A Lost Love

‘Brooke comes to see me most afternoons.’ His aunt spoke conversationally, although she was well aware of the tension between her friend and her nephew, preferring to ignore it rather than argue against it, as she had once tried to do. She knew Rafe well enough to know that once he decided on something, in this case that he disliked and distrusted Brooke, then nothing would change his mind.

Brooke disliked and distrusted him too—worse than that, she feared him; knew of the cruelty inside him that governed his own actions and those closest to him, mainly Patrick and Rosemary Charlwood. Whatever Rafe said went, as far as all of the family were concerned. Even though Jocelyn stood up to him on occasion she still accepted that Rafe was the head of the family, that he ran the business with precision skill, adding to the family fortune every day that he headed the company.

Brooke had never been able to understand this family's blind acceptance of one man's will, and she avoided meeting Rafe Charlwood whenever possible. Unfortunately, as Jocelyn had already pointed out, neither of them had expected him here today. If they had Brooke would have suitably absented herself. As it was, she would now have to brazen this meeting out—and make her excuses to leave as soon as possible.

‘Indeed?’ Hard grey eyes studied her across the width of the bed as he answered his aunt.

She turned fully to face him, meeting his gaze steadily, unflinching as his mouth twisted in derision, perfectly able to guess at the antagonism she felt in his sensed mockery. Clear blue eyes warred with steely grey ones, and it was hard to say who would have been the first to look away if Jocelyn hadn't softly interrupted the silent battle, drawing her nephew's attention back to her.

‘How are the family?’ she asked lightly.

Rafe looked down at the elderly woman from his imposing height, his thick dark hair styled low over his ears and collar in a casually windswept look that was nevertheless expensively cut—like the rest of him. ‘Didn't Patrick and Rosemary visit you only this morning?’ he drawled.

Jocelyn flushed. ‘They don't happen to be the whole family,’ she said waspishly.

His mouth firmed. ‘If you want to know how Robert is then why not come right out and ask?’

Brooke's temper rose in indignation at the way he spoke to his aunt.

But she needn't have been concerned for Jocelyn. The other woman hadn't reached her sixty-fifth year, remained unmarried, without learning to stand up for herself against the Charlwood men, Rafe most of all, if she felt strongly about something. ‘I shouldn't need to ask, Rafe,’ she snapped. ‘He is the only great-nephew I have.’

‘And likely to remain so,’ the man at her side bit out.

Brooke's sharp gaze raked over the sudden tightness of his face as he talked about his son. Dear God, Robert was only three years old—how could he have evoked such a tight-lipped response from his own father? Was the man completely inhuman?

‘Well?’ Jocelyn demanded.

Rafe gave an arrogant inclination of his head, disapproval of being spoken to in this way emanating from each tautly held line of his body. ‘Robert is very well.’

‘Did you take him to Italy with you?’ his aunt probed.

‘He stayed at Charlwood with Nanny Perkins.’

‘As usual,’ his aunt said disapprovingly. ‘You really don't see enough of the boy, Rafe. He needs his father——’

‘I don't believe that's something that should be discussed now, Jocelyn.’ His softly spoken words cut her off effectively, the edge to his voice ominously clear.

But Jocelyn didn't heed that warning, having lived through too many decades of the harsh authority of the Charlwood men to listen to it from her nephew. ‘Because of Brooke?’ she dismissed impatiently. ‘It isn't exactly a secret that you neglect your son, and after you fought so fiercely for custody of him too.’

Rafe shot Brooke a resentful glance, although his voice remained controlled. ‘I fought for my son for the simple reason that my wife was an unfit mother for him.’ His narrow-eyed gaze returned to Brooke as he heard her gasp. ‘Don't act so surprised, Miss Adamson,’ he mocked abruptly. ‘The sensation of my much-publicised separation from my wife two and a half years ago is often held up by the press as an example to less wary men of wealth when they find themselves attracted to a totally unsuitable woman.’ Contempt curled his top lip. ‘My wife was a dancer when we met, Miss Adamson, did you know that?’

As he said, she knew all about his much-publicised marriage, the nine-day wonder of the way he had exposed his wife's infidelity to the court and public alike in an effort to gain custody of their only child at their separation, a baby of only six months at the time. At least the little boy had been too young to know of his mother's humiliation and consequent death. And considering the way this man had exposed his private life then, admitted to the mistake he had made in marrying the nineteen-year-old dancer, he seemed to care little for the son he had wanted so desperately to keep, and left the child mainly to the care of his nanny.

‘Oh, not ballet or classical,’ Rafe Charlwood derided himself. ‘She belonged to a group of modern dancers who appeared on the Greg Davieson show—they were called Sensuous Romance,’ he added distastefully.

‘I remember them,’ Brooke nodded woodenly.

His hands tightened momentarily into fists before he seemed visibly to force himself to relax, smiling without humour. ‘Then you will also remember that my wife found Mr Davieson more attractive than our marriage.’

‘Don't you mean than you?’ Brooke bit down painfully on her bottom lip as his rapier-sharp gaze ripped into her with barely controlled anger. ‘I'm sorry,’ she muttered, looking down at her clasped hands. ‘I shouldn't have said that.’

