Wealthy Australian, Secret Son Page 6

  She was about to return to her car when she became aware that a tall, lean, stunning young man, wearing jeans and a navy T-shirt with a white logo, was heading straight for her. Only now could she see the estate’s Range Rover a little distance down on the opposite side of the road. He must have been waiting for her.

  She stood stock still, willing her heart to stop racing. Her body, which had been calm enough, was now assailed by tingles. She watched him swiftly cross the road. Rohan had always been graceful, beautifully co-ordinated. He hadn’t just excelled in the classroom, he had been the Valley’s top athlete. Many of the boys had been gifted young sports-men—Martyn had been a fine swimmer, tennis and cricket player. He had wanted to study sports when he finished high school, but he hadn’t had the marks. Poor Martyn. His father had put him to work. Well, in a manner of speaking. Martyn had wanted for nothing. Except her. Unrequited love did terrible things to a man.

  “Good morning, Rohan.” She knew she sounded very formal, but she was concentrating hard on marshalling her strength. “You wanted to see me?”

  “I thought we could have a cup of coffee.” He was studying her as intently as she was studying him.

  “I really don’t have the time.”

  “I think you do. A cup of coffee and a friendly chat. Won’t keep you long. I’ve checked out the village. Stefano’s?”

  She nodded. “It’s the best.”

  “So I’ll meet you there?”

  Her nerves were drawn so tight they were thrumming like live wires. “I can’t imagine not doing what you want, Rohan.” She turned away before he could form a retort.

  At that time in the morning it was easy to find a parking spot in the main road, outside the popular coffee shop with its attractive awning in broad white and terracotta stripes. Stefano’s was owned and run by an Italian family who really knew their business. Coffee was accompanied by selections of little cakes, mini-cheesecakes and pastries. Stefano’s also served delicious light lunches. Charlotte and the friends who had remained loyal to her had been frequent customers since the café had opened almost a year before.

  This morning she was greeted with a beaming, “Buon giorno, Carlotta—Signor Costello.” Stefano was a large man, almost bear-like in appearance, but very light on his feet. “Buon giorno, Stefano.”

  It only then occurred to Charlotte that the de Campo family would have been invited to the Open Day. Obviously Stefano, the grandfather and head of the family, had met Rohan that day. Hence the big flashing smile and the use of his name.

  Stefano took their orders after a few pleasantries: long black for Rohan, cappuccino for her, and a small slice each of Signora de Campo’s freshly baked Siena cake—a great favourite with the customers.

  Charlotte looked across the table, set with a crisp white cloth and a tiny glass vase containing a single fresh flower—a sunshine-yellow gerbera, with an open smiling face. “So, how can I help you, Rohan?”

  He just looked at her. He wanted to keep looking at her. Never stop. Her beautiful blonde hair was drawn back from her face, a section caught high with a gold clasp, the rest of her shining mane hanging down her back. She was dressed much as he was, but in a feminine version: jeans—white, in her case—with a pink and white checked shirt, white trainers on her feet. She was wearing no make-up apart from a soft pink lipgloss, so far as he could see. She always had had flawless skin.

  “How’s Christopher?”

  So many emotions were cascading through her. “Full of his new best friend. It’s been Rohan this, Rohan that, all weekend,” she told him.

  “How did your father take that?” His gaze sharpened.

  “To be honest—”

  “For a change,” he cut in.

  She gave a small grimace and looked away from him into the sunlit street. Two of the school mothers were going into the bookshop opposite. Other villagers were strolling past the coffee shop, one commenting on the luxuriant potted golden canes that flanked the front door.

  “Dad loves Christopher,” she said, turning her head slowly back to him. “I told you that. He listened and smiled.”

  “Good grief!” Rohan leaned back in his comfortable chair, eyes sparkling with malice. “Maybe there are miracles after all!”

  “One likes to think so. Here comes Stefano.”

  “Gosh, why the warning?” he asked sardonically. “I thought we looked perfectly relaxed—not raring for a fight.”

  “You might feel relaxed. I don’t.”

  “Charlotte, you look perfectly beautiful and quite normal. A good actress, I guess.”

  Stefano set the tray down on an adjacent empty table, then unloaded their coffee, placing it before them. The panforte followed, heavily dusted with white icing sugar and showing roasted nuts and a succulent mix of candied peel. “Grazie, Stefano.” Rohan nodded in acknowledgement. “This looks good.”

  “Altro?”

  “Nient’altro, grazie.” Charlotte answered this time, giving the courtly proprietor a warm smile.

  It was the first genuine smile Rohan had seen from her in a very, very long time. It wasn’t directed at him. He saw Stefano flush with pleasure. Charlotte had never been fully aware of her own beauty and its power.

