Wealthy Australian, Secret Son Page 10

  “Unquestionably it will be a great shock to her to find out Christopher is my son, not Martyn Prescott’s. But you can be sure of one thing. She will welcome Christopher, her grandson, with open arms.”

  “If not me?” There was great sadness and regret in her tone. Mary Rose of the flame-coloured hair had adored her son, her only child. She would feel very strongly about what had been done to him to this day. “Lucky for you, my mother has a very loving heart, Charlotte. A great blessing when your mother gave herself up to obsession.”

  “She didn’t know how to control it!” she responded, with a show of heat. “She didn’t know how to properly love! She’s not the only one.”

  “Indeed she isn’t.” He dropped his encircling arms, his face grim. “Some of it must have rubbed off on you.”

  She swung away, her body quaking with nerves. Once she had been a very spirited young person—full of life, full of a bright challenge. But all the stuffing had been knocked out of her. “I’m having second thoughts about staying, Rohan,” she warned him.

  He glanced very casually at his handsome gold watch. “I’ll pick you up in the foyer. We might as well have lunch here. The restaurants are very good. Then on to my mother’s. All that has happened you’ll find she’ll forgive you, Charlotte. After all, like you, she’s a woman with a past.”

  “The last word as ever, Rohan?” she countered.

  He spun back, his low laugh sardonic. “It was you who had the last word, Charlotte. But times have changed.” He reached only a few inches to pull her back into his arms. “What about letting yourself go for a minute?” he challenged, his blue eyes alight. “See it as practice, if you like. Kiss me, Charlotte. The sort of kiss that will carry me right through the day.” His hands slid gently down her shoulders. “Remember how we used to sleep together naked, our limbs entwined? My arms around the silky curves of your body. The scent of your skin was wonderful! Peaches and citrus and something subtly musky too. God, how I loved you! I could never get enough of you. So kiss me, Charlotte. It’s a simple thing.”

  Only it wasn’t simple at all. It was as terrifying as taking a leap off the edge of a cliff. She wanted to kiss him. Kiss him deeply. She wanted to hold his dark head with her hands. She wanted to express her profound sense of loss and grief. In the end she lifted herself onto her toes, touching her lips to his. It was a feather-light kiss, so gentle, her hand caressing the side of his face. His darkly olive skin had a faint rasp from his beard.

  He opened his mouth slightly to accommodate her. Immediately she slipped the tip of her tongue into the cavity, brushing it over his fine white teeth and the inside of his upper lip. He tasted wonderful. Her body was reacting very strongly. The kiss deepened into something real. The fever of it, the never-to-be-forgotten rapture… The time they had wasted!

  His hand slid down the creamy column of her neck, pale as a rose, closing on the small high mound of her breast. The sensitive coral-pink nipple was already erect, like a tiny budding fruit.

  “Is this kiss real?” he drew back a little to ask. To taunt? “It seems real to me.”

  “Rohan, don’t let’s fight. I only want us to become closer.”

  “Well, we do have tonight.” His handsome head descended and he began to kiss in earnest. So deeply, so ravenously, that after a while she fully expected both of them would simply topple to the floor, captives of passion.

  It was beautiful. It was agonising. It was a language both of them spoke perfectly…

  Then suddenly his hands on her shoulders were firm. He was holding her away, male supremacy absolute. “Some things can’t be crushed, can they?” he muttered ironically. “It’s the same as it used to be, our lovemaking.”

  “You sound like it’s a curse.” She could barely speak for the thudding of her heart and the turmoil in her flesh.

  “Some curse!” he said with a twisted smile. He dropped his hands, becoming businesslike. “I’m sure you’ve brought a dress to wear this afternoon. Not that I don’t love the jeans and T-shirt. You have a great body. But a dress, I think. I’m sure my mother will agree you’re even more beautiful now than you were as a girl. God knows, your grace and beauty turned me inside out.”

  Charlotte touched him with a trembling hand. “Let’s try to be kind to one another, Rohan.”

  He thought that over for a tense moment, then flashed his white smile. Their son’s smile. “Why not? For old times’ sake, if nothing else.”

