A Lost Love

‘No,’ Brooke absently toyed with the pattern on the pink candlewick bedspread. She hadn't seen Rafe Charlwood since that last troubled incident, although it seemed he had visited his aunt recently.

‘I managed to persuade him that a hospital is no place for an impressionable child,’ Jocelyn told her with satisfaction.

‘Persuade?’ she mocked.

‘I forbade him,’ Jocelyn corrected with a trace of her old imperiousness. ‘He's too hard on the boy,’ she muttered. ‘Expects too much of him; he's still only a baby.’ Her face softened as she thought of her great-nephew.

Brooke knew how much Jocelyn loved the little boy, a tall boy for only three years of age, with his father's dark hair and clearly defined features, although his eyes were a warm blue. Brooke had met the little boy several times herself when visiting Jocelyn at her cottage on the estate, Robert being a constant visitor to his Aunty Jossy, seeming to enjoy the informality and fun to be found at her home. As yet Brooke could see no effect on the little boy from his father's strict and often harsh attitude towards him, but one day it would come, the nervousness, the fear, and when that day did come Rafe Charlwood would have lost his son's love as surely as he had once lost his wife's.

‘It isn't wise to antagonise Rafe.’ Jocelyn sensed Brooke's resentment. ‘He's more powerful than all of us.’

Brooke repressed a shudder. ‘I know that,’ she said dully. ‘But that's no reason to be a tyrant to a little boy who can't stand up for himself.’

‘He isn't a tyrant,’ the other woman shook her head. ‘He loves the boy, but he just can't show it, doesn't like to show any sign of weakness. He was hurt and disillusioned once, but he has no intention of repeating the experience.’

‘With his own son?’ Brooke scorned. ‘There's no shame attached to loving one's child, in loving him so desperately that you'll do anything, be anything, to be with him.’ She spoke with a vehemence of feeling that made her voice quiver.

Jocelyn squeezed her hand to help lessen the pain. ‘I'm so sorry things didn't work out for you, darling,’ she sympathised gently. ‘It's so difficult——’

‘Please don't worry about it,’ she hastened to reassure the other woman, knowing that fretting about her problems was the last thing Jocelyn needed. ‘I'll manage.’

‘I know you will,’ her friend nodded, giving a regretful sigh. ‘You're a very strong-minded young lady. It's a pity——’

‘Please, Jocelyn,’ she said tightly. ‘There's no point in talking about it.’

‘No. But my will,’ Jocelyn went on insistently. ‘You won't oppose it?’

Brooke sighed, not wanting to upset her friend, but not wanting anything from her will either. The subject hadn't been discussed since the day Rafe Charlwood had arrived so unexpectedly at the clinic, and she looked about her almost guiltily now, half expecting him to overhear and misunderstand the situation a second time. It was something he was good at!

‘He's away.’ Jocelyn's mouth quirked as she correctly guessed Brooke's haunted thoughts.

‘Again?’ Brooke's brows rose reproachfully.

‘America this time,’ the other woman nodded. ‘For forty-eight hours, he said.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘And God help anyone who delays him over that time! His work schedule would kill other men,’ she shook her head, ‘but Rafe actually seems to thrive on it.’

‘And Robert?’

‘He's quite happy with his nanny, happier than he should be if the truth were known.’ Jocelyn shook her head sadly. ‘It isn't the way it should be.’

‘Rafe wanted his son,’ Brooke bit out tautly.

‘Because he felt Robert's mother was unfit to bring him up,’ Jocelyn told her evenly.

‘And was she?’ Brooke scorned.

‘I never thought so.’

‘But Rafe did!’

Jocelyn shrugged. ‘He believed he knew his wife. And we'll never know for sure now, not when Jacqui has been dead for two years. But I do know that Rafe will never give up his son, not to anyone.’

‘What if he marries again?’

Jocelyn's reply was emphatic. ‘That will never happen. My will, Brooke—you didn't answer me,’ she prompted insistently.

Brooke sighed at the reintroduction of the subject she had been trying to avoid. ‘It isn't money?’ she asked warily.

‘No,’ came the assured answer.

‘Then I suppose it will be all right,’ Brooke said slowly.

‘Thank you, dear.’ Jocelyn closed her eyes tiredly. ‘And don't be sad when I'm gone,’ she murmured sleepily. ‘Dying isn't so bad, it's living that can sometimes be so hard to do.’

