when she made this will,’ he told the young man sternly.
‘Sorry,’ Patrick murmured almost guiltily.
‘Hm.’ Reginald Gardner had stopped looking nervous now, continuing to read. ‘ “And to my nephews, Rafe and Patrick, I leave my shares in Charlwood Industries, eleven per cent to Rafe, nine per cent to Patrick, giving them fifty-one and forty-nine percent respectively—on condition that they make no effort to prevent Brooke Adamson inhabiting the aforementioned cottage.” ’
‘That's ridiculous——’
‘And if we do “make an effort” to prevent Miss Adamson living in the cottage?’ Rafe Charlwood coolly interrupted his sister-in-law, surprisingly calm.
‘Then the shares revert to Miss Adamson,’ the lawyer told him in the hushed room.
Brooke swallowed hard, sensing the antagonism building up around her. ‘What if I don't want the cottage?’ she asked softly, not looking at any of the family, not needing to know of their resentment. ‘Give it back to the family?’
‘Then the shares automatically become yours, and you will have the controlling interest in Charlwood Industries,’ the lawyer told her gravely. ‘I have a letter for you here from Jocelyn.’ He stood up to walk over to her, handing her an envelope. ‘I have no idea of the contents,’ he told her gently. ‘But I do know that she intended you to have the cottage and not the shares. But it will, of course, be your decision.’
Brooke stood up to rip open the envelope, moving slightly away from the family as she read the contents of the handwritten sheets, vaguely aware of Rosemary Charlwood's cutting comments to her husband about the outrage of the contents of the will, declaring they would fight it.
All the discontent around her faded into the background as Brooke read the letter, and all she could do was silently thank her friend once again. Even in her illness Jocelyn had thought of Brooke, imposing the conditions of her will so that Brooke might be with her son at last—with Robert, the son she had given Rafe three years ago.
NO, there was no shame attached to loving your child so much that you would do anything, be anything to be with him. And the girl who had once loved Rafe so much, who had found his power awesome, his air of remoteness daunting, his coldness a little frightening—a fear that had eventually grown to such proportions that she came to dread the rare times he was at home, that girl had become a woman who had been prepared to do anything to see again the son he had denied her.
Injured in the accident that Rafe still believed had killed her, she had begged the doctor not to repair the damage to her face until she looked as good as new, but to find her a doctor who could make her look completely new. It was a process that had taken months, but the first time she had seen Rafe again just under a year ago she had been rewarded for the time and pain spent in hospital by the way he had looked straight through her, not a vestige of recognition in the flinty grey eyes for the wife he believed had betrayed him with another man.
Jocelyn had been her only ally, the only one who knew of Jacqui Charlwood's transformation to Brooke Adamson. And even to the end Jocelyn had remained loyal, knowing that with her death Brooke's one doorway to seeing Robert had been closed. The cottage on the Charlwood estate had just thrown it wide open again. Brooke hugged the letter to her, hardly able to believe Jocelyn's final generosity to her.
She could see the Charlwoods couldn't believe it either. Rosemary and Patrick were in accord for once as they both loudly voiced their displeasure to poor Reginald Gardner. Only Rafe appeared calm as usual—but then she had never been able to tell what he was really thinking, not even on the day he had asked her to marry him—and certainly not on the day he told her he intended taking her beloved baby away from her for ever. That was the day she really began to hate Rafe in earnest, even more than she feared him—because she didn't doubt he could make good his threat. And he had. Jacqui Charlwood hadn't been allowed to see her son since that day. But Brooke Adamson had, and she would continue to do so—no matter what price she had to pay.
‘Well, Miss Adamson,’ Rafe had walked over to her side without her being aware of it, his expression mocking as she hastily refolded the letter and thrust both it and the envelope into her clutch-bag. ‘And what is your decision going to be?’ he drawled. ‘It would seem the future of Charlwood Industries rests in your hands.’
Brooke looked at him as coolly as ever, having been hurt too much by this man already ever to be intimidated by him again—or ever to fall again for the magnetic charm she knew he could display when it suited him to. And it had suited him before only for as long as it took him to marry her; after that she had just become another Charlwood convenience, there to be used when needed. God, no wonder she had grown to fear him!
But none of her thoughts showed in her clear blue eyes as she met his gaze, her expression thoughtful. ‘And the cottage?’ she mocked.
He shrugged broad shoulders beneath the tailored dark suit. ‘Is yours with my compliments.’
She glanced over pointedly to where Rosemary and Patrick were now arguing with each other, a much more common occurrence than their agreement, she remembered. ‘They don't seem to feel the same way,’ she slowly taunted, enjoying this moment of power. ‘Could that be because if I take the cottage you become head of Charlwood Industries?’
‘I've always been the head of Charlwood Industries,’ he said hardly. ‘And I doubt even Patrick would welcome a complete stranger into the company as a shareholder.’
She didn't even stiffen at his insulting tone; she had learnt to school both her reactions and features as the latter had been slowly changed. ‘But you don't mind inviting one to share your home?’ she lightly mocked.
‘The cottage is hardly my home,’ he derided.
‘But the Charlwood estate is,’ she pointed out with coy sweetness.
‘If my being here bothers you I can always arrange to live at one of our other houses,’ he dismissed.
‘I think perhaps,’ she softly taunted, ‘my being at the cottage would bother you rather than the other way around.’
Hard grey eyes raked over her with slow disdain. ‘Believe me, Miss Adamson, where you choose to live is completely immaterial to me.’
‘Really?’ Dark blonde brows rose. ‘In that case, I'd better give all this very serious thought. As you don't seem to care one way or the other——’
‘I didn't say that, Miss Adamson,’ he bit out, evidence that he wasn't quite as controlled as he appeared, although his eyes were glacial, his mouth the forbidding line she remembered so well. ‘I would, of course, prefer the Charlwood shares to remain in the family.’
In that case she could decide on either of the conditions in the will, because if she did take the shares they would simply revert to Robert on her death. But she already knew that she was going to live in the cottage, could hardly contain her relief and elation at the thought of still being able to catch the occasional glimpse of the son who had been taken from her when he was only six months old. He had been a beautiful baby, and had grown up into a lovely little boy, but his babyhood had been robbed from her by the man standing at her side. She would never hear Robert call her ‘Mummy’ either, and all because this man had ruled her fate by his moral judgments on her, deciding
