The Bedroom Surrender. Emma Darcy

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СКАЧАТЬ Adam’s jaw to tighten further.

      ‘James…is she related to the tenor who’s making his debut here tonight?’ the one opera buff in their party inquired.

      Adam flicked open the glossy program he’d bought earlier. The starring tenor’s name was Zuang Chi James. ‘She’s not Chinese,’ he pointed out sardonically.

      ‘You haven’t read his bio, Adam,’ came the faintly mocking reply. ‘Zuang Chi was born in China but he was smuggled out to Australia by his family who wanted him to have the chance to develop his voice. He was officially adopted by a previous Australian ambassador to China and his wife, Edward and Hilary James. They found him teachers at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music where he won a scholarship to…’

      ‘Hey! Rosalie James is an Australian, too,’ Sacha chimed in excitedly. ‘You could be right about a connection.’

      Australian? Was that her nationality? Richard stared at her, thinking there could be few more English names than Edward and Hilary, but Rosalie James didn’t look English-Australian. And the guy with the reddish hair next to her looked more like a huge marauding Scot. Her slim, elegant hand was swallowed up in his as the lights dimmed.

      Adam suffered through the first act of the opera which was utterly meaningless to him. He couldn’t get his mind off Rosalie James and her escort, both of whom looked utterly enthralled by the action on the stage. She didn’t once glance in the direction of his box, his seat. Every time Zuang Chi James sang, she leaned forward, her body finely tensed, her focus entirely on the tenor as though she did have some extra personal interest in his performance. Was he her adopted brother? He certainly won the most applause from her.

      But it was his debut at the Met, surely a milestone in any operatic singer’s career, and even Adam conceded he had a magnificent voice. Those facts alone could be eliciting her interest. After all, she sang like an angel herself, though without the resonant power of a trained classical singer. Finally, Adam remembered the proceeds from tonight’s premiere were to go to a charity.

      That was why Rosalie James was here.

      Do-gooding.

      Probably most of the people in her box were connected to the charity, directors of the board or committed fund-raisers. Except she was altogether too cosy with the big man beside her for Adam to dismiss him as a charitable connection. The all too obvious rapport between them was like a thorn in his side, constantly irritating.

      He was glad when the opera ended.

      Supper at the Four Seasons was more his style.

      Three months later their paths crossed again.

      Unplanned.

      Unexpected.

      With the same stunning impact as before, but with one big difference. This time Adam was not accompanied by a woman. And Rosalie James was on her own.

      It was a Sunday, midsummer in England. Adam left his London residence, looking forward to the pleasure of driving his Aston Martin into the country and collecting his daughter from Davenport Hall where she had spent the first week of her school holidays with her best friend, who happened to be the niece of the Earl of Stanthorpe.

      Adam’s ex-wife was delighted with that connection to the British upper class. Sending their daughter to Roedean was pure status snobbery on Sarah’s part—a ridiculous reason in Adam’s mind, but it wasn’t a big enough issue to argue over. Besides, Cate seemed happy there, didn’t complain about anything.

      She’d just turned thirteen, his one and only child from his one and only marriage, and a very bright spark, indeed. He was proud of her, always enjoyed her company when she spent time with him. They had fun together, the kind of adventurous fun her mother had never appreciated—going places, experiencing new things.

      To Sarah, there was no place like England and she wasn’t happy anywhere else, a fact she made plain by divorcing him three years after they were married. She didn’t want to spend her life gallivanting around the world with him. She was now married to a member of parliament and was the perfect politician’s wife, do-gooding with the best of them for public brownie points.

      Adam wished her well. There was no acrimony between them. The divorce settlement had been more than generous and he still paid for whatever Sarah wanted for Cate. Money, he’d found, bought a lot of harmony. He could have their daughter with him whenever he wanted. Having made time off from business commitments for Cate’s summer holidays, it somewhat niggled him that she had chosen to spend the first week of it with her best friend. Didn’t she have enough of Celeste’s company at school? Or was Davenport Hall a big attraction?

      Having been invited there for lunch to meet Celeste’s family before whisking Cate away, Adam took particular notice of the place when he arrived, driving slowly through the gateway and down a long avenue of massive trees, their branches intertwining overhead to form a sun-dappled tunnel. He had the eerie feeling of being drawn into some time warp.

      Cate had told him the hall was over four hundred years old and the thickness of the tree trunks suggested they were of the same age, yet the leaves were a light pretty green showing a bright continuance of life. At the end of the avenue the driveway circled around a massive stone fountain, water splashing and tumbling in endless cascades, a sparkling pleasure. Beyond it stood an impressive mansion, three storeys high, much of its walls covered by ivy.

      The impression of solidity and permanence was strong. This had been the home of the Earls of Stanthorpe for half a millennium. Adam had no need of deep roots himself, but he could feel its attraction here, the sense of security that undoubtedly came with nothing ever changing. Did this place have some special magic to it that appealed to Cate? Or was she being over-influenced by Sarah’s values?

      He was greeted at the front door by an old butler who’d probably served the family for decades. Having identified himself, Adam was ushered into a huge hallway, a wide strip of rich red carpet bisecting a floor of black and white tiles, a gallery of portraits on the walls, obviously depicting generations of earls. Adam instantly thought he wouldn’t want to carry the weight of all this heritage on his shoulders, tying him to the one place for life.

      Yet when he was shown into a drawing room of magnificent proportions and furnished with rich elegance, he could understand the tug of possessions that made their own seductive claim. There were three groupings of sofas and chairs and tables, one directly in front of a massive marble fireplace. But no fire was lit or needed. Sunshine streamed through a bank of six windows at one end of the room where a man and woman rose from another sitting area, smiling their welcome.

      ‘Mr. Adam Cazell, m’lord,’ the butler announced.

      The Earl of Stanthorpe was tall and lean, but with none of the rather effete air Adam associated with aristocracy. He had dark intelligent eyes and a strong grip to his hand. ‘Hugh Davenport,’ he said, inviting informality. ‘A pleasure to meet Cate’s father. This is my wife, Rebel.’

      Curious name for a lady of the establishment, and she was certainly a distinctive one—a mass of curly black hair tumbling to her shoulders, bright hazel eyes, an unusual angular jawline, a warm, winning smile of perfect white teeth.

      Adam smiled back at her as he retrieved his hand from the Earl’s and offered it to his hostess. ‘How do you do?’ A silly greeting, he’d always thought, but it seemed appropriate on this occasion.

      ‘I trust you had a pleasant trip down from London, Mr. СКАЧАТЬ