Brooke knew that, knew all about the pain of living when what you really wanted to do was lie back and die …

It was a quiet funeral, the way Jocelyn would have wished it to be, just her close family and a few friends; the people who had really cared about her.

Jocelyn had died peacefully in the end, during her sleep, and after months of suffering it was the way she deserved to go. Brooke had received a terse telephone call from Rafe Charlwood himself telling her of his aunt's death during the night. Perhaps because it was he who called Brooke managed to contain her initial grief, answering him coolly.

‘When will the funeral be held?’ she asked stiltedly.

‘The arrangements haven't been made yet,’ he told her smoothly, showing little or no emotion himself, despite the fact that he had been very fond of his aunt. ‘But I'm sure you would like to attend.’

‘Of course.’ Her tone was slightly defensive. Of course she wanted to attend; Jocelyn had been the best friend she had ever had, to desert her now would be disrespectful—even if the thought of going to Charlwood without her support terrified the life out of her!

‘And I'm equally sure that Jocelyn would have wanted you to travel with the family——’

‘No!’ Her tone was sharp, and she sought to control that. ‘I would rather drive myself, if you don't mind.’

There was silence for several minutes, as if Rafe Charlwood wasn't altogether pleased with her reply, but he knew there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. Brooke was her own woman, financially independent, and Rafe Charlwood had no influence over her whatsoever—she wasn't even attracted to him, as she felt sure many other women would have been.

‘If that's what you prefer,’ he said coolly. ‘You will, of course, come back to the house after the service.’

‘I——’

‘Our lawyer has requested that you do so, Miss Adamson,’ he cut into her refusal. ‘I believe your name will be mentioned in my aunt's will,’ he added dryly.

The will! Dear God, she had forgotten her promise to Jocelyn about accepting the bequest in her will. But surely directly after a funeral was no time to read a will; it seemed positively macabre to Brooke.

‘It's a family tradition,’ Rafe Charlwood drawled as if reading her thoughts.

‘I see.’ Her tone capably conveyed her opinion that it was a tradition that should have been stopped years ago, although she gave no verbal opinion. ‘In that case I'll come back to Charlwood after the funeral. If that was all …?’ she queried distantly.

‘I'll call you.’ Rafe Charlwood managed to convey his own feelings over the telephone just as capably—and he was coldly angry! ‘As soon as I know the details,’ he added abruptly.

‘I would appreciate that.’ She quickly rang off, realising that her control was about to slip. The shock of never seeing Jocelyn again was finally getting to her as Rafe Charlwood calmly discussed the ‘arrangements'—almost as if those arrangements weren't the time and last resting place of one of the kindest, most understanding women Brooke had ever known.

She was going to miss Jocelyn more than she cared to think about; the other woman had been her one and only friend during the last few years, the only one she had dared to make. The future promised to be even more bleak than the last three years, but at least Jocelyn had been released from her pain, and Brooke could feel grateful for that.

As Rafe Charlwood approached her after the funeral she stood her ground, although as usual her first instinct was to turn and run. But none of her inner unbidden panic showed as she looked up at him with cool query, aware of the curious glances Rosemary Charlwood had given her before being persuaded by her husband to accompany him over to the waiting black limousines that would take the family back to the Charlwood estate.

Brooke stood pointedly beside her own car as Rafe Charlwood reached her side, wearing a brown suit tailored to her slenderness, a brown velvet hat covering the brightness of her hair. Rafe Charlwood was also suitably dressed in sombre clothing, having taken a day off from his business affairs to show his last respects to the woman who had helped his father bring up his brother and himself after his mother had died when he was a child. Maybe he was adept at hiding his feelings, but he didn't seem as heartbroken as Brooke knew herself to have been since he had telephoned her with the news of Jocelyn's death.

His icy gaze moved over her with cold appraisal—almost as if she were a well-bred racehorse being appraised for, and by, the prize stud. Brooke withstood that assessment with one of her own, at least having the satisfaction of knowing he hadn't defeated her with the silent battle of wills, although she knew by the mocking curve to his mouth that she hadn't been the victor either.

‘Perhaps you could give me a lift back to the house?’ he requested in that coolly clipped voice. ‘That way I can direct you.’

Her own smile was tight, her eyes remaining hard. ‘I know the way to Charlwood, thank you,’ she returned with arrogance. ‘I've often stayed with your aunt there.’

