Carole Mortimer - A Lost Love

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Cover

Title Page A Lost Love Carole Mortimer www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

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.