  The coffee was excellent. Stefano glanced back and Rohan gave him the seal of approval with a thumbs-up. Stefano was a great barista, and it wasn’t all that easy. He savoured another long sip, then leaned back. “I’m having a few guests this coming Saturday. Probably they’ll all be here by late afternoon, and will stay over until Sunday. Ten of us in all. Counting you, of course.”

  She hoped her composed expression didn’t change. “Who needs my acceptance?” She turned out her palms.

  “Come on,” he jeered softly. “In the old days you were someone very special in my life. You’re about to be reinstated.”

  She saw the glint in his eyes. “I’m absolutely rapt about that, Rohan. This is blackmail, you know.”

  His voice hardened. “You’d do well to remember the reason. Try the cake. It looks delicious.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?” she asked after a moment.

  “Nothing too onerous. I’ve given my housekeeper the night off. Ms Rodgers will be looking after the catering. All you have to do is look beautiful and come to dinner Saturday night.”

  “That’s all?” Part of her wanted to tell him she didn’t much like his PR woman. She hoped Ms Rodgers wasn’t going to play hostess at Riverbend. She didn’t think she could take seeing Diane Rodgers sitting where her mother had always sat.

  “That’s all—apart from an impromptu little after-dinner concert.” He raised a black brow at her.

  “I’m sorry, Rohan. I’m out of practice.” She wasn’t. She loved her piano. She was a very good pianist—just like her mother. She had started teaching Christopher the very day he’d shown interest. He’d been five. “Besides, there’s the little matter of a piano.”

  “Solved,” he said. “I’ve had a new Steinway installed. “Even out of practice—which I doubt—an hour or two on that would set you right.’

  She had a flashback to the Open Day, when she had fainted. Used to seeing a concert grand in the Drawing Room, in her bemused state she had thought it hers.

  “Just a couple of party pieces?” he suggested. “I want to show you off. I intend everyone to know we’re back to being very good friends!”

  Very good friends? “Aren’t you rather rushing it?” There was a defiant look in her eyes.

  “Not at all.” He shrugged. “My friends know I grew up in Silver Valley. They will learn it was your father who sold me Riverbend.”

  “They don’t know now?”

  “Only Diane.”

  “Of course—Diane. Sounds like she runs your life. Am I to take it she’ll be a guest at dinner?”

  “You know the rules, Charlotte. Even numbers.” His tone was sardonic.

  “So you have someone for me?”

  “I have someone for Diane,” he corrected. “You’re
my certain someone, Charlotte. God knows, I’ve waited all these years, never considering for a moment what you’d been up to.”

  “Formal or informal dress?” Stoically she ignored his taunting.

  “Why, formal—what else? Your parents’ dinner parties were always formal. My mother—you know, the hired help—used to tell me how everyone dressed up. How beautiful your mother always looked, the splendid jewellery she wore. In those days my mother thought the world of Mrs Marsdon, the Lady of the Manor.”

  It gave Charlotte an opening, if nothing else. “How is your mother? I wanted so much to ask.”

  “So why didn’t you?’

  “I knew right off to exercise extreme caution around you. You’ve changed, Rohan.”

  “Alas, I have!” he drawled. “Let me see. Who could have changed me? Changed my life?”

  “Fate is as close as I can get.” She picked up her coffee before it went cold.

  He gave her an insouciant smile. “I have to return to Sydney this afternoon. Back Friday night. I have business meetings lined up.”

  She gave him an enquiring look. “Dare I ask what line of business you are in?”

  “Why not?” He leaned forward. “You remember I was a computer whiz kid?”

  “Absolutely. You were a whiz kid at everything,” she admitted wryly.

  “You might also remember I was searching desperately for a way to make money so I could offer marriage to the girl I then loved.” The steely glint was back in his eyes. “I was always into computer science, I had a special flair for it. Then it struck me that the quickest way to make money was to try to break into entertainment software. I’d done well enough with educational software, but decided to take the risk of moving to games. Sometimes they don’t take off. Mine did. I’ve never looked back. In no time at all the money started to flow in. I have three companies now that handle multiple software programs. I hire the right people. My employees are all young and brilliant at what they do. I’ve built businesses around what I and my staff enjoy. They also have the opportunity to buy shares in our companies—share in the profits. They all want to get rich too.”

  “So you’ve made millions?” she asked, not at all surprised. He had energy and enterprise written all over him. “The reason I wanted to make millions,” he told her tersely, “was to keep you in the style you were accustomed to. And, of course, to make life much better and easier for my mother. Which, needless to say, I have.”

  “And I’m glad, Rohan. Truly glad. Your mother deserves her slice of good fortune. But why ever did you want Riverbend?”