‘Of course,’ he nodded acknowledgment of the fact. ‘But I'm afraid that without me you might have a little trouble getting inside the gates today.’

As Brooke had said, she had visited Jocelyn at her private cottage half a mile away from the main house many times, and never once had any trouble passing through the guarded gates. She gave Rafe Charlwood a puzzled frown.

‘Only the cars carrying the family are cleared through our security today,’ he explained in a dry drawl, as the black limousines began to file slowly past them.

‘I've often wondered why you need the security at all,’ she derided, knowing that he had an extensive system set up throughout the grounds and house.

His mouth tightened. ‘I'm a rich man,’ he bit out. ‘There have been too many kidnappings of members of wealthy families for me to take any risks with my son.’

Brooke didn't argue with him any further, but got in behind the wheel to open his door for him, turning on the ignition to follow the limousines. ‘I've met your son several times—at Jocelyn's,’ she explained lightly. ‘Is there—really any possibility of someone wanting to harm him?’ She gave Rafe Charlwood a sideways glance as she drive.

‘Yes,’ he rasped. ‘And today would give them the ideal opportunity to make such a move, during the confusion of the funeral.’

He sounded very calm, considering it was his son he was discussing as being a possible kidnap victim. God, she thought, this man really was inhuman, every action and word only confirming it.

The security around the house was indeed tight; the electronic gates were also guarded by a man, and the man who greeted them at the door of the house also seemed to check on everyone who entered.

‘Not that way,’ Rafe instructed curtly as Brooke would have followed the rest of the family into the main lounge. Charlwood was tastefully and elegantly furnished, a great and lasting compliment to Edwardian architecture, the house being surrounded by the immediate grounds of twenty acres, although Brooke knew the actual estate stretched for thousands of acres, containing several small-holdings. All the Charlwood family lacked for this to be a stately home was the title, already having the picture gallery of portraits of famous ancestors, the priceless antiques and furnishings passed down from generation to generation, even managing to have that vital asset so many titled families didn't possess nowadays—money. ‘Mr Gardner has decided to read the will in the library,’ Rafe explained at her questioning look.

The library. Just the word conjured up the massive book-lined room; many of the titles there were first editions, although this was just another wealth the Charlwood family took for granted.

A strange silence fell over the room as Brooke entered at Rafe's side, and her eyes widened as she saw that only Rosemary and Patrick were seated in the room with the man sitting behind the mahogany desk who Brooke assumed to be Mr Gardner. Were they the only four beneficiaries? It would seem so.

Rafe Charlwood's hand remained beneath her elbow as he took her across the room to introduce her to Reginald Gardner.

‘Miss Adamson,’ the elderly lawyer greeted distantly. ‘Now that we are all here,’ he cleared his throat noisily, ‘I would like to proceed with the reading of the will. There are—certain things I have to explain pertaining to its contents.’ He seemed a little uncomfortable with the fact.

‘I won't keep you much longer, Reginald,’ Rafe Charlwood told him coolly, guiding Brooke over to the two waiting chairs. ‘I believe you know my brother Patrick and his wife Rosemary,’ he introduced casually as he saw her seated before lowering his weight into the armchair next to hers.

‘Vaguely,’ Rosemary snapped, her green eyes flashing her dislike, her short hair as black as the dress she wore with such style.

‘I certainly do.’ Patrick flirted with her, his blue eyes having an irrepressible humour even on such an occasion, his over-long hair a sandy blond, his easygoing nature no match for his wife's sharp tongue.

‘Mr Charlwood, Mrs Charlwood,’ Brooke greeted them both with cool indifference.

The lawyer cleared his throat once again, obviously deciding it was time they got on with the business in hand. ‘Miss Charlwood was a very good friend of mine,’ he began. ‘I shall miss her a great deal.’

‘I'm sure we all will,’ Rafe snapped impatiently.

‘Yes, yes.’ The man placed horn-rimmed glasses on the end of his long nose. ‘The will is quite a lengthy one, so I will just read out the relevant facts.’ He shuffled some papers about in his briefcase, taking out the relevant ones and placing them tidily on the desk-top before looking up at them. ‘Not all the benefactors are in this room,’ he informed them nervously. ‘But I have done this for a reason——’

‘I hope it's a good one,’ Rafe Charlwood bit out tautly.

