory was trembling and she couldn’t help herself. It had been five years since she had seen him. Five long years that had taken her from girl to woman but, in the blink of an eye, all that painfully acquired maturity was wrenched from her by the simple act of Rafaello walking into the same room. She gazed at him in shock, for nothing could have prepared her for the strength of her own reaction. At eighteen, her cure had been steadily and repeatedly telling herself that she had romanticised and embellished her image of him beyond belief. And there he stood, every inch of him a blatant rejection of such wishful thinking …

Six feet two inches tall, much taller than she had allowed him to be in her memory, and with the wide shoulders, broad chest, narrow hips and long muscular legs of a natural athlete. Not even that formal fine grey pinstripe suit so superbly tailored to his powerful frame could shield her from the acknowledgement that whatever he had been doing in recent years he had not been allowing himself to run to seed.

Having only reached as high in her appraisal as the pristine white collar encircling the elegant knot on his dark red silk tie, Glory tipped her head back and ran headlong into the stunning effect of brilliant dark eyes fringed by inky individual lashes that stood out against his smooth olive skin. Mouth dry and heart suddenly racing so fast that it felt as if it was lodged in her throat, Glory just stared back, dragged at terrifying speed up onto the heights of helpless excitement.

‘Take a seat,’ Rafaello urged with complete calm.

Her big blue eyes widened slightly. All around her the atmosphere was churning with so much fiery tension that she felt dizzy. Yet he was not turning a single strand of that luxuriant black hair so well-styled to his arrogant dark head. He felt nothing … he felt nothing, Glory realised, and she felt gutted. Even as he went through the polite motions of lifting a chair with one lean brown hand and planting it helpfully beside her, she was incapable of suppressing the sudden violent rise of tempestuous emotion attacking her.

Memory and bitter pain seemed to coalesce inside her. She saw the worst moment of her life afresh. Five years ago. Rafaello kissing that snobby redhead whose father was a merchant banker, standing Glory up in the restaurant that had been their place. His well-bred friends had been very amused by her tearful flight but equally relieved that Rafaello had dumped the gardener’s daughter with her local-yokel accent and lack of further education.

Stepping behind her, Rafaello curved light hands to her stiff arms and guided her down into the chair. Like a child who had just seen a very nasty accident, she sat there staring straight ahead of her while she crushed out that tormenting recollection of her humiliation and sought to resurrect her defences.

‘When people ask to see me, they usually talk a mile a minute because my time is valuable,’ Rafaello spelt out in the same collected dark drawl.

‘Maybe I don’t know what to say … I mean, it’s kind of traumatic … I mean, awkward,’ Glory stressed in an uneven rush, ‘seeing you again …’

Rafaello strolled with fluid grace back into her line of vision. He lounged back against the edge of his fancy desk and dealt her a smooth smile that somehow turned her churning tummy cold as ice. ‘I don’t feel at all awkward, Glory.’

Glory focused on his tie with deadly concentration. ‘Well, I’m sure you’re not wondering what I’m doing here, so I’ll just get on with it …’

‘Hopefully,’ Rafaello encouraged.

Just when she was about to break into her prepared speech, her mind went blank again on the helpless acknowledgement that she just loved his voice: that husky Italian accent that purred along every syllable and transformed the plainest word into something special. Something special that danced down her spine like a caress. Caress?

Cheeks crimsoning, Glory broke back into harried speech. ‘First I want to say how very sorry I am for what my brother did. Sam was very much in the wrong. I mean, he was brought up to respect other people’s property just as I was but he’s very young—’

‘I am aware of that,’ Rafaello said rather drily. ‘Do you think you could bring yourself to look me in the face? It’s rather distracting to have someone addressing my tie.’

A nervous giggle bubbled up in Glory’s throat and escaped in a rather choky sound. She lifted her chin, tilted back her honey-blonde head.

‘Better, cara,’ Rafaello pronounced, gazing at her with hooded dark eyes that gave her the shivers all over again.

‘It’s not really better for me,’ Glory muttered helplessly. ‘I’m so nervous that I keep on forgetting what I’m saying.’

‘Nervous? Of me?’ Rafaello purred like a prowling predator. ‘Surely not?’

All of a sudden, she felt controlled. Like a little toy train being wound up and set on a circular track he had already laid out. She stared at him. Lethal, dark and dangerous but so undeniably gorgeous that the average woman forgot the danger. He was so still, almost as if he was letting her gaze her fill, and suddenly she was past caring and greedy where minutes earlier she had been cautious. That lean bronzed face had haunted her dreams but had always blurred in daylight. The hard, high cheekbones, the strong nose, the beautiful, sensual mouth. She was looking for the cruelty that she had found in him too late to protect herself. But all she could recognise was his aura of tempered steel toughness, his incredibly intimidating self-command and the amount of authority he could put out even when in a relaxed pose.

‘Let’s chat for a while,’ Rafaello suggested, stretching out a lean hand to stab a button on some piece of office equipment and ordering coffee for two. ‘I doubt that we have any herbal tea on the premises.’

‘Coffee will be fine.’ Chat? Chat about what? What did they have to chat about?

