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