  They were actually outside the door of Mary Rose Costello’s luxury apartment. Charlotte was in a daze of apprehension, trying to grapple with the speed of recent events. The force of her beating heart was stirring the printed silk of her dress. She was seeking forgiveness, but she didn’t know how she could begin to deserve it. She wasn’t the only one haunted by the events of the past. So was Rohan—and his mother. If Mary Rose Costello even suspected she had a little grandson who had been denied to her…

  Dear God!

  Rohan took her hand, his long fingers twining with hers. “Just like the old days,” he said sardonically, standing back a little as his mother opened the door to them. Her expression was composed, but it had to be said a shade austere.

  Charlotte just escaped making some little exclamation. Mary Rose Costello, a woman well over forty, looked a good ten years younger—as pretty and polished a woman as one could hope to see. Her former shock of copper-red hair was cut short and beautifully styled. Her complexion was the genuine redhead’s classic alabaster. Not a wrinkle in sight. She looked rich and cared for down to her pearly fingertips. Petite and slight as ever, she was wearing a lovely cool maxi-dress—white splashed with small flowers.

  Mary Rose Costello looked back at Charlotte keenly. There was no welcoming smile on her face. No big hello. Maybe she might flatly refuse to let me in? Charlotte agonised, worried her treacherous knees might buckle. Maybe Mary Rose would start to vent her stored-up rage? Charlotte half expected it. Perhaps would have preferred rage to a false welcome. Still, she made the first move.

  “Mrs Costello.” She held out her hand. “I only learned from Rohan of this visit today. You don’t have to ask me in if you don’t want to.” She wasn’t going to cry, but she felt very much like it. Instead she bit the inside of her lip.

  Mary Rose took a few seconds to respond. “You and my son have reunited, Charlotte. It’s only natural I should agree to his request to invite you.” A moment’s hesitation, then she stepped forward, drawing the taller Charlotte into a short hug. “Come in, my dear. You must remember I was always very fond of you.”

  “I’m so grateful, Mrs Costello.” Charlotte didn’t look back at Rohan.

  “My son looks after me in style, as you can see.” Mary Rose flashed a proud loving smile in Rohan’s direction. “But I do own and run a successful boutique in Double Bay. I was always very interested in fashion, if you remember? I’ll show you over the boutique one day soon.”

  “Thank you. I’d be interested to see it. I remember all the lovely dresses you used to make.” She was in peril of mentioning her mother, who had been so good and then so very vengeful towards the Costellos. She was feeling unreal. It was getting to be a constant state of mind.

  “Come along, darling,” Rohan said with the greatest show of affection, taking hold of Charlotte’s nerveless arm and guiding her into the living room.

  All for his mother’s benefit, of course. Charlotte was fully conscious of that. They needed to present a united front. This was the first step. The more difficult ones were to follow.

  “Please do call me Mary Rose, Charlotte.” Mary Rose indicated they should both take a seat on one of the richly textured cream sofas. The seats were separated by a long black lacquer coffee table holding several coffee table books and an exquisite arrangement of pure white hippeastrum heads, packed into a simple but elegantly-shaped white porcelain vase.

  “How very beautiful!” Charlotte remarked, loving the purity of the arrangement.

  “We have a wonderful young
florist in the area, fast becoming known.” Mary Rose had expected Charlotte to notice. “She really brings the beauty of even a few flowers to life. I must show you her beautiful white butterfly orchid in a pot. She put the pot into a bed of bright green moss inside a glass vase like a large tumbler. I love white flowers.”

  “As do I.” Charlotte looked around the living room, grateful for a little breathing space. How did one go about having a conversation when all the important issues had to be avoided like the plague? The living room was spacious, and elegantly decorated, with many imaginative touches and a small collection of very fine art. “I recognise the work of that artist,” she said, naming a painter famous for her abstracts. One of her large canvases hung above the white marble mantel—dramatic, but beautifully calm.

  “Rohan bought it for my birthday,” Mary Rose said, with the sweetest smile she reserved for her son.

  How would she smile at her grandson? Would she smile?

  “It makes a balance for the panoramic views, don’t you think, Charlotte?” Rohan was acting lover-like to the hilt. “I had a landscaper come in to make a little green oasis on the balcony.”

