A Lost
Love

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

BROOKE looked at the palely fragile woman who lay back against the white bedclothes, her heart constricting in her throat at how much more ill the other woman looked since the last time she had visited her—and that had only been yesterday! Dear Jocelyn, how bravely she was handling the fatal illness that had suddenly afflicted her six months ago, the last month of it spent in this private nursing-home; she seemed to grow weaker and more frail with each passing day.

It made Brooke angry that the other woman, the best friend she had ever had, should have to suffer such pain, that she herself should feel so helpless in the face of Jocelyn's unspoken suffering.

To look at the two of them they had little in common; Jocelyn was in her sixties, Brooke in her early twenties. The older woman's face showed signs of a faded beauty, while the younger had an exquisitely beautiful face that required little make-up, just a light brown mascara to darken the blonde lashes that surrounded shadowed blue eyes, a deep red lipgloss outlining the perfect curve of her mouth. The older woman's hair had gone gracefully grey years earlier, the younger woman having a light brown colour with blonde highlights in the thick shoulder-length swathe of straight hair.

And yet during the last three years it had been Jocelyn who had become Brooke's confidante when she needed her so much, developing what could only be called a mother–daughter relationship, as they spent a great deal of time together, Jocelyn never having married and Brooke's parents having died long ago.

Brooke knew that the Charlwoods, Jocelyn's family, viewed the friendship with some scepticism, but as Brooke obviously had wealth of her own they hadn't been able to accuse her of being after the other woman's money. But both of them knew that the friendship was frowned upon by the head of the Charlwood family, Rafe, his brother Patrick and his wife Rosemary. But Jocelyn had never been influenced by the opinion of either of her nephews, nor their father either when he had been alive, and so the friendship had continued to flourish, Brooke visiting Jocelyn at her cottage on the Charlwood estate whenever she could. To their credit the attitude of the Charlwood family had been consistent as far as Brooke was concerned—they ignored her existence wherever possible.

And that was the way she wanted it, preferring not to have attention brought to her, especially in front of Rafe, the powerful head of the family and of Charlwood Industries, a man who was as harsh as he was wealthy. The family had amassed even more money under his guidance than when Robert Charlwood, Rafe's great-grandfather, had begun their first shipping line all those years ago. Brooke knew the whole history of the Charlwood family, had met several of them, and the only one she had ever liked had been Jocelyn.

‘Are you angry with the flowers, darling, or me?’ Jocelyn teased her from her sitting position in the bed in this sunlit room that looked little like a nursing-home and more like a woman's boudoir, soft and feminine, as was the woman in the bed, her pretty pink bed-jacket matching her lace nightgown.

Brooke had to blink back the tears as she looked at her friend, the carnations she had been arranging in the vase forgotten for the moment. ‘Neither,’ she choked. ‘I'm angry at life. Why you, Jocelyn?’ she groaned her despair. ‘Why not me, when I——’

‘It isn't for us to question that,’ the other woman gently rebuked. ‘Everything has a purpose. And I think I know what mine is,’ she added softly, patting the bed at her side. ‘Come and sit here, I want to talk to you.’

The sheer intensity of Jocelyn's voice when she was feeling so ill was enough to send Brooke across the room to sit on the bedside. ‘Is there anything wrong?’ she asked worriedly. ‘The tests you had at the beginning of the week …?’

‘Just confirmed what I already knew,’ the other woman patted her hand comfortingly. ‘I shan't last the month.’

‘You mustn't talk that way!’ Brooke blanched, her hand tightening about her friend's. ‘There are so many things they can do now, medical science is advancing every day.’

Jocelyn shook her head, her smile serene. ‘They told me at the beginning that my illness was inoperable, and science isn't moving quick enough for me. I've accepted it, darling. I wish you would.’

‘I know,’ Brooke's bottom lip trembled. ‘And it's selfish of me to feel this way when your pain is so bad. But what am I going to do without you?’ She held the other woman's hand up to her cheek, her tears falling unchecked now.

Jocelyn gave a sad smile, smoothing the damp cheek with her fingertips. ‘You'll survive,’ she assured her gently. ‘And I've made provision for you in my will——’

‘No!’ Brooke raised stricken eyes, huge limpid blue eyes that reflected the fear in her heart. ‘I don't want anything, don't need anything, you know that. And it will just make Rafe—the family—dislike me more.’

