Wealthy Australian, Secret Son Page 5

  She brought her green gaze back to him. Was he aware she was devouring his marvellous face, feature by feature, marking the changes, the refinements of maturity. Rohan. Her Rohan. “I told you. I can’t talk about this.”

  “Maybe not today, but you will,” he insisted. “You saw Christopher with me, Charlotte. He accepted me on sight. I won’t let him go. You either.”

  She took in his unyielding expression. “You want to punish me?”

  “Every day,” he admitted with a grim smile. “My perfect captive—my golden Charlotte, Martyn Prescott’s widow.” His tone was quiet, yet it lashed out at her. “Now, there’s no need for you to go into a mad panic. I realise we’ve both had a tremendous shock today. I’ll handle this from now on. You don’t have to do or say a thing. I’ll be making frequent trips in and out of the Valley. Plenty of time to establish a truly poignant renewal of our old romance. The whole Valley knows how close we were at one time. This will be our second chance. Isn’t that wonderful? A second chance. I’m certain you’ll have the sense to fall into line.”

  She found the strength to launch her own attack. “It doesn’t really look like I have an option. And Diane Rodgers? What about her? Will you keep her on as your mistress?’

  His black brows drew together. “Don’t be so ridiculous. Diane is a highly efficient PR person. Nothing more.”

  “Perhaps you should tell her that.” She stared at him directly—only he didn’t appear to be taking on board what she said.

  “God, isn’t it good to be back in Silver Valley?” he enthused with great irony. “Let me return you to Daddy, Charlotte. We’ll take the Range Rover. You’ve got an awful lot to think about, haven’t you? Don’t worry about our son. I’ll bring him safely home.”

  Of course he would. She trusted him. “All I want is Christopher’s happiness,” she said.

  His magnetic smile turned deeply mocking. “I think I can guarantee that. As for us—we’re just going to have to work very hard at our respective roles.”

  “You won’t say anything to Christopher?” In her agitation she grasped his arm.

  He looked down at her elegant, long fingers. “What do you take me for? I won’t be telling him our little secret until I’m sure—we’re sure—he can handle it.”

  “Thank you, Rohan.” She removed her hand—she knew he wanted her to—overcome by relief and gratitude. Rohan had suffered so much as a boy it would have been impossible for him to heap grief on any child, let alone his own son.

  It was her own actions that gave her the most pain. What she had done to Rohan was beyond forgiveness. There was little comfort in the knowledge that she had believed at the beginning she was carrying Martyn’s child. She had been taking the pill when she and Rohan had been together, that first year at university in Sydney. A necessary precaution against her falling pregnant. They’d both been so young. Rohan had begged her to give him time to make something of himself so he would be in a position to offer marriage. Growing up as he had, with the social stigma of not knowing who his father was, he’d been intent on doing everything just right.

  Yet despite that she had fallen pregnant. And by Rohan. She had been certain for some years now. It had taken her over-long to realise the contraceptive pill’s efficacy could be put in jeopardy if a woman experienced a bout of sickness like a bad stomach upset. That had happened to her around about that time. A chicken roll at a campus picnic. She and a girlfriend had been very sick for twenty-four hours following the picnic. One had to be so careful in the heat. Chicken was about the worst food there was.

  As for Martyn! Even now she couldn’t bear to think about that night when he had totally lost his head. All these years later she was still left with mental bruising—far worse than the physical bruising Martyn had left on her unyielding body. The monstrous reality of it was that Martyn, her friend from earliest childhood, had taken her against her will. There was a word for it. She studiously avoided it. But she remembered the way she had thrashed about as she’d tried to stop him. It had only excited him further—as though he’d believed she was playing a game. The comforting arm he had initially offered her had turned swiftly into the arm that had so easily overpowered her. Afterwards he had begged for forgiveness in tears, citing that he’d had too much to drink. He had. But into their marriage he had told her, with triumph in her eyes, that her pregnancy had been a sure way of getting her away from Rohan.

  “You know Rohan will never be in a position to reinvent himself. I mean, he’s really poor. It’ll always be a long, hard hike for him to get ahead. Probably twenty years. What you need is the life you were born to. A guy like me to lean on.”

  How could she have leant on Martyn when he hadn’t even been able to stand up for himself?