‘Why not?’ he scorned harshly. ‘You're exactly right, Miss Adamson,’ he bit out grimly. ‘My wife did indeed find Greg Davieson more attractive than me.’

‘I'm sure Brooke doesn't want to hear all this, Rafe——’

‘Why not?’ he coldly interrupted his aunt. ‘I'm sure Miss Adamson isn't so innocent that the fact that my wife had an affair with another man would shock her.’

‘Rafe——’

‘It's all right, Jocelyn,’ Brooke soothed the other woman as she looked like becoming agitated by the exchange. ‘Mr Charlwood and I are just—talking.’ She turned back to him, having to bend her head back slightly to meet his gaze despite her own height of five feet eight, the three-inch heels on her black sandals even adding to this. ‘I'm not shocked by your wife's behaviour at all, Mr Charlwood, although I would be very surprised if the breakdown of your marriage rested solely with her. You see, I too have been married,’ she continued despite his icy grey eyes chilling over even more, watching now as his gaze moved to her ringless hands. Her mouth twisted with derision for that look. ‘One doesn't have to wear a ring to bear the scars of a marriage,’ she told him tautly. ‘Those you carry inside you—for ever,’ she added bitterly.

His head moved questioningly to one side, a slightly puzzled look on the arrogantly self-assured face. ‘I had no idea you had been married—are married?’

‘Was,’ she corrected abruptly.

‘Then you aren't Miss Adamson at all …’

‘I am,’ she told him sharply. ‘It isn't unusual for a woman to revert to her maiden name once a marriage is over.’

‘And your husband?’ Rafe Charlwood eyes were narrowed. ‘Where is he?’

For a moment she hesitated, breathing deeply. ‘Like your wife, he's dead,’ she finally stated flatly. ‘Yes, he's dead,’ she repeated more confidently, and turned with a gasp of dismay as she heard Jocelyn give a choked cry, bending over the other woman concernedly as she saw how pale she had become. ‘I'm sorry, Jocelyn,’ she groaned her remorse. ‘Our conversation has upset you.’ Her eyes pleaded with the other woman for her understanding, knowing it was given by the compassionate look in her friend's eyes. ‘You're looking tired,’ she squeezed Jocelyn's hand between both her own. ‘I'll leave you to rest now.’

‘I'll leave with you.’ Rafe Charlwood straightened to his full height of well over six feet.

Brooke gave him a stricken look, bending down to kiss Jocelyn goodbye before turning to pick up her clutch-bag from the coffee table in front of the Regency-style sofa, her figure as slender as that of a model, wearing a cream and black silk dress with an elegance that also spoke of professional training, moving with unconscious grace. ‘I'm sure you would rather stay and talk to your aunt privately for a few minutes,’ she gave him a cool meaningless smile. ‘I'll come and see you again tomorrow, Jocelyn.’ Her voice warmed noticeably.

‘You mustn't waste all your time on an old woman,’ she was instantly scolded. ‘I won't mind if you miss one day.’

‘But I would,’ Brooke rebuked gently. ‘It's my time, Jocelyn, and nothing pleases me more than visiting you. Can I bring you anything?’

‘Maybe an Agatha Christie?’ the other woman requested hopefully. ‘I like a good mystery novel.’

Brooke gave a light laugh. ‘I'll hunt around for one you haven't read,’ she lightly mocked the stack of books that had already accumulated on the bedside table, ignoring the cynicism she sensed emanating from the silent Rafe Charlwood. ‘You'll soon be able to start your own library,’ she teased.

Jocelyn gave a rueful smile of acknowledgment of the fact. ‘You've been very good to me——’

‘It's no more than you deserve,’ she hastily cut in on the words of gratitude, knowing that Rafe Charlwood's scorn Was growing by the second. ‘Same time tomorrow, hmm?’ she prompted lightly.

‘Lovely,’ her friend smiled.

‘Mr Charlwood,’ Brooke gave him a cold nod of dismissal, knowing by the hard glitter of his eyes that it wasn't something he was used to. Well, she didn't give a damn about what he liked or disliked, the only person she cared about in this room was Jocelyn and the help she had given her both now and in the past, and it was for that reason and that reason alone that she had been able to control her temper earlier when it had threatened to spill over into anger.

She began to breathe easier as soon as she left the private room, the heels on her sandals clattering noisily as she walked down the quiet corridor, out of the door at the end and into the sunshine. Strange, while she had been confined in the room with the oppressive presence of Rafe Charlwood she had forgotten it was a bright and sunny day in mid-August. There was a beautiful picturesque garden outside the clinic, and Brooke took a few minutes to breathe in the enchantment of a sea of multi-coloured flowers, listening to the soothing sound of the birds singing overhead in the lush green trees.

‘Waiting for me?’ drawled a familiar voice, heavily veiled with sarcasm now.

Had she been, even subconsciously? No, definitely not, came back the unequivocable answer. ‘Not at all, Mr Charlwood,’ she replied stiffly, turning to face him, clinically noting how the bright sunshine made his hair appear almost black, the wings of lighter hair at his temples silver. He had a deep tan out here in the sunshine, as if he had recently been on holiday. Perhaps all his time in Italy hadn't been spent working?