‘I'm not doing this just for you.’ The older woman held her gaze. ‘This has always involved more than just you and me, that's why I allowed things to go as far as they did.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘Rafe is a hard, unforgiving man, there was no other way. But I haven't left you any money, Brooke, we both know there's little need for that,’ she added wryly. ‘And as you say, the family already dislikes you enough.’

Brooke frowned her puzzlement. ‘If not money then what …?’

‘You'll soon see.’ Jocelyn gave a tight smile. ‘And don't think I didn't give it all a great deal of thought before I did it, because I did.’

‘I would feel easier in my mind if I knew what “it” is,’ Brooke sighed.

‘You'll know all in good time,’ she was assured. ‘My lawyer will contact you at the appropriate time.’

‘When you're dead,’ Brooke said flatly.

‘Now, now, dear, we all have to go some time,’ Jocelyn smiled. ‘I've had a good life, a happy one. And now I want to try and give you a little happiness too——’

‘Your dying couldn't do that!’ Brooke choked.

‘None of us wish for my aunt's death, Miss Adamson,’ rasped a deeply harsh voice. ‘I'm sure none of us wish to even consider it.’

The sound of that voice brought Brooke to her feet, her face averted as she wiped away all trace of her recent tears, not needing to look at the man who had just entered the room to know who he was: Rafe Charlwood, head of the Charlwood family. Thirty-nine years old, dark hair liberally sprinkled with grey at his temples, a harsh face seeming as if carved from granite; the eyes a light steady grey, his nose long and straight, flanked by high cheekbones and lean cheeks, a firm uncompromising mouth, his chin square and strong, his jaw determined. His body was lean, his height immense, and yet he possessed a certain elegance of movement, a feline grace in the wide shoulders, tapered waist, narrow hips, and long legs. Brooke knew all that about the man without even looking at him, hating to look at him, remembering then all the pain he had caused her in the past. And such was this man's arrogance, his fiercely possessive vengeance, that he hadn't even known he had wronged her.

Jocelyn shot Brooke an understanding glance before concentrating on her nephew. ‘You may not want to discuss it, Rafe,’ she said softly, ‘but I can assure you it's going to happen. Now tell me what you're doing here?’ she demanded. ‘I thought you were going to Italy for the next few weeks.’

He shrugged, moving forward to kiss her dutifully on one powdered cheek, as sophisticated as usual in an elegant charcoal-grey three-piece suit and silver-grey shirt and tie, both of the latter looking like silk. ‘I concluded my business early,’ he dismissed, ‘so I thought I would pay you a visit.’ The steely gaze was once more turned on Brooke. ‘I had no idea Miss Adamson was going to be here.’

Brooke hadn't needed to be told that; she knew that if he had realised he would have arranged for his own visit not to have coincided with hers. It was his lack of effort to hide his disapproval of her that had influenced his young brother Patrick into feeling the same way, and his sister-in-law needed no encouragement in that direction; her reaction was hostile on sight.

‘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?

He strolled over to join her, moving with lithe grace, the dark suit strangely formal for a visit to the aunt he was so fond of. He seemed aware of her disapproval. ‘I came here straight from the airport,’ he explained mockingly.

‘What a busy man you are!’ She turned to begin walking to her car which was parked a short distance away, feeling irritation as he fell into step beside her, the grey matallic and black Rolls-Royce that he drove parked next to her dark green Porsche.

‘And you,’ he drawled. ‘What do you do when you aren't visiting sick friends in hospital?’

Her fingers curved about her bag, the long nails that were painted the same deep red as her lipgloss digging into the fine leather. ‘Nothing,’ she stated abruptly. ‘But then there have to be people like me to give people like you an example not to follow.’ She arched dark blonde brows at him in challenge.

For a moment he looked perplexed by the acidity of her tone, then his expression became bland once again. ‘You don't like me, do you?’ he said conversationally.

Brooke almost sighed her relief as she reached her car, unlocking the door with quick, fluid movements and sliding gratefully behind the wheel. ‘I think you have that the wrong way round, Mr Charlwood.’ She closed her door, turning on the ignition to press the button that would automatically open the window next to her and turning to look at him. ‘It's you who doesn't like me.’

He leant back against his car as it stood only a couple of feet away in this almost-full car park. ‘I don't know you,’ his mouth quirked. ‘It's hard to dislike someone you don't know.’

Brooke tossed the straight thickness of her sunbleached hair over her shoulder. ‘Then let's just say you give a very good impression of it,’ she said with saccharine sweetness, revving the engine pointedly as she began to reverse her car away from him.