‘Where are you living now?’ Rafaello enquired casually.

‘Near where I work—’

‘With?’

‘Nobody. It’s a bedsit—’

‘In?’

‘A house …?’ Glory asked, transfixed by the questions flying like bullets at her and unable to keep up.

Rafaello sighed. ‘I meant … where is the bedsit situated?’

‘Birmingham,’ she told him.

‘I always thought of you as a country girl.’

‘There aren’t many jobs going in the country these days,’ Glory pointed out tightly, thinking that his idea of chatting more closely resembled an interrogation. But then why shouldn’t he be curious? Being curious was only human, wasn’t it?

‘So where do you work?’

The knock on the door and the rattle of approaching china came as a welcome interruption. Obviously coffee was always on offer at the speed of light: a tray sitting already prepared and some fancy machine ready to dispense the hot, viciously strong brew he favoured. Her mind was going all over the place again. He never had taken to her herbal tea, Glory recalled dimly.

‘You were saying …?’ As a china cup and saucer were slid onto the small table that had appeared by her elbow by someone she did not even have the time to look at, Rafaello returned to his rather forbidding concept of casual chat.

‘Was I?’ Glory reached for the coffee. ‘Oh, yes, where I work. A factory—’

‘What kind of factory?’

‘Well … it’s nothing very interesting …’

Brilliant dark eyes settled on her. ‘You might be surprised at what interests me.’

Glory jerked a slight shoulder in submission and her coffee slopped out of the cup into the saucer. ‘The factory makes polystyrene for packaging and all sorts of other things …’

Rafaello continued to observe her as though her every word was fascinating. ‘And what do you do there?’

‘I pack it … the polystyrene. Sometimes I do other jobs—’

Rafaello was studying her with intense concentration. ‘And for how long have you been thrilling to the excitement of the factory floor?’

‘Look, it’s not exciting but I work alongside a nice bunch of people and the pay’s not bad.’ Her beautiful eyes reflecting reproach at that tone of sarcasm, Glory coloured. ‘I’ve been there two years.’

‘Forgive me for asking, cara,’ Rafaello drawled softly, ‘but what happened to your burning ambition to become a model?’

Glory paled and stiffened. ‘It wasn’t exactly a burning ambition. As you know, I had that offer and it … well, it just didn’t pan out—’

‘Why not?’

The pink tip of her tongue snaked out to moisten the taut line of her lower lip. She was extremely uncomfortable with his line of questioning and dismayed by the extent of his interest. His dark gaze dropped to her soft, full mouth and lingered with visible force. Sudden tension seemed to make the atmosphere sizzle. She felt her lips tingle as if he were touching them and her breathing seemed to choke off at source. Her bra felt too tight for her full breasts and her nipples pinched tight into straining buds of sensitivity. In dismay, she began sipping at the coffee she didn’t want with a hand that shook. Please no, she was praying, please, no, don’t let me be feeling like this again …

‘Why not?’ Rafaello persisted without remorse. ‘Why didn’t the modelling offer work out?’

He was going to dig and dig until he hit paydirt, Glory registered in mortification, and so she decided to just be honest. ‘It wasn’t the kind of modelling I wouldn’ve done. It was what they call “glamour” stuff … you know … like where you take your clothes off for the camera, rather than put clothes on?’

Rafaello surveyed her steadily, not a muscle moving on his darkly handsome face.

‘So they asked you to get your kit off … and you said no? Didn’t they offer you enough money?’

Glory looked at him in considerable embarrassment. ‘The money had nothing to do with it. I just wasn’t prepared to do that sort of stuff—’

Rafaello dealt her a look of derision. ‘I didn’t come down in the last shower of rain, cara. Are you or are you not the woman my father bought off with five thousand pounds?’

At that unexpected question, Glory turned whiter than his shirt and stared back at him in horror. As her fingers involuntarily loosened their grip on the saucer it fell clean out of her hand. The cup tipped and she gasped as coffee went flying over the perfect pale carpet.

‘Si … yes,’ Rafaello confirmed as the spilt liquid flowed over the expensive fibres in a spreading stain and she just stared fixedly at it, paralysed where she sat. ‘Naturally my father told me what it cost to persuade you that I was not, after all, the love of your life. And it was a fitting footnote to our relationship. A lousy five grand when you could have had ten, twenty, thirty times that for the asking. But I guess five grand seemed like a small fortune to you then.’

Glory was still watching the seeping pool of coffee. She was appalled that he had found out about that payment. She felt sick. She was in an agony of shame. Rafaello knew, Rafaello knew about the money. ‘He said it would be a secret, he said you would never know …’ she mumbled strickenly.

‘Dio mio … do you believe everything you’re told?’ Rafaello murmured with a cruel enjoyment that she could feel like a knife plunging between her ribs. ‘I was amused—’

‘Amused?’ Folding her arms over her churning tummy, Glory gazed up at him in shaken disbelief.

‘My father acting like some clumsy Victorian squire trying to pay off a maidservant he saw as a threat to family unity. So unnecessary,’ Rafaello mused. ‘I never entertained a single serious thought about our relationship. But I wasn’t amused when you took the money like the greedy little gold-digger he said you were. That was cheap and inexcusable.’