  It had been the worst possible start to a disastrous marriage that should never have happened. Only in those days she had been literally terrified of bringing further trauma to her already traumatised parents. Facts were facts. She’d been pregnant. Martyn was the father. They’d been too young, but he’d adored her. In a way she had brought it all down on herself.

  Her father had given them a lavish wedding at Riverbend. He had spent a fortune. The Prescotts had been over the moon at that time, with the union of the two families. She’d been seen, even then, as a steadying influence on Martyn.

  Many times she had thought she would go to her grave not telling anyone the truth of what had really happened that awful night. She had so trusted Martyn, and he had been obsessed with taking control of her body. What was going to happen now was quite another matter. Rohan was back. Rohan was indisputably in charge. Christopher would not remain very long not knowing who his real father was. Not that much longer and everyone in the Valley would know. Had Christopher inherited Rohan’s raven locks instead of the Marsdon blond hair they would know already. Christopher was fast turning into a dead ringer for his father.

  Her father stormed into the entrance hall of the Lodge just as she stepped inside the door. Rohan had dropped her off outside. He knew about the side entrance to the Lodge, of course. It had been an excruciating short ride. Both of them utterly silent, yet unbearably aware of each other. She couldn’t even find the courage to ask about his mother. Mrs Costello had always been lovely to her. They had embraced in tears the day she and Rohan had left the Valley.

  “Not your fault. Never your fault, Charlotte.”

  Getting herself married to Martyn Prescott was. It had wrecked their friendship. It had wrecked lives.

  So there she was, on what was supposed to have been a picture-perfect day, with her heart slashed to ribbons.

  “That was Costello, wasn’t it?” A great helpless anger seemed to surround Vivian Marsdon like a cloud.

  “You know it was, Dad.” She moved past him into the living room, sinking dazedly into an armchair. Her father followed her, remaining standing. He would think that gave him the advantage. “No point in working yourself up. It’s not going to do a bit of good. And, really, you can’t yell at Rohan. Not ever again. You’ll get more than you bargained for. We all will. The old days are over—the days when you and Mum attacked Rohan and Mrs Costello at every opportunity.’

  “That fire-eater!’ Vivian Marsdon snorted, his expression tight.

  “And good for her!” Charlotte felt her own anger gather. “All Mrs Costello did was defend her son.”

  “Miss Costello, thank you.”

  “Don’t be so sanctimonious! Maybe she was like a tigress defending her young? Good on her! I admired her immensely for taking on my high and mighty parents. She was driven to it. You were both so cruel. Mum was by far the worst.”

  “Your mother was off her head, Charlie. I mean she was completely out of it. We had lost our only son. What did you expect of us?” he asked, his voice a mix of shame and outrage.

  “I expected wisdom, Dad. Compassion, understanding. Not a blind allocation of the blame. It was a terrible freak accident. We’re not the only family to have lost loved ones in tragic acci
dents. Families suffer all over the world—the rich and the poor alike. Please sit down, Dad. Better yet, calm down. Can I tell you, not for the first time, it was Martyn who was at fault? It was Martyn who goaded Mattie into swimming the river. Rohan and I called him back. He was coming back. But Martyn wanted to wind Mattie up. Throw down a challenge. Rohan went after Mattie, but Mattie wouldn’t stop. He was trying to prove something.”

  Vivian Marsdon recoiled in near horror. “What is this?”

  “The truth of that terrible afternoon, Dad. The truth you and Mum wouldn’t listen to. But you surely heard the version Martyn, coward that he was, put about.”

  “I—don’t—believe—you.” There was a kind of delirium in Vivian’s deep, cultured voice. “You worshipped young Costello. You would always be on his side. You would lie for him if you had to.”

  “What does it matter now, Dad? I give up. Let’s say the fault lay with Fate.” Charlotte put a hand to her pounding head. “You’ve only ever believed what you wanted to anyway.”

  Her father panted with outrage. “To think you would malign your late husband! Poor, dead Martyn! You’re still looking to clear Costello, of course.”

  “You’re right about that!” she declared. “All those years ago you and Mum turned on us with deaf ears. You had your own agenda. Martyn was a Prescott. Rohan was a nobody. Only that was far from true, wasn’t it? Rohan was always destined to be somebody. Even Mum said it when she was still sane. The two of you made him your scapegoat.”