In two strides he had caught up with her, his hands on the frame of the open window at her side making it impossible for her to move the car back any further. ‘Maybe I do,’ he conceded abruptly. ‘And maybe we should do something about it. Will you have dinner with me tonight?’

Her eyes widened with suspicion. She didn't trust this man, had good reason not to do so. Her mouth tightened. ‘Why don't you go home and spend some time with your son, Mr Charlwood?’ she rasped contemptuously. ‘You don't sound as if you know him either!’ Her foot stepped down on the accelerator, not caring now that he still stood dangerously close to the car, her last sight of him as she glanced in the driving mirror and saw him looking after her with coldly vengeful eyes.

That last comment about his son had been stupid and reckless, had assuredly alienated a man she knew to be cruel and vicious. But he was also a man she couldn't afford to become close to, a man that she hated, and feared, with all her heart.

Jocelyn seemed much worse in succeeding days, her vitality draining quickly, her wanderings into the past becoming more and more frequent, although she was aware of what was happening at these times, simply regretting mistakes made in a youth that had been long gone.

Brooke listened with fascination to the tales Jocelyn told her of life at Charlwood when she was a child, of the grand parties given there, which she had only been allowed to witness from illicit looks from upstairs.

‘It was wonderful to grow up there.’ Jocelyn lay back weakly on the pillows, tiring more and more easily now. A troubled frown marred her brow. ‘I wish Robert could enjoy it the way I did.’ She sighed. ‘Rafe wanted to bring him in to see me——’

‘Here?’ Brooke gave a dismayed gasp.

She nodded. ‘I told him how ridiculous he was being. A three-year-old shouldn't have to see his Aunt Jossy lying here looking helpless—and feeling it.’

‘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?’

‘I've always been the head of Charlwood Industries,’ he said hardly. ‘And I doubt even Patrick would welcome a complete stranger into the company as a shareholder.’

She didn't even stiffen at his insulting tone; she had learnt to school both her reactions and features as the latter had been slowly changed. ‘But you don't mind inviting one to share your home?’ she lightly mocked.

‘The cottage is hardly my home,’ he derided.

‘But the Charlwood estate is,’ she pointed out with coy sweetness.

‘If my being here bothers you I can always arrange to live at one of our other houses,’ he dismissed.

‘I think perhaps,’ she softly taunted, ‘my being at the cottage would bother you rather than the other way around.’

Hard grey eyes raked over her with slow disdain. ‘Believe me, Miss Adamson, where you choose to live is completely immaterial to me.’

‘Really?’ Dark blonde brows rose. ‘In that case, I'd better give all this very serious thought. As you don't seem to care one way or the other——’

‘I didn't say that, Miss Adamson,’ he bit out, evidence that he wasn't quite as controlled as he appeared, although his eyes were glacial, his mouth the forbidding line she remembered so well. ‘I would, of course, prefer the Charlwood shares to remain in the family.’

In that case she could decide on either of the conditions in the will, because if she did take the shares they would simply revert to Robert on her death. But she already knew that she was going to live in the cottage, could hardly contain her relief and elation at the thought of still being able to catch the occasional glimpse of the son who had been taken from her when he was only six months old. He had been a beautiful baby, and had grown up into a lovely little boy, but his babyhood had been robbed from her by the man standing at her side. She would never hear Robert call her ‘Mummy’ either, and all because this man had ruled her fate by his moral judgments on her, deciding she was unfit to be the mother of his child. She was no more unfit to be his mother than Rafe was to be his father!

‘I understand that,’ she told him coldly.

‘But you still need time to think about your decision?’ he rasped.

‘Yes,’ Brooke nodded, knowing it was time to cut short this private conversation with this potentially dangerous man. ‘And now if you don't mind, I would like to leave.’ She raised her voice enough to encompass the rest of the people in the room, her gaze remaining unflinching in the face of the hostility that surrounded her.

‘You'll contact me when you've made your decision, Miss Adamson,’ the lawyer asked politely; he was the only one who wasn't antagonistic, although he did seemed slightly puzzled by it all.

‘Of course.’ She moved to shake his hand, nodding coolly to the married couple before turning to leave.

‘I'll walk you to the door.’ Rafe fell into step beside her.

She gave a cool nod of acceptance and moved with graceful elegance at his side.