  He gave an elegant shrug of his shoulder. Whoever his father was, he must have been a fascinating man. “Simple. I’m always on the lookout for something else. I got started on real estate investing. Real estate, as you know, is one of the best ways to create wealth. Better yet hold on to it for the family I intend to have. Christopher is our first child. Hopefully I’ll get to hold our second-born child in my arms. It was a dream of mine to have our child.”

  “It was our dream, Rohan.” There was no mistaking the injured look in her lustrous green eyes.

  “Odd way you went about it.”

  They were so utterly engrossed in each other they failed to notice the small, dumpy young woman who strode with single-minded purpose to their table.

  “Well, well, well!” Nicole Prescott said, her tone coated with layer upon layer of meaning they were obviously meant to guess at.

  Charlotte realised at once that Nicole’s seeing them together had greatly upset her. Every muscle in her own stomach clenched, as though steeling for the blows that might come. Rohan stood up, looking perfectly self-assured, and at six-three towering over the diminutive Nicole. Nicole could easily have looked so much better, but Charlotte had learned to her cost that Nicole much preferred her image of messy, prolonged adolescence.

  “Mind your own business, Charlotte. We can’t all look like you!” How many times had she heard that?

  “Well, well, well, to you too, Nicole,” Rohan said suavely. “Tell me—were you after coffee, or did you see us through the window?” He gave her a brilliant look that fell short of contempt. He had never liked Nicole Prescott. Had little reason to.

  A tremor shook Charlotte’s whole body. Nicole had always been such an abrasive person, with an oversized chip on her shoulder. It had made her very hurtful. Over the years Nicole had developed such a badly done by expression it had set like cement. Did she intend to make a scene? Nicole was given to hurling insults. She was even cruel. She had done her best to blacken Rohan’s name—though, knowing her brother, she must have had serious doubts about Martyn’s version of events that fatal afternoon. It all went back to Mattie.

  “You just never could keep away from each other,” Nicole hissed, literally seething with resentment.

  Rohan pitched his voice low, but it carried natural authority and the capacity to act on it. “I would advise you not to make an enemy of me, Nicole.”

  “That’s right—you’re rich now,” she sneered.

  “And I have big interests in this valley.”

  Nicole blinked. Big interests? Hadn’t her father hinted at some such thing? Not just Riverbend, then? She forced herself to look away from Rohan Costello’s burning blue gaze. It transfixed her. Bluer than blue. She heard her mother’s voice in her head, “We don’t know. We don’t know.” Always handsome, Rohan Costello had matured into the sort of man women couldn’t take their eyes off. She had to concentrate now on Charlotte—the weak link.

  She had hated beautiful Charlotte Marsdon all her life. So unfairly blessed. Beauty, charm, brains. She had the lot. Everyone loved her. Well, she hated Charlotte. Had hated her even when she’d followed Charlotte down the aisle to join her besotted brother in unholy matrimony—she the shortest and the plainest of the bridesmaids. Beauty gave a woman such power. Martyn was the one who had inherited all the looks. As a kid he had nicknamed her Mousy. It still stuck in some quarters. But she had triumphed over her nondescript looks by developing a tongue sharp enough to cut.

  They hadn’t been invited to the garden party. She and her mother had fumed over that. They were the Prescotts. Not a family to be ignored. Small wonder they were furious. Her father had simply made the comment, “What did the two of you expect?”

  It was like that these days. Two against one. She and her mother against her father. He was so unbelievably tolerant. And he had never had much faith or pride in her adored brother. She would never forgive him for that.

  “You knew about all this, didn’t you?” She rounded on Charlotte with the barbed accusation. “You knew he’d bought Riverbend. You knew he’d had us barred from the garden party.”

  “Wrong on both counts, Nicole,” Charlotte said. It was news to her. There was no guarantee Nicole wouldn’t start spewing venom any moment now. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Stefano, looking their way rather anxiously. “I know you,” Nicole spat. “I know the two of you. Your history. I know how you broke my brother’s heart.”

  “And we know you, Nicole,” Rohan responded in a warning voice. “You and Martyn. Unfortunately. If you want a cup of coffee I suggest you consider going elsewhere.” There was a daunting edge to his voice. “We’ve only just settled in, and Stefano is looking this way with concern.”

  “Forget him!” Nicole snapped out, but the hard challenge was causing her to crumple like soggy tissue paper. “How’s my nephew, by the way?” She shot Charlotte a look of utter loathing.

  Charlotte thought her heart might go into spasm. Christopher had to be protected at all costs. She looked beyond Nicole with her puffy cheeks to Rohan, who had made the slightest move forward. “Why don’t we go?” she suggested quickly. “Nicole is beyond hope.”

  “I’m beyond hope?” Nicole’s face took on high colour. She was the one to do the taunting, launch the insults. Not lovely, ladylike Charlotte.

  “Probably you know it,” Rohan suggested suavely