  Vivian Marsdon’s chin quivered with rage. “He was the ringleader of your silly Pack of Four. You were just a girl. Martyn always played the fool. It was Costello who had to pay for his extreme negligence, his lack of supervision.”

  “How brutally unfair! Mattie, Martyn and Rohan were all of an age. Why should Rohan have to pay?”

  “Because we’ll never get our son back—that’s why,” her father thundered. “Don’t you understand that? Losing Matthew broke up our marriage. Your mother couldn’t bear to stay here. She couldn’t bear to be with me though I shared her pain.”

  “Of course you did, Dad, but never to the same degree. Mum will rake over the ashes of that terrible day until she dies. I wonder how Reiner copes? Sometimes he must feel like he’s in prison.”

  Her father slumped down heavily. “Who cares about Reiner? God knows how your mother married the man. We’ll never get Matthew back. I’ll never get her back. But we have our splendid little Chrissie. Where is he, anyway?” He stared around, suddenly becoming aware his grandson hadn’t yet come home.

  “Settle down, Dad,” Charlotte begged wearily. “He’s with Peter. I’m not going to chain him to me, like Mum did with Mattie. Christopher and Peter are sensible boys. They’re only down the drive. “

  “He should have come home with you, none the less,” Vivian maintained.

  He was very seriously disturbed by Rohan Costello’s shock return to the Valley. And that wasn’t the only reason for his sense of anxiety. What was the effect it was going to have on Charlotte? He wasn’t such a fool he didn’t know Rohan Costello had once been everything in the world to his daughter. Was Rohan Costello’s desire now for revenge?

  “Chris is enjoying himself, Dad. Don’t worry about him. And whatever you do,” she added with heavy irony, “don’t worry about me—the child who survived. Mum told me in one of her black fits of depression she wished I had been the one to die.”

  Vivian had to steady himself by gripping the sides of his high-backed armchair. “She didn’t. She couldn’t.” He was sincerely shocked.

  “Sorry, Dad. She did. She didn’t have to say it anyway. We both knew Mattie was the light of Mum’s eyes.”

  “But, Charlie, dear, she loved you.” He was shaking his fair head as though he couldn’t believe her disclosure.

  “Only as long as Mattie was around.” Charlotte took the last clip out of her hair and shook its gleaming masses free.

  Vivian Marsdon’s tanned skin had gone very white. “Well, I love you, Charlotte. You were my favourite. I loved Matthew, of course. But you were my little girl—always so clever and bright and full of life. Your mother wrapped poor Matthew in cotton wool. It was a big mistake, but Barbara would never listen to me.”

  “She listened to no one when it came to Mattie. It was Rohan who encouraged Mattie to be more outgoing. And look where it got him.”

  Her father flinched. “It will be impossible to make peace with Costello. Too much history, Charlotte,” he said. “I’m tormented by the past. Only the young can spring back from tragedy.”

  She exhaled a long breath. “If you can’t make peace, Dad, you will have to learn to be civil. We’re going to be seeing a lot of Rohan. He’s staying in the Valley for some time.”

  “So what did he say?”

  “That he’s going to make Riverbend, its vineyards and the olive groves, the best in the Valley. He’s going to produce fine wines and the finest olive oils. He’s got big plans.”

  “Good luck to him, then,” her father said, sounding hollowed out. Vivian Marsdon knew Costello would achieve everything he had ever wanted. And didn’t that include Charlotte, his daughter? “Oh, God, I feel wretched,” he mumbled. “I started my married life with such high hopes. I wanted to be loved and admired like my father. I wanted to be a great success. I thought I had inherited his business brain. I didn’t, sad to say. I’ve had to come face to face with the cold, hard facts. I never listened. I made terrible mistakes. It cost us all. And I had to live with your mother’s chronic obsession with Mattie and his health.”

  “Don’t upset yourself, Dad. We won’t talk about Mattie any more. It’s too painful.”

  “Indeed it is. But we have our Chrissie—the best boy in the world. He’s amazingly bright.”

  Like father. Like son.