‘I've spent some time with my son, Miss Adamson,’ he suddenly drawled, ‘so I'll now repeat my dinner invitation to you.’

She turned to look at him as they reached the door. ‘And I'll repeat my refusal,’ she said without emotion. ‘No, thank you.’

His gaze was rapier-sharp as it raked over the beautiful perfection of her face. ‘Besides the fact that you disapprove of the way I'm bringing up my son,’ he drawled, ‘what else have I done to make you dislike me?’

She arched shaped brows. ‘Isn't that enough?’ she asked disdainfully.

His mouth twisted, his confidence now wavering for a moment. ‘Do you come from a broken home yourself?’

‘Both my parents are dead, yes.’

‘Ah.’

Brooke drew in a deep breath at his patronising tone. ‘They died when I was a child, I never really knew them. I just believe that any parent should bring up their child themselves if they're able to, and not leave it to servants.’ She could see that this time she had got beneath the coolness of his guard, his mouth tightening ominously at her rebuke.

‘Someone should have mentioned that fact to my wife,’ he bit out contemptuously.

She forced herself not to react as bitterly to that derogatory remark as she was tempted to do. She had suffered too much to get this far, she wasn't going to lose all that for the satisfaction of wiping the arrogance off Rafe's face for just a few minutes—that was as long as it would take him to recover from the fact that his wife wasn't dead after all, and to have her thrown out of his home as quickly as possible. No, even that satisfaction wasn't worth giving up the chance to be with her son.

She met his contempt with some of her own. ‘I believe I said if they are able to, Mr Charlwood,’ she drawled dismissively.

‘Meaning?’ His voice had lowered threateningly.

‘Meaning your wife wasn't given the chance to bring up her child. You brought in a nanny from the day your son was brought home from the hospital, engaged a nurserymaid to help her out with his care. I wouldn't say that left a lot of time for your wife to be involved in bringing him up, would you? Except perhaps for an hour or so before dinner?’ Her voice was heavily laced with sarcasm.

‘You would seem to know a lot about my marriage, Miss Adamson,’ Rafe grated.

She didn't just know about it, she had lived it! From the moment Robert had been placed in her arms after his birth she had loved him, but Rafe had insisted she couldn't take care of him herself, that it would tire her too much. After that she hadn't seen enough of Robert for him even to become familiar of her as his mother, the army of servants Rafe employed for his son's care making it obvious that he believed her incapable of looking after him properly. And then he had wondered why she became bored and dissatisfied with her life at Charlwood!

‘As you once mentioned, Mr Charlwood, your separation was much—publicised,’ she derided. ‘I believe at the time we were allowed to hear your wife's side of the marriage too.’

‘A side with which you obviously sympathise,’ he bit out.

She straightened her slender shoulders. ‘Any woman would feel compassion for another woman who was so callously denied her child.’

‘Callously, Miss Adamson?’ he repeated savagely, his nostrils flaring angrily, his eyes like chips of ice as he looked down at her. ‘You don't know the first thing about my marriage.’

‘Perhaps not,’ she agreed lightly. ‘Maybe you would care to enlighten me some time?’

‘I doubt it,’ he told her glacially. ‘I don't discuss it with anyone.’

Brooke nodded with cool dismissal. ‘I'll be in touch with Mr Gardner concerning the will.’ She looked pointedly at the door, waiting for him to open it before leaving with a haughty confidence she maintained until she had unlocked her car and driven down the driveway, raising her hand in only a polite token of acknowledgment to the man who stood so rigidly proud at the top of the stone steps that led into the house.

He looked very like the first time she had ever seen him in that moment, so darkly arrogant, so commanding, so handsome. Before setting eyes on Rafe Charlwood she hadn't believed such men existed outside of the pages of books or up on the big screen. He had been everything she believed tall, dark, and handsome should be and never hoped to find, had an experience and air of power that had merely added to his already devastating attraction.

Brought up by an aunt and uncle who had little interest in her, having no desire for children of their own, let alone an orphaned niece, she had been overjoyed when she won a scholarship to one of the famous schools for dance, and was happy there for the first time in years, despite being told that although she had the height and build of a ballet dancer she would never have that elusive talent that would make her into a star, the tutors advising her to concentrate on modern dance. It had been something she enjoyed more than anything else, teaming up with five other girls from the school to do a round of auditions that seemed never-ending, and rarely successful. But after almost a year together, and a change in a couple of the girls, they had finally managed to secure a season with Greg Davieson on his own television show. It had been like the realisation of a dream, the glamorous parties they were invited to being just a bonus as far as she was concerned.

