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.
Jocelyn shot Brooke an understanding glance before concentrating on her nephew. ‘You may not want to discuss it, Rafe,’ she said softly, ‘but I can assure you it's going to happen. Now tell me what you're doing here?’ she demanded. ‘I thought you were going to Italy for the next few weeks.’
He shrugged, moving forward to kiss her dutifully on one powdered cheek, as sophisticated as usual in an elegant charcoal-grey three-piece suit and silver-grey shirt and tie, both of the latter looking like silk. ‘I concluded my business early,’ he dismissed, ‘so I thought I would pay you a visit.’ The steely gaze was once more turned on Brooke. ‘I had no idea Miss Adamson was going to be here.’
Brooke hadn't needed to be told that; she knew that if he had realised he would have arranged for his own visit not to have coincided with hers. It was his lack of effort to hide his disapproval of her that had influenced his young brother Patrick into feeling the same way, and his sister-in-law needed no encouragement in that direction; her reaction was hostile on sight.
‘Brooke comes to see me most afternoons.’ His aunt spoke conversationally, although she was well aware of the tension between her friend and her nephew, preferring to ignore it rather than argue against it, as she had once tried to do. She knew Rafe well enough to know that once he decided on something, in this case that he disliked and distrusted Brooke, then nothing would change his mind.
Brooke disliked and distrusted him too—worse than that, she feared him; knew of the cruelty inside him that governed his own actions and those closest to him, mainly Patrick and Rosemary Charlwood. Whatever Rafe said went, as far as all of the family were concerned. Even though Jocelyn stood up to him on occasion she still accepted that Rafe was the head of the family, that he ran the business with precision skill, adding to the family fortune every day that he headed the company.
Brooke had never been able to understand this family's blind acceptance of one man's will, and she avoided meeting Rafe Charlwood whenever possible. Unfortunately, as Jocelyn had already pointed out, neither of them had expected him here today. If they had Brooke would have suitably absented herself. As it was, she would now have to brazen this meeting out—and make her excuses to leave as soon as possible.
‘Indeed?’ Hard grey eyes studied her across the width of the bed as he answered his aunt.
She turned fully to face him, meeting his gaze steadily, unflinching as his mouth twisted in derision, perfectly able to guess at the antagonism she felt in his sensed mockery. Clear blue eyes warred with steely grey ones, and it was hard to say who would have been the first to look away if Jocelyn hadn't softly interrupted the silent battle, drawing her nephew's attention back to her.
‘How are the family?’ she asked lightly.
Rafe looked down at the elderly woman from his imposing height, his thick dark hair styled low over his ears and collar in a casually windswept look that was nevertheless expensively cut—like the rest of him. ‘Didn't Patrick and Rosemary visit you only this morning?’ he drawled.
Jocelyn flushed. ‘They don't happen to be the whole family,’ she said waspishly.
His mouth firmed. ‘If you want to know how Robert is then why not come right out and ask?’
Brooke's temper rose in indignation at the way he spoke to his aunt.
But she needn't have been concerned for Jocelyn. The other woman hadn't reached her sixty-fifth year, remained unmarried, without learning to stand up for herself against the Charlwood men, Rafe most of all, if she felt strongly about something. ‘I shouldn't need to ask, Rafe,’ she snapped. ‘He is the only great-nephew I have.’
‘And likely to remain so,’ the man at her side bit out.
Brooke's sharp gaze raked over the sudden tightness of his face as he talked about his son. Dear God, Robert was only three years old—how could he have evoked such a tight-lipped response from his own father? Was the man completely inhuman?
‘Well?’ Jocelyn demanded.
Rafe gave an arrogant inclination of his head, disapproval of being spoken to in this way emanating from each tautly held line of his body. ‘Robert is very well.’
‘Did you take him to Italy with you?’ his aunt probed.
‘He stayed at Charlwood with Nanny Perkins.’
‘As usual,’ his aunt said disapprovingly. ‘You really don't see enough of the boy, Rafe. He needs his father——’
‘I don't believe that's something that should be discussed now, Jocelyn.’ His softly spoken words cut her off effectively, the edge to his voice ominously clear.
But Jocelyn didn't heed that warning, having lived through too many decades of the harsh authority of the Charlwood men to listen to it from her nephew. ‘Because of Brooke?’ she dismissed impatiently. ‘It isn't exactly a secret that you neglect your son, and after you fought so fiercely for custody of him too.’
Rafe shot Brooke a resentful glance, although his voice remained controlled. ‘I fought for my son for the simple reason that my wife was an unfit mother for him.’ His narrow-eyed gaze returned to Brooke as he heard her gasp. ‘Don't act so surprised, Miss Adamson,’ he mocked abruptly. ‘The sensation of my much-publicised separation from my wife two and a half years ago is often held up by the press as an example to less wary men of wealth when they find themselves attracted to a totally unsuitable woman.’ Contempt curled his top lip. ‘My wife was a dancer when we met, Miss Adamson, did you know that?’
As he said, she knew all about his much-publicised marriage, the nine-day wonder of the way he had exposed his wife's infidelity to the court and public alike in an effort to gain custody of their only child at their separation, a baby of only six months at the time. At least the little boy had been too young to know of his mother's humiliation and consequent death. And considering the way this man had exposed his private life then, admitted to the mistake he had made in marrying the nineteen-year-old dancer, he seemed to care little for the son he had wanted so desperately to keep, and left the child mainly to the care of his nanny.
‘Oh, not ballet or classical,’ Rafe Charlwood derided himself. ‘She belonged to a group of modern dancers who appeared on the Greg Davieson show—they were called Sensuous Romance,’ he added distastefully.
‘I remember them,’ Brooke nodded woodenly.
His hands tightened momentarily into fists before he seemed visibly to force himself to relax, smiling without humour. ‘Then you will also remember that my wife found Mr Davieson more attractive than our marriage.’
‘Don't you mean than you?’ Brooke bit down painfully on her bottom lip as his rapier-sharp gaze ripped into her with barely controlled anger. ‘I'm sorry,’ she muttered, looking down at her clasped hands. ‘I shouldn't have said that.’
‘Why not?’ he scorned harshly. ‘You're exactly right, Miss Adamson,’ he bit out grimly. ‘My wife did indeed find Greg Davieson more attractive than me.’
‘I'm