lost his wife. Therefore he’s got even more reason to want to take my baby away—because he’s part of her. Part of what he’s lost. Don’t you see…?’
From the silence that came across the miles, Annie had realised that he did. She could visualize his dear, familiar face, those character lines deepening beneath the black and grey peppered hair, his lean frame partially immobilised as he lounged, frustrated at having to relinquish his golf and his sailing, but most of all his staunch independence, to the ministrations of his easily overwrought wife.
‘If he’s a reasonable man, he wouldn’t hurt you like that, Annie. He’ll see it your way as well.’
But would he? Annie thought now, remembering her father’s words, as well as how exhausted she had been after she had come off the phone.
Traumatised as she had been herself, trying to console her mother had drained her, along with trying to convince Jane Talbot that she couldn’t possibly think about leaving her husband, so she shouldn’t worry. Annie had Katrina, didn’t she, who was a good friend. So she wasn’t entirely alone.
Tidying her paints, and pushing back her magnifier on the anglepoise lamp, she took the brush in its jar out to the kitchen sink, rinsing them both under the tap. She felt awful for thinking it, but much as she needed a shoulder to lean on, she was aware of a measure of relief that her mother couldn’t come. She didn’t think she could have stood Jane Talbot’s fussing on top of everything else.
It had been agreed that Annie would meet Jack before introducing Sean to any other members of Brant’s household. It being Saturday, Katrina had taken him off to the bouncy castle in the local park, where Annie always took him as a special treat.
‘I don’t have to tell you to be careful, do I?’ her friend had warned her knowingly as Annie was gathering up Sean’s little cap and cuddly lion for him to take. ‘All that stupendous arrogance and dynamism! Unless you’re less vulnerable than you were—what was it? Three years ago?’
‘Not quite,’ Annie had corrected. ‘And it isn’t what you’re imagining, Katrina.’ Unable to keep it to herself any longer, she had told her friend the truth.
The woman had been shocked, then sympathetic, her arms going around Annie in such a caring hug she’d felt tears bite behind her eyes.
‘Ten times more vulnerable,’ the woman had cautioned, so that now as she went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, Annie felt an ominous little shiver run along her spine.
Forty minutes later, the purr of a car engine had her rushing to the bedroom window. She reached it just in time to see Brant stepping out of the Mercedes in the tree-lined street.
Her gaze locked on him, following his long, lithe physique, impeccably encased in a dark business suit, until his glance up at the window made her pull away, wondering if he had noticed her reluctant interest.
‘Are you ready?’ At the door, his eyes made a swift survey of her mock-suede lilac jacket and the low-slung trousers she had teamed with a cream silk camisole.
She nodded, and saw his brow furrow as he studied her pale, tense features.
‘How do you feel?’
Annie inhaled deeply. ‘Terrified,’ she admitted.
His mouth pulled down on one side. ‘Is that why you pretended not to see me just now? Are you terrified of me, too?’
She was. Of those energies and that forceful determination that had brought him from a working-class background to millionaire status in just a few short years, if what she had heard about him was right. Of his charisma and charm and that intensely masculine attraction that had once swept the very ground from under her, and still had the power to do it again if she let it. But above all, of what he might come to represent.
‘Of course not,’ she lied, and, unable to stand the waiting any longer, murmured, ‘Can we go?’
His home was a huge Georgian house in one of the most sought-after suburbs of the city. A place that intimidated her on her first impression with its august formality, with its myriad windows that looked out on to extensive, perfectly maintained grounds.
‘Mother lived in Shropshire—in a busy little town she didn’t really want to leave—and where we both came from originally,’ he explained as they got out of the car, which was as much as he was going to tell her then, she realised, about his more humble beginnings. ‘When…Jack came on the scene, she moved down here to help out so that Jack wouldn’t be with total strangers whenever I went away. And then, so it doesn’t get too much for her, we have Elise.’
Annie glanced up at him, curious, as he was locking the car, but he didn’t enlarge.
Now, as she entered the formal drawing room with the tall man at her side, she felt the unsettling interest of the slim, subtly-blonde woman who was moving towards them with an elegance befitting her surroundings, and guessed that this could only be Brant’s mother.
‘I see what you mean,’ was the woman’s first remark with a startled glance up at Brant, so that Annie, catching his almost indiscernible nod, wondered what he had been saying about her.
‘I’m sorry.’ Her hostess smiled and, quickly recovering herself, extended a hand, her manners as polished as her pale-tipped fingers. ‘I’m Felicity Cadman, and you’re Annie, aren’t you? The other devastated party in all this. You must feel dreadful, my dear—as in limbo as we all are. I don’t know about Brant, but for me, it hasn’t really sunk in.’
‘Nor for me,’ Annie murmured, able, through her own chaotic emotions, to sympathise with Brant’s mother.
She could feel the woman’s quiet assessment of her, discreet yet curious glances that conveyed what she must have been thinking since Annie had walked in. Is this really the mother of the grandson I’ve helped raise?
‘I take it Jack’s in the nursery?’
Of course. They would have a nursery, Annie thought as Brant’s mother nodded. Living in such refinement, if Sean really were his, his and Naomi’s, then wouldn’t he want to make sure his son was part of it?
Everything inside her rebelled against such thinking as Brant started to lead her away, just as the phone pinged on a table close by, doing nothing for her edginess and her racing heart.
Brant snatched it up from the mirror-polished surface, grunted something about being tied up to whoever was on the line. But they must have told him it was urgent, because after his curt, ‘Excuse me,’ to Annie, he turned away, to take the call.
Probably some vital decision that needed his sanction, she thought, staring at the sculpted white marble of the fire surround, an exquisitely glazed vase sitting on top, aware of his deep voice ushering orders with that authority that made him a force to be reckoned with, yet respected and admired too, she remembered, among his competitors and his employees.
Conscious of Felicity watching her, Annie dragged her gaze away from the vase.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she uttered with an awkward smile and for something to say, only fully alive to her queasy anticipation and the impatience in the deep voice on the other side of the room.
‘Yes.’ Brant’s mother inhaled sharply. This whole situation was a strain