And then at one of those after-the-shows parties she had seen Rafe. He had been talking with the producer and director, and she learnt from one of the other girls that he was a friend of the former, was the powerful owner of Charlwood Industries. He was a man often in the news for one business merger or another, and at thirty-five he looked his age—and he was also the most handsome and most sought-after man in London at the moment. Jacqui felt sure she didn't have a chance with him, wished she had worn something a little more mature, more sophisticated. She had come straight to the party from the show, just wanting to relax a little. The dress she had changed into was a simple yellow jersey, the colour clashing abominably with her red hair. With a natural colour of mousy-brown, and two blondes already in the group, she had decided on a more interesting shade of auburn. At their first conversation Rafe had told her he much preferred redheads to blondes, and from that moment on she had decided to keep her hair auburn.

Greg Davieson had introduced them, and to Jacqui's surprise they had spent the remainder of the evening together. When the party broke up at two o'clock in the morning Rafe Charlwood had been the one to drive her home, his home, his apartment in London. For two more weeks they had been together constantly. Jacqui was as yet unsure of Rafe's feelings for her, no closer to knowing the inner thoughts of this man than she had been before she spoke to him, and yet knowing that she was in love with him. She had known it that first night, had given him her innocence without thought of denial, and didn't hesitate on any occasion after that when he telephoned her and wanted to be with her. The night he had asked her to marry him she had been sure he loved her, although he still didn't say the words, not even at the height of passion, but remained a very private and insular man.

Her life had changed irrevocably the moment she became Rafe's wife—that much she had realised when a whole new wardrobe of clothes had been packed for her in the expensive suitcases they took with them on their honeymoon, her own clothes dismissed by Rafe as unsuitable attire for his wife. She had accepted the change of clothes, although the new ones hadn't really been the style she liked to wear, being smart rather than modern, elegant rather than stylish. But she had been too much in love with the strong man who was her husband to care about the subtle changes he made in her life, and she was overjoyed when he told her only a month after their wedding that he would like her to have his child. She had been ecstatic eight weeks later when she could tell him he was to have his wish. But it was then that even more changes began to happen in her life—the termination of her dancing career by Rafe as soon as he knew she was carrying his child, the way meetings with friends from her past life as a dancer became rarer and rarer, her life at the Charlwood estate becoming almost unbearable as her pregnancy became advanced, and Rafe forbade her to exert herself in any way. He spent more and more time away on business, and she had to contend with Rosemary's bitter jealousy over her pregnancy when she couldn't have children of her own.

As her pregnancy neared its latter months she saw even less of Rafe, not even having him close to her at night, as he no longer made the trips from his adjoining bedroom to hers, her enlarged condition making it impossible for them even to make love any more. Without that closeness between them any more she became more and more uncertain of herself, feeling the difference in their backgrounds and ages in a way she never had before. She began going up to Loudon to see her old friends.

The first time she lied about seeing the girls she used to dance with she knew she had made a mistake, but she hated it when Rafe became angry or disapproving, and came to dread those times when she had to listen to him lecturing her on maintaining her position as his wife and the mother of his expected child.

Her visits to the rehearsals of the show, with her replacement going through the routines with the other five girls, became increasingly frequent, and the lies to Rafe along with them, the excuses becoming easier to make as time went on. But she was sure that with the birth of their baby everything would come right between them again.

It had been worse. Robert had been taken over by servants as soon as they returned home, so much so that Jacqui felt superfluous, to both him and Rafe. When she asked him if it would be possible for her to begin working again now that the baby was born and he was being taken care of so well Rafe had almost exploded with anger, telling her that if he had wanted a ‘damned showgirl’ he would have taken himself a mistress, not a wife, that it was time she settled down and realised her position as his wife. His last instruction at the end of that argument had been that she wasn't to see or visit the girls at the television studio ever again.

And for several months she had obeyed him, although it hadn't been without resentment. Rafe's punishment for that had been once again to stop sharing her bed, treating her with a coldness that had made her cry herself to sleep on more than one occasion, her sister-in-law's barbs about her lack of ability to hold her husband's attention past the first wedding anniversary rubbing salt into an already open wound.

