A Lost Love. Кэрол Мортимер

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      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.’

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