‘Indeed,’ the older man was beginning to look flustered. ‘The people not here today receive only nominal bequests, and the nature of the rest of the will is rather—private, to the family,’ he chose his words with care.

Brooke sensed Rafe Charlwood stiffen at her side, seeing the look that passed between him and Patrick before his narrow-eyed gaze was turned on her. She felt the colour move slowly up into her cheeks—almost as if she were actually guilty of something!

‘In that case you'd better proceed,’ the head of the Charlwood family instructed haughtily.

Reginald Gardner shot Rafe a nervous look and shuffled the papers about even more. ‘I—Yes, well, I—I'll omit all the legal bumf and get straight to the point, shall I?’

‘I think that would be best,’ the other man drawled icily.

Brooke's hands clenched together tensely in her lap as the lawyer began to talk, having a feeling, by the way the lawyer had decided on secrecy for the reading of the will to the family, that by the end of this meeting she was going to be even more unpopular with them than when she had arrived. What had Jocelyn done?

She listened as Reginald Gardner told them that all Jocelyn's money went back to the family, relieved that Jocelyn had kept her word about that. And yet she could feel her tension rising with each modulated word the man spoke, sensing that the ‘private matter to the family’ was going to be a bombshell, and she was going to be at the centre of it. She could tell the Charlwoods expected it too; Rosemary and Patrick were looking anxious, although Rafe's expression remained bland, as if he was prepared for whatever came next.

Reginald Gardner was starting to look flustered again, and Brooke felt her palms actually become damp. Oh, Jocelyn, what have you done? she cried silently.

‘Now we come to Miss Charlwood's last bequest.’ The lawyer shot Rafe another anxious look. ‘I'm afraid it isn't straightforward, and——’

‘For God's sake get on with it!’ Rosemary snapped. ‘All that's left are the shares Jocelyn had in the company.’

‘And the cottage,’ the lawyer reminded her softly.

‘The cottage?’ Rosemary frowned. ‘But surely that reverts to the estate?’

‘Not necessarily,’ the lawyer shook his head. ‘Mr Charlwood, your father,’ he looked at the other two men in the room, ‘and as such Jocelyn's brother, deeded both the cottage and its surrounding gardens to your aunt after the two of you were grown up and so no longer needed her at the main house.’

‘But surely it was only for her lifetime?’ Patrick spoke for the first time.

Reginald Gardner shook his head. ‘There was no mention of that in the deeds.’

‘But surely it was intended,’ Rosemary persisted sharply.

‘Intent does not make it so,’ the lawyer told her stiffly. ‘I drew up the deeds to the cottage, and neither by word or deed did Mr Charlwood imply that that was to be the case.’

‘Read the rest of the will, Reginald,’ Rafe Charlwood told him harshly, his features looking as if etched from granite. ‘We can argue the legalities of this later.’

‘Oh, it's legal,’ the other man said indignantly. ‘I drew the will up myself. It's just a little—unorthodox, that's all.’

‘And obviously involves Miss Adamson,’ Rosemary shot her another look of intense dislike.

‘It involves you all ultimately,’ he informed them quietly. ‘I'll read out the last bequest now, although as I've already said, it's perfectly legal. “To my dear friend Brooke Adamson, I leave the cottage in the grounds of Charlwood for the duration of her lifetime when it will revert to the estate——” ’

‘Impossible!’

‘Did Aunt Joss have a brainstorm?’ Patrick echoed his wife's outrage.

Brooke had no idea why they were so surprised; after hearing that the cottage belonged to Jocelyn she had expected as much. She had a feeling by Rafe Charlwood's silence that he too had suspected it. Well, none of them need worry; she had no intention of accepting the bequest.

‘Go on, Reginald,’ Rafe invited softly.

‘There's more?’ Patrick mocked.

‘Quite a lot more,’ the lawyer nodded. ‘And I can assure you that Miss Charlwood's faculties were perfectly in order when she made this will,’ he told the young man sternly.

‘Sorry,’ Patrick murmured almost guiltily.

‘Hm.’ Reginald Gardner had stopped looking nervous now, continuing to read. ‘ “And to my nephews, Rafe and Patrick, I leave my shares in Charlwood Industries, eleven per cent to Rafe, nine per cent to Patrick, giving them fifty-one and forty-nine percent respectively—on condition that they make no effort to prevent Brooke Adamson inhabiting the aforementioned cottage.” ’

‘That's ridiculous——’

‘And if we do “make an effort” to prevent Miss Adamson living in the cottage?’ Rafe Charlwood coolly interrupted his sister-in-law, surprisingly calm.