Glory sat there as if she were turned to stone. She said nothing. She had nothing to say, for, as the money had not been returned, she could not defend herself. It would scarcely help her father’s case if she was now to confide that Archie Little had refused to allow her to destroy that cheque. Indeed, he had taken her to the bank that same day and the money had been transferred into his account. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, he had said when she argued with him. If she was being forced to leave home to please Benito Grazzini, her father had believed that he was due some compensation. Deprived of her help in the household, not to mention the extra money her job brought in, how was he to manage?

A greedy little gold-digger? So that was how Rafaello had learned to think of her over the past five years. True bitterness scythed through Glory. She thought of the games rich people played and the damage they could wreak. Their money could give them the power to bully smaller people and make them do what they didn’t want to do. She had left home because her father’s job and his very survival had been at stake and for no other reason. It seemed bitterly ironic that she was now facing Rafaello again for much the same reason.

She squared her shoulders and veiled her eyes. ‘Now that you’ve told me what you think of me, can we discuss why I asked for this appointment?’

‘Go ahead …’ Rafaello said drily.

‘You’ve given my father a month’s notice—’

‘Don’t tell me you’re surprised.’ Rafaello elevated a sleek dark brow. ‘If it hadn’t been for your father’s incompetence, your punk of a brother would never have gained access to my home—’

‘Sam nicked the keys when Dad was asleep,’ Glory protested, rising to her feet in a sudden defensive movement. ‘Since Dad could hardly have guessed what Sam was planning to do, you can’t blame him for what happened!’

‘But I can certainly blame your father for telling the police a pack of lies and trying to protect your brother and his nasty destructive friends,’ Rafaello cut in with ruthless bite. ‘Have you any idea how much damage has been caused to the Park?’

‘Sam told me everything.’ However, Glory’s combative stance had instantly evaporated when she was faced with that daunting question. ‘Rugs stained and furniture scratched and windows broken, but at least the damage was restricted to two rooms. As soon as Sam realised that his mates were too drunk for him to control, he ran for help. Dad should have called the police himself and he should have told the truth when the housekeeper called the police in the next morning—’

‘But he didn’t,’ Rafaello slotted in with lethal timing.

‘He was scared of the consequences. My brother’s only sixteen. But Sam did tell the truth when the police questioned him. He’s very ashamed and very sorry—’

‘Of course he is. He doesn’t want to be prosecuted.’

Having turned noticeably paler at that blunt statement of possible intent, Glory said in desperation, ‘Didn’t you ever kick up a lark that went horribly wrong at his age?’

‘If you’re asking, did I ever trespass on someone else’s property or vandalise it? … the answer is no.’

‘But then, I bet you had more exciting outlets at Sam’s age,’ Glory persisted. ‘Only there’s virtually nothing for teenagers to do in the area and nowhere for them to go either. None of them have any money—’

‘Cut the bleeding-heart routine,’ Rafaello advised with cold impatience. ‘I’ve got no time for anyone who violates either my home or my property. The clean-up bill alone will run into thousands—’

‘Thousands?’ she stressed in astonishment.

She received a nod of confirmation.

‘You’re being ripped off!’ Glory told him. ‘Everybody knows that you’re loaded. I bet you’re being quoted a crazy figure for the clean-up because the firm knows you can afford it.’

Rafaello surveyed her with sardonic cool. ‘Glory … it takes highly trained professionals to repair valuable antiques and restore damaged plasterwork. That kind of expertise comes at a premium charge.’

Feeling very foolish, feeling all the confused embarrassment of someone who had not a clue about the care of antiques, Glory subsided and set off doggedly on another tack. ‘I feel awful that we can’t offer you any financial compensation—’

‘I feel awful that sentencing tearaway teenagers to thirty lashes has gone out of fashion,’ Rafaello imparted very drily. ‘But the return of the snuff box that was removed from the drawing-room might … just might persuade me not to prosecute your brother.’

Glory had gone very still. ‘Something was—er—taken? But why didn’t the police mention that to Sam yesterday?’

‘They weren’t aware of it until this morning when I realised that it was missing,’ Rafaello explained grimly. ‘The snuff box is tiny and would’ve been easily slipped into a pocket.’

‘A snuff box?’ Glory parrotted weakly, aghast at the news that an item of value might have been stolen from the Park, for that was an infinitely more serious offence.

‘German, eighteenth century, made of gold and covered with precious stones. It will be virtually impossible to replace,’ Rafaello outlined.

Glory parted her taut lips. ‘How much is it worth?’

‘About sixty grand.’

Glory tried and failed to swallow. ‘Sixty thousand … pounds?’

‘I have excellent taste—’

‘And you think it’s been stolen?’ Glory exclaimed. ‘I mean, have you searched? Are you sure?’

‘I would not have reported it to the police otherwise. It puts rather a different complexion on your touching portrayal of bored teenagers with nowhere to go and nothing to do, and I have every intention of pressing charges on the score of that theft.’