  “What I can see of it is stunning.” Small-talk was going a little way to helping her relax. Through the open sliding glass doors she could see many beautiful plants growing in planter troughs. An eye-catching green flowering wall had been integrated into the design.

  “My lovely lush sanctuary.” Mary Rose smiled. “It’s amazing what they’re doing these days with apartment balconies. You look very beautiful, Charlotte.” Mary Rose took a seat on the opposite sofa.

  “Thank you.” Charlotte responded quietly. She had never been comfortable with comments on her physical beauty. It was all in the genes anyway. There were many other things besides regular features.

  “The last thing Charlotte is is vain.” Rohan caught Charlotte’s hand, carrying it to his mouth. He did it so beautifully he might well have meant it. Only they were putting on a show for his mother.

  “May I say how wonderful you look?” Charlotte offered, in a sincere compliment. She didn’t dare withdraw her hand from Rohan’s. No telling what he might do next.

  “I have to admit to a little hard work. I go to a gym twice a week. My son likes me to look my best. And of course I have to look good for the boutique. My clients expect it.”

  “Not a lot look as good or as youthful as my mother,” Rohan said.

  “That I well believe.”

  Was it going to be this simple? Charlotte thought. On the face of it she appeared to be accepted and forgiven. But then Mary Rose didn’t know she had been deprived of her grandson—shut out of his early life, the precious infant and toddler years.

  Inevitably the conversation, just as she’d dreaded, had to come around to Martyn. “I was very sorry to hear of his premature death.” Mary Rose’s face contorted slightly. “He was your husband. It must have been awful for you and for little Christopher. Rohan has told me what a remarkable little boy he is. Would you have a photo with you? If so, I’d love to see it.”

  Heart hammering, Charlotte opened her handbag, taking out her wallet. She had been meaning to replace the small photo of Christopher at age five with a current one. Now she was glad she hadn’t. Christopher’s blond curls clustered around his head. He was smiling. He looked like an angel. “This was taken a couple of years ago,” she said, removing the photograph and handing it across to Mary Rose—her son’s paternal grandmother.

  Mary Rose started forward to take it. Her gaze rested on it for quite a while, then she lifted her copper head slowly. “You won’t believe this, but he looks a bit like my Rohan when he was younger. Rohan didn’t start out with dark hair, you know. It was fair for a few of those early years. Of course your boy has inherited the Marsdon blond hair,” Mary Rose said, retaining her searching expression. “He’s as beautiful as you are. He must be a great joy to you. But I can’t see he looks much like you at this stage, Charlotte. Or Martyn.” She frowned.

  “He keeps changing.” Charlotte felt the pulse beating in her temple.

  “I must meet him.” Mary Rose handed the photo back. “And your mother and father? How are they?”

  “Didn’t Rohan tell you?” Charlotte turned her head to look into Rohan’s fire-blue eyes.

  Rohan didn’t answer. He waited for his mother’s response.

  Mary Rose shook her head. “I never really wanted to go there, Charlotte,” she said. “Those years after you lost your brother and my son lost his dearest friend were very hard on all of us. The way my son was blamed by your mother broke my heart. But as a mother I understood she was out of her mind with grief. Still, it was a very painful time. Thank God my son has moved on. So have I. And here you are again, back in my son’s life—as I often felt you would be, despite all the odds. Rohan tells me you and he are planning to get married very soon?”

  She fixed her hazel gaze on Charlotte’s face, with no attempt at lightness. This was the young woman who had broken her beloved son’s heart. She had rejected him so she could have it all. Or so it had seemed. But even then, Mary Rose realised, some part of her had questioned Charlotte’s motivation. Charlotte Marsdon had never been one to cause pain. The daughter of privilege, she had always been her lovely graceful self with everyone. Social standing hadn’t come into it.

  “Yes.” Charlotte sat, her slender body taut, a whole weight of emotion in her eyes. “I want you to forgive me, Mrs Costello—Mary Rose. We need your blessing. I need your blessing. Finally I get to do the right thing.” She stopped before she burst into tears. “Then you have my blessing.” Mary Rose Costello was herself holding back tears. “You need to get a life for yourself, Charlotte. For yourself and for your son. It’s terrible, the loss of all the good years. Take it from someone who knows.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHARLOTTE recognised any number of people as she entered the huge function room on Rohan’s arm. From somewhere a small orchestra was playing classical music. It was barely audible above the loud hum of conversation and laughter. The glassed-in walls, the lighting, the profusion of flowers and green plants, the women’s beautiful evening dresses all lent the grand ballroom of one of Sydney’s most glamorous venues for social and charity events an exotic look—rather like a splendid conservatory. Tonight’s function was to raise funds for a children’s leukaemia foundation, and there was a heart-warming turnout.

