Carole Mortimer - A Lost Love

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——’