understand that,’ she told him coldly.
‘But you still need time to think about your decision?’ he rasped.
‘Yes,’ Brooke nodded, knowing it was time to cut short this private conversation with this potentially dangerous man. ‘And now if you don't mind, I would like to leave.’ She raised her voice enough to encompass the rest of the people in the room, her gaze remaining unflinching in the face of the hostility that surrounded her.
‘You'll contact me when you've made your decision, Miss Adamson,’ the lawyer asked politely; he was the only one who wasn't antagonistic, although he did seemed slightly puzzled by it all.
‘Of course.’ She moved to shake his hand, nodding coolly to the married couple before turning to leave.
‘I'll walk you to the door.’ Rafe fell into step beside her.
She gave a cool nod of acceptance and moved with graceful elegance at his side.
‘I've spent some time with my son, Miss Adamson,’ he suddenly drawled, ‘so I'll now repeat my dinner invitation to you.’
She turned to look at him as they reached the door. ‘And I'll repeat my refusal,’ she said without emotion. ‘No, thank you.’
His gaze was rapier-sharp as it raked over the beautiful perfection of her face. ‘Besides the fact that you disapprove of the way I'm bringing up my son,’ he drawled, ‘what else have I done to make you dislike me?’
She arched shaped brows. ‘Isn't that enough?’ she asked disdainfully.
His mouth twisted, his confidence now wavering for a moment. ‘Do you come from a broken home yourself?’
‘Both my parents are dead, yes.’
‘Ah.’
Brooke drew in a deep breath at his patronising tone. ‘They died when I was a child, I never really knew them. I just believe that any parent should bring up their child themselves if they're able to, and not leave it to servants.’ She could see that this time she had got beneath the coolness of his guard, his mouth tightening ominously at her rebuke.
‘Someone should have mentioned that fact to my wife,’ he bit out contemptuously.
She forced herself not to react as bitterly to that derogatory remark as she was tempted to do. She had suffered too much to get this far, she wasn't going to lose all that for the satisfaction of wiping the arrogance off Rafe's face for just a few minutes—that was as long as it would take him to recover from the fact that his wife wasn't dead after all, and to have her thrown out of his home as quickly as possible. No, even that satisfaction wasn't worth giving up the chance to be with her son.
She met his contempt with some of her own. ‘I believe I said if they are able to, Mr Charlwood,’ she drawled dismissively.
‘Meaning?’ His voice had lowered threateningly.
‘Meaning your wife wasn't given the chance to bring up her child. You brought in a nanny from the day your son was brought home from the hospital, engaged a nurserymaid to help her out with his care. I wouldn't say that left a lot of time for your wife to be involved in bringing him up, would you? Except perhaps for an hour or so before dinner?’ Her voice was heavily laced with sarcasm.
‘You would seem to know a lot about my marriage, Miss Adamson,’ Rafe grated.
She didn't just know about it, she had lived it! From the moment Robert had been placed in her arms after his birth she had loved him, but Rafe had insisted she couldn't take care of him herself, that it would tire her too much. After that she hadn't seen enough of Robert for him even to become familiar of her as his mother, the army of servants Rafe employed for his son's care making it obvious that he believed her incapable of looking after him properly. And then he had wondered why she became bored and dissatisfied with her life at Charlwood!
‘As you once mentioned, Mr Charlwood, your separation was much—publicised,’ she derided. ‘I believe at the time we were allowed to hear your wife's side of the marriage too.’
‘A side with which you obviously sympathise,’ he bit out.
She straightened her slender shoulders. ‘Any woman would feel compassion for another woman who was so callously denied her child.’
‘Callously, Miss Adamson?’ he repeated savagely, his nostrils flaring angrily, his eyes like chips of ice as he looked down at her. ‘You don't know the first thing about my marriage.’
‘Perhaps not,’ she agreed lightly. ‘Maybe you would care to enlighten me some time?’
‘I doubt it,’ he told her glacially. ‘I don't discuss it with anyone.’
Brooke nodded with cool dismissal. ‘I'll be in touch with Mr Gardner concerning the will.’ She looked pointedly at the door, waiting for him to open it before leaving with a haughty confidence she maintained until she had unlocked her car and driven down the driveway, raising her hand in only a polite token of acknowledgment to the man who stood so rigidly proud at the top of the stone steps that led into the house.
He looked very like the first time she had ever seen him in that moment, so darkly arrogant, so commanding, so handsome. Before setting eyes on Rafe Charlwood she hadn't believed such men existed outside of the pages of books or up on the big screen. He had been everything she believed tall, dark, and handsome should be and never hoped to find, had an experience and air of power that had merely added to his already devastating attraction.
Brought up by an aunt and uncle who had little interest in her, having no desire for children of their own, let alone an orphaned niece, she had been overjoyed when she won a scholarship to one of the famous schools for dance, and was happy there for the first time in years, despite being told that although she had the height and build of a ballet dancer she would never have that elusive talent that would make her into a star, the tutors advising her to concentrate on modern dance. It had been something she enjoyed more than anything else, teaming up with five other girls from the school to do a round of auditions that seemed never-ending, and rarely successful. But after almost a year together, and a change in a couple of the girls, they had finally managed to secure a season with Greg Davieson on his own television show. It had been like the realisation of a dream, the glamorous parties they were invited to being just a bonus as far as she was concerned.
And then at one of those after-the-shows parties she had seen Rafe. He had been talking with the producer and director, and she learnt from one of the other girls that he was a friend of the former, was the powerful owner of Charlwood Industries. He was a man often in the news for one business merger or another, and at thirty-five he looked his age—and he was also the most handsome and most sought-after man in London at the moment. Jacqui felt sure she didn't have a chance with him, wished she had worn something a little more mature, more sophisticated. She had come straight to the party from the show, just wanting to relax a little. The dress she had changed into was a simple yellow jersey, the colour clashing abominably with her red hair. With a natural colour of mousy-brown, and two blondes already in the group, she had decided on a more interesting shade of auburn. At their first conversation Rafe had told her he much preferred redheads to blondes, and from that moment on she had decided to keep her hair auburn.
Greg Davieson had introduced them, and to Jacqui's surprise they had spent the remainder of the evening together. When the party broke up at two