  “I know you were always a top student, Charlie,” her father continued, “but Martyn definitely wasn’t. He couldn’t even get a place at university. He was spoiled rotten—born lazy. Unlike Gordon. Christopher has an exceptionally high IQ. I was thrilled when he was classed as a gifted child.”

  “And you’ve brought him on wonderfully, Dad,” she said gently. “I’m so grateful you take such an interest in him.”

  Her father’s thick eyebrows shot up. “Good God, girl, he’s my grandson.”

  “Please remember that, Dad,” she said very quietly. “Mum has little or no time for him.”

  Vivian Marsdon moaned in distress. “Her loss, my dear. Chrissie used to look like Matthew, but he doesn’t any more. Still, he’s a Marsdon. My eyes have faded somewhat, but they used to be very blue. Did you ask Costello how he’s made his money? He owns the place outright, doesn’t he?”

  Charlotte nodded. “He is Vortex. I wasn’t about to question him, Dad. I don’t have the right.”

  “Blasted revenge—that’s what it is.” Vivian Marsdon was back to railing. “He’s lived to get square. I tell you, I was shocked out of my mind to see him.”

  “And I wasn’t?”

  “The arrogance of him!” Marsdon fumed. “Always had it—even as a boy.”

  Charlotte expelled a long breath. “Not arrogance, Dad. Rohan was never arrogant. Rohan is what he is. Someone truly exceptional. By temperament a born leader.”

  Vivian Marsdon drew a deep sigh. Who could deny it? Many a time he had wished for a son like Rohan Costello, at the same time feeling guilty at the very thought. It was as if he were brushing his own son Matthew, a beautiful, sunny-natured boy, aside.

  “Well, Costello—unlike me—obviously knows how to make money,” he said finally. “But doesn’t that prove how little he actually cares about you? You were supposed to be such great friends. Inseparable at one time. He surely could have notified you? Let you know beforehand. Not shocked us both. If that isn’t revenge, what is?”

  She had absolutely no comeback to that.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MONDAY morning. School. The same primary school they had all attended as children. She
followed her normal routine, picking up Peter Stafford and his scratchy little sister Angela along the way. Angela was such an unpleasant child sometimes it was hard to believe the two were related.

  As always, Charlotte arrived in comfortable time, allowing the boys to settle before classes began. There was welcome shade beneath a flowering gum twenty yards from the front gate. She moved her Mercedes smoothly into the parking spot left by a departing Volvo. The driver, her friend Penny, wiggled a hand out of the window. Penny’s little one, Emma, was only in pre-school. Charlotte had been the first to marry and fall pregnant. Or rather the other way about. She wouldn’t be the first or the last. But it certainly made her the youngest mother of a Grade 3 child.

  “Thank you, Mrs Prescott.” Dear little Peter never forgot to thank her, while his sister dashed away without a backward glance.

  She watched the boys shoulder their backpacks. “It’s always a pleasure, Peter.” She smiled affectionately at him. “Now, you two have a good day and I’ll see you this afternoon.” She touched a farewelling hand to Peter’s shoulder, dropped a kiss on her son’s head.

  “See you, Mummy,” Christopher said, his face lighting up with his wonderfully sweet smile.

  It tore at her heart. Rohan had smiled at her like that. Once. Christopher’s hair was a gleaming blond, like hers, but he didn’t have her creamy skin. He had Rohan’s olive skin. In summer it turned a trouble-free gold.

  She stood watching a minute more as they ran through the open double gates, meeting up with a group of their friends. All weekend Christopher had been as happy and excited as any young boy could be at having met Rohan, who now owned Riverbend. Things might have been a little different had he taken a dislike to the new owner. As it was, he appeared thrilled. It had been Rohan said this; Rohan said that.

  She had thought her father might fly off the handle, but oddly enough he’d listened to his grandson with an attentive smile. He would be thinking Christopher was missing his father. That was Martyn. So far her father suspected nothing. She knew her father would always love Christopher, no matter what. But the inevitability of Christopher’s real paternity coming out scared her to death. There had never been a scandal attached to the Marsdon name. Martyn had blotted the Prescotts’ copybook. She wasn’t thinking of herself. She was thinking, as always, of her son. And her father. God knew what her absent mother would make of it! She shuddered to think.