It had been after one of these more than bitchy exchanges with Rosemary that Jacqui had left the estate with a defiance that had sent her to the studio, to an agreement to take the place of one of the girls in the dance group after she fell during rehearsals and twisted her ankle. It had been an impetuous and rebellious act on her part, since the programme was being televised later that evening. After such a defiant gesture on her part it had seemed stupid not to go to the after-the-show party, deciding that Rafe might as well chastise her for really disobeying him. She hadn't expected him to come to the party, to take one look at her laughing and flirting lightly with Greg, and have her locked out of the estate.

The guard on the gate told her he had instructions not to let her into the grounds, and even her impassioned telephone call to Rafe had met with chilling uninterest. He had told her she would be hearing from his lawyers!

She had heard from them; she could hardly believe that Rafe meant them to separate and keep Robert himself just because he had seen her at a party with Greg. But Rafe had refused even to talk to her, all his contact being made through his lawyers. Those lawyers had been paid well to produce evidence of her affair with Greg Davieson—and produce it they had, each visit to her friends at the television studio being made to look as if it were a personal one to Greg, the nanny and nurserymaid engaged to look after Robert making it look as if she had no interest in her child. How she had fought against that—but her defence of herself had been weak. Rafe had got his separation, had got his son too, and Jacqui had been awarded a large settlement and told she could see her son when it was convenient to Rafe.

It was never convenient to him. After five months of trying to see Robert she was ready to have a nervous breakdown. She hadn't managed to see her son or Rafe since the legal separation.

With Rafe's influence the Greg Davieson show had been cancelled, and both he and the girls, Sensuous Romance, had been out of a job, with no possibility of getting another one when it was known Rafe Charlwood didn't want them to. Sensuous Romance had decided to try their luck in America, and they had invited Jacqui to go along with them. She was almost past caring what she did by then, knowing that Rafe would stop her seeing Robert at any price. Her efforts to take him to court for access to her son had been in her favour, yet still he defied those orders. She had appealed to his aunt then. Jocelyn was always her ally, and had agreed to bring Robert to see her. But Rafe had found out about that too, and had warned her, through his lawyers once again, that if she did anything like it again he would have her charged with kidnapping. At that moment she had known that Rafe was too powerful and cruel an adversary for her to fight and win, and the decision to go to America was taken out of her hands.

The car crash so soon after their arrival in Los Angeles had left three of the six girls dead, the others seriously injured. Jocelyn Charlwood had been the one to come over to America to identify the body of her niece-in-law, only to find that she was still very much alive, although her head injuries meant that she could be scarred for life. Jocelyn had wanted to tell Rafe that his wife was still alive, but Jacqui's pleading that she didn't, the fact that the doctor warned that she was on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown, had persuaded Jocelyn not to do so. For three days and nights the older woman had sat by her bedside, had talked her back to sanity, had promised to help in any way she could, and had agreed to help her see Robert after the plastic surgery had been completed.

And she had. She was still helping even now she was dead, knowing that the cottage was the only way Jacqui—or Brooke as she was now called—could ever be with her son. Rafe's hatred of her was so deep that he would never let her near Robert if he once guessed who she really was.

She should never have become Rafe's wife, she knew that now. It would have been so much better, for them all, if Rafe had just kept her as his mistress. But then she wouldn't have given him his son, and that had been what he married her for, after all; she had learnt the truth of that from her last heated exchange with Rosemary. Rafe had never loved her, didn't want to get married at all, but with Rosemary's barren state a Charlwood heir was needed, and it was up to him to provide it. A nice unobtrusive wife who could give him a son and then be dismissed from his life had been the reason he married her.

With only an uncaring aunt and uncle for a family she must have seemed the perfect choice to him, a little nobody who pleased him in bed—for a time. Her boredom, her defiance in seeing Greg Davieson and her old friends, must have greatly annoyed him, especially the scandal that had been caused, and reported in the newspapers, when she had fought him for custody of their child. Her death so soon after their separation must have seemed providential to him, having meant the scandal wasn't raked up again when he actually divorced her. The fact that he hadn't even come to Los Angeles to identify the body himself just proved that he had never cared for her.

Charlwood looked more imposing than normal as she drove up to the gates three weeks later, expecting an argument with the guard, prepared to meet it with one of her own. To her surprise the gates swung open as soon as she approached them in the Porsche, and the man waved her through with a friendly smile.

How ironic, she thought. She wouldn't have got within a mile of the house if it were known who she really was, and yet here she was driving straight past the main house, her cottage being about half a mile away, far enough away for her to live in privacy, but near enough for her to catch the occasional glimpse of Robert. He was a very healthy little boy, very robust; she just hoped that his father didn't break his spirit as he had once broken hers.