‘Then the shares revert to Miss Adamson,’ the lawyer told him in the hushed room.

Brooke swallowed hard, sensing the antagonism building up around her. ‘What if I don't want the cottage?’ she asked softly, not looking at any of the family, not needing to know of their resentment. ‘Give it back to the family?’

‘Then the shares automatically become yours, and you will have the controlling interest in Charlwood Industries,’ the lawyer told her gravely. ‘I have a letter for you here from Jocelyn.’ He stood up to walk over to her, handing her an envelope. ‘I have no idea of the contents,’ he told her gently. ‘But I do know that she intended you to have the cottage and not the shares. But it will, of course, be your decision.’

Brooke stood up to rip open the envelope, moving slightly away from the family as she read the contents of the handwritten sheets, vaguely aware of Rosemary Charlwood's cutting comments to her husband about the outrage of the contents of the will, declaring they would fight it.

All the discontent around her faded into the background as Brooke read the letter, and all she could do was silently thank her friend once again. Even in her illness Jocelyn had thought of Brooke, imposing the conditions of her will so that Brooke might be with her son at last—with Robert, the son she had given Rafe three years ago.

CHAPTER TWO

NO, there was no shame attached to loving your child so much that you would do anything, be anything to be with him. And the girl who had once loved Rafe so much, who had found his power awesome, his air of remoteness daunting, his coldness a little frightening—a fear that had eventually grown to such proportions that she came to dread the rare times he was at home, that girl had become a woman who had been prepared to do anything to see again the son he had denied her.

Injured in the accident that Rafe still believed had killed her, she had begged the doctor not to repair the damage to her face until she looked as good as new, but to find her a doctor who could make her look completely new. It was a process that had taken months, but the first time she had seen Rafe again just under a year ago she had been rewarded for the time and pain spent in hospital by the way he had looked straight through her, not a vestige of recognition in the flinty grey eyes for the wife he believed had betrayed him with another man.

Jocelyn had been her only ally, the only one who knew of Jacqui Charlwood's transformation to Brooke Adamson. And even to the end Jocelyn had remained loyal, knowing that with her death Brooke's one doorway to seeing Robert had been closed. The cottage on the Charlwood estate had just thrown it wide open again. Brooke hugged the letter to her, hardly able to believe Jocelyn's final generosity to her.

She could see the Charlwoods couldn't believe it either. Rosemary and Patrick were in accord for once as they both loudly voiced their displeasure to poor Reginald Gardner. Only Rafe appeared calm as usual—but then she had never been able to tell what he was really thinking, not even on the day he had asked her to marry him—and certainly not on the day he told her he intended taking her beloved baby away from her for ever. That was the day she really began to hate Rafe in earnest, even more than she feared him—because she didn't doubt he could make good his threat. And he had. Jacqui Charlwood hadn't been allowed to see her son since that day. But Brooke Adamson had, and she would continue to do so—no matter what price she had to pay.

‘Well, Miss Adamson,’ Rafe had walked over to her side without her being aware of it, his expression mocking as she hastily refolded the letter and thrust both it and the envelope into her clutch-bag. ‘And what is your decision going to be?’ he drawled. ‘It would seem the future of Charlwood Industries rests in your hands.’

Brooke looked at him as coolly as ever, having been hurt too much by this man already ever to be intimidated by him again—or ever to fall again for the magnetic charm she knew he could display when it suited him to. And it had suited him before only for as long as it took him to marry her; after that she had just become another Charlwood convenience, there to be used when needed. God, no wonder she had grown to fear him!

But none of her thoughts showed in her clear blue eyes as she met his gaze, her expression thoughtful. ‘And the cottage?’ she mocked.

He shrugged broad shoulders beneath the tailored dark suit. ‘Is yours with my compliments.’

She glanced over pointedly to where Rosemary and Patrick were now arguing with each other, a much more common occurrence than their agreement, she remembered. ‘They don't seem to feel the same way,’ she slowly taunted, enjoying this moment of power. ‘Could that be because if I take the cottage you become head of Charlwood Industries?’