John Drummond fourteen years ago.
She’d wondered back then if Brad’s feelings for her daughter had reached deeper than he’d cared to admit. There had been a look in his eyes, not to mention his unswerving determination to protect Charlotte. She was almost certain, she reflected, giving the nearest cushion on the sofa a pat, that Brad had loved Charlotte at one time. But for years now, nothing but old friendship had reigned. Like all mothers, she desperately wished that her child could have found happiness, instead of all the misery she’d encountered, and was still enduring.
Leaving the mug and duster in the kitchen, Penelope left the shepherd’s pie she’d prepared, ready for Charlotte to pop in the oven, and picked up her old Barbour jacket. It was a long drive back from Glasgow and the hospital, and Charlotte would get back late. If only she’d do some much-needed shopping instead of sitting for hours in that dreadful sterile atmosphere, a morgue filled with live corpses. But there was little use trying to persuade Charlotte; once she set her mind to something, neither man nor mountain could move her.
She glanced at her watch. Armand would be back for tea soon. Her late husband’s French cousin, a Parisian fashion designer, was not the easiest of guests. Still, she should be thankful he was taking such an interest in Charlotte’s jewelry designs, she realized, dashing off a quick note that she placed in front of the pie. He seemed genuinely delighted with the gallery and its creations, and Charlotte had blossomed under his praise. Life was full of surprises, she reflected ruefully. Sometimes help came from the most unexpected sources.
Heading for the door, she picked up the basket she’d left on the front step. Looping it on her arm, she took a doubtful look at the somber sky before venturing briskly down the hill toward Strathaird, hoping it wouldn’t rain before she reached home, as she’d forgotten her brolly.
Sylvia Hansen glanced speculatively at Brad, leaning back in the plush leather desk chair, hands entwined behind his neck, eyes glued on the enormous corner-office window. It was well into the evening, and already the lights of Manhattan vividly dotted the night sky. She stifled a yawn but reminded herself once again how damn lucky she was to have him. Bradley Harcourt Ward was gorgeous, successful and ambitious—all the things she considered herself to be.
She smiled briefly. Together they made one hell of a team. She had no doubt at all that soon they would be one of the city’s premier power couples. Despite the travails of the past that were hers alone, she was finally about to achieve what would have seemed impossible not so long ago. Yes, she reflected, her expression softening as she watched him, Brad was well worth the wait, even though she’d almost taken the initiative and proposed to him herself in the end. Now she sported an impressive diamond that had once belonged to his great-grandmother on her finger, and a fabulous winter wedding was scheduled at the St. Regis. Not bad for a girl who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in Little Rock.
She shuddered inwardly. The past and the shadows sometimes lingered, but she cast them aside and concentrated on what Brad was saying, swallowing a weary sigh when she realized he was back on the subject of Strathaird. During the past weeks, she’d heard more about that wretched Scottish castle he’d inherited by some stroke of ill-fated chance than she cared to recall, and was sorely tempted to leave him sitting here in the office and get their driver to take her home. Surely he must realize it wasn’t that important? Couldn’t he simply hire people to take care of the place? Scotland and his new inheritance could hardly require the kind of involvement he seemed determined to give it. She smoothed her skirt over her knees and crossed her legs, aware of a new inflection in his tone. Wondering if she’d missed something, she frowned. “What exactly are you getting at?” she asked, eyebrows knit.
“Well—” Brad twiddled his Mont Blanc pen thoughtfully “—as I’ve already mentioned, Strathaird is going to require my personal attention. At the beginning, at least. Which is why I was considering hopping over to Skye by myself first.” He glanced briefly at her, across the vast expanse of desk. “You know, there’s going to be a heck of a lot to do—or learn, rather. The truth is, Syl, I know as much about running a Scottish estate as training the New York Mets.” He raised a hand and grinned. “I take that back. At least I know the rules of baseball and have scored a couple of home runs in my time, but to me this is estate management 101. Arriving there on my own would give me half a chance to start sorting things out before you arrive.” He smiled, his riveting eyes seeking hers, as though her agreement was important.
Sylvia came awake with a jolt. “You want to go there alone?”
“Why not? It’d only be a few days—a week at most. It’d give me an opportunity to wet my feet, meet the tenants, become familiar with a number of issues, and let you finish whatever you have to do here, instead of sitting around the castle alone with me busy all day.”
Sylvia nodded doubtfully. The prospect of sitting about in a musty old castle on the Scottish moors was not especially compelling, particularly if Brad was going to spend his days elsewhere. Normally, she’d have used the downtime to get more work done, but he’d already laughingly assured her there wasn’t a cell tower within a hundred miles of Strathaird. The thought of surviving without her BlackBerry pager gave her a serious pause. “All right,” she mused, “you have a point. I’m still working through those Australian contracts and need to wrap them up in the next two weeks.” She glanced up at him, shirt-sleeves rolled up, tie still in place, the tan from their trip to St. Barthes still glowing despite a full week’s work, and smiled into his piercing blue eyes. “Okay. You go and I’ll stay. After all, one of us had better stay on board the ship.”
“Good girl.” He grinned, leaned across the desk, past memos and the array of telephones, and took her hand in his. “You’re a great gal, Syl. I know I can always count on you.”
“Thanks.” She mustered a sassy grin, knowing he meant it as a compliment, and wondered why his words made her feel like a well-worn trench coat.
“Right.” He brought his hand down firmly on the desk. “Well, now that we’ve settled that satisfactorily, we should consider food. Do you want to go out for dinner or shall we order in?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“We had a reservation at Town, but I canceled about an hour ago. Tell me, when exactly are you planning to leave?” she asked, frowning.
“At the end of the week or so.” Brad began tidying his papers. “That is, if all goes well with Seattle and Chicago. I’m glad you see the sense of me heading over there alone,” he continued, getting up. “It’ll give me time to catch up with the family, too,” he remarked, stretching. Moving toward the large panoramic window, he stared broodingly out the window at the streaming traffic fifty-two stories below. “You know, I haven’t had a real heart-to-heart talk with Charlotte in a couple of years. Time goes by so fast. We barely even get the chance to talk on the phone anymore.” He turned and picked up his jacket.
Sylvia followed suit, slipping the large black Prada purse that contained her life over her shoulder, and frowned. “I met Charlotte in London that time we went to the Chelsea Flower Show,” she murmured, glancing at him. “I didn’t realize you were close. You and Charlotte call each other regularly?”
“Not lately. But we used to spend hours on the phone. Of course, that was a while back. I tried to help her through some of her problems. She had a bad marriage. So, which is it going to be?” he asked, changing the subject and slipping an arm around her. “Thai, or will you whip us up one of your superb omelettes? If I have any say in the matter, I’ll opt for the omelette.”
“Sounds good to me. I’m too tired to go out,” she replied, leaning into him.
“Then omelettes it is. I’ll even give you a back massage, how’s that?” He gave her a brief hug as they moved toward the door.