  Many people had marked their arrival. She was aware that heads were turning in all directions.

  “Ah, there’s Charlotte Prescott back on the scene. You remember her husband? A bit of a scandal there. And isn’t that the new mover and shaker she’s with? Rohan Costello?”

  Charlotte acknowledged the people she knew with a little wave and a smile. Her mother had been a great fundraiser.

  A woman’s face stood out in the crowd—if only because of the cold distaste of her expression and the rigidity in the set of her head and shoulders. It was Diane Rodgers, looking very elegant in black and silver. Her dark eyes focused quite alarmingly on Charlotte and then moved on to Rohan. But Rohan had his head turned go the side, saluting a colleague.

  Thank God Ms Rodgers wasn’t seated at their table, Charlotte thought, wondering if Rohan had anything to do with it. Diane Rodgers was an assertive go-getter. It was painfully obvious she had convinced herself she had a real chance with Rohan, and her bitter disappointment over the destruction of her daydreams had turned to loathing of her perceived rival. Unrequited love could be a terrible business.

  Rohan knew everyone at their table, and swiftly and charmingly made introductions. Charlotte was greeted warmly. Waiters appeared with champagne. The evening was underway.

  Charlotte gazed around her with pleasure. The ballroom, which had one of the most spectacular views of Sydney Harbour, was a glitter of lights. The circular tables placed all around the huge room had floor-length cloths of alternating pastel blue, pink and silver. The chairs were tied with broad bands of silver satin. Small arrangem
ents of blue hydrangeas or posies of pink roses acted as centrepieces. Massed clouds of pink, blue and silver balloons were suspended from the ceiling. The huge screen up on the dais showed the logo of the charity in the familiar colours.

  Guests had really dressed up for the occasion. Men in black tie, women wearing the sorts of gowns one saw flipping over the pages of Vogue. Everyone had the sense this was going to be a most successful evening, for a very deserving charity. Charlotte was pleased to see some of the richest and most powerful men in the country seated at tables not far from them. That could only mean a great deal of money would be raised.

  Hours later, after a very successful evening, it was time to go home. Just as Charlotte had expected, Diane Rodgers, dark eyes glowing like coals, was lying in wait for Rohan.

  “Won’t be a moment,” Rohan told Charlotte with a wry smile.

  “That’s okay.”

  A beaming, portly elderly man was making for Charlotte, calling her name in a delighted voice. Charlotte held out her hand to ex-senator Sir Malcolm Fielding. “How lovely to see you, Malcolm.” She held up her cheek for his kiss. Malcolm Fielding had gone to school and university with her grandfather. They had always remained good friends. In the old days Malcolm and his late wife had been frequent visitors to Riverbend.

  “Your mother is here, dear—did you know?” Malcolm Fielding looked about, as though trying to locate Barbara in the moving throng.

  “No, I didn’t,” Charlotte answered, calmly enough, though her feelings were rapidly turning to blind panic. Her mother! She was lucky if her mother ever answered one of her calls.

  “An impressive lady, your mother,” said Malcolm. “And still a handsome woman. A bit chilly though, dear. Even her smile, wouldn’t you say? Terrible tragedy about young Mattie, but Barbara might be reminded she still has you. I was totally blitzed when your parents separated. But tragedy can sometimes do that to people.”

  He looked over Charlotte’s shining blonde head. “Oh—a bit early, but there’s my ride!” he exclaimed. “Can’t keep them waiting. A flawless event, wouldn’t you say, Charlotte? All the more because we met up.” He kissed her cheek again. “I couldn’t help noticing the young man you’re with,” he added roguishly. “Costello is making quite a name for himself. No relation to our ex-treasurer. Don’t forget to remember me to your father, now. Tell him to give me a ring. We’ll have lunch at the club.”