She had seen nothing of Rafe during the last three weeks, although she knew he had been informed by the lawyer of her decision to accept the cottage and not the shares. The lawyer had seemed relieved by her decision when she called him several days after the funeral. Her own feelings were still mixed—relief at being able to see Robert, dread at the thought that she would also see Rafe. Whatever love she had once felt for him had been slowly destroyed during their year of marriage, his savage taking of Robert from her making her hate him. And it was that hatred that she feared. At the moment Rafe seemed to be lightly pursuing her, the dinner invitations very real. But if he became too persistent, as she knew he could be, she was frightened what she might say to him in anger. Because she would never consent to going out with him, knowing too well the brand of pain he inflicted.

Jocelyn's cottage—she doubted she would ever be able to think of it as anything else!—faced away from the main house towards the river, its setting beautiful among the old oak trees, surrounded by a small neatly kept garden, wild roses trailing up and along the walls in a kaleidoscope of colour.

It was beautifully peaceful, far removed from the formality of the main house. Jocelyn had lived alone here until the last few months before her death, when Rafe had insisted she have one of the maids from the house to do the cleaning and cooking. Brooke had decided she would remain here alone herself, so the maid was back in the main house now, her own days being long and empty enough for her to take care of herself. After the accident, in which one of her legs had been broken and retained a weakness, dancing had been out for her, and with the money she had left from Rafe's more than generous settlement on her after the separation, she had no need to work anyway, aware that if she did she would stand little chance of seeing Robert. Rafe had never placed a lot of importance on money—probably because he had so much of it!—and as far as she knew he had never enquired what had happened to her fortune after her death. As far as she was aware he hadn't given her a second thought after that!

The cottage was as charming inside as it was out, olde-worlde, with chintzy furniture and curtains. Brooke felt as if she had come home after a long time away, and she put down her suitcases to look about her appreciatively, sure that she was going to be happy here.

Although the vase of yellow roses on the coffee-table struck a note of unease, and she walked over to read the card tucked among the blooms, dropping it again as if it had burnt her as she read the message written there. ‘Welcome to Charlwood, Rafe'. The message differed in only one word from the one that had accompanied the red roses that had been placed in her bedroom when she came back to Charlwood a new bride, but then Rafe had added ‘love’ before his name. The emotion had proved to be as false as the man himself, and taking the vase of yellow roses she threw them into the bin in the kitchen, feeling no remorse for the perfect yellow blooms, the fragments of the ripped card scattered on top of them.

‘Hello?’

She turned sharply at the sound of that soft query, leaning back against the unit as she saw her son standing at the doorway he had quietly opened. Pain stabbed at her heart that she couldn't pick him up and hold him the way she wanted to, but she knew that would only distress him—their acquaintance had so far been casual in the extreme. Although she intended changing all that, and as soon as possible.

‘Hello, Robert,’ she greeted lightly, closing the cupboard door firmly on the discarded roses. ‘You know who I am, don't you?’ she prompted gently as he still looked a little uncertain of her, his eyes as blue as her own, the only feature he had inherited from her as far as she could tell, the rest of him being all Rafe. But at least he didn't have those cold grey eyes.

‘Brooke,’ he nodded shyly. ‘You visit Aunt Jossy sometimes.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘She's gone away, you know,’ he spoke with a maturity far beyond his three years. ‘Nanny Perkins says Aunt Jossy has gone to see God, but Connie says she's dead. What's dead mean?’ he frowned his puzzlement.

Brooke knew that Maureen Perkins, a woman of fifty, looked after Robert in the position of nanny, and that Connie Roberts, a girl of twenty, helped out in the nursery. They had both been waiting at the house the day she brought Robert home, and although her dislike of them wasn't personal she still couldn't bring herself to like or accept the fact that two other women were bringing up her son.

‘It means that that person has gone away,’ she explained gently, ‘and that they will never come back.’

His still-babyish face creased into a frown of concentration. ‘Does that mean my mummy is dead?’ he asked, his shyness evaporating quickly as curiosity took over.

Her breath caught in her throat. She didn't want to lie to her child, would give anything to be able to tell him she was alive and that she loved him very much. But she was under no illusions, knowing that Rafe would never allow her to be Robert's mother, that if he even guessed who she was he would once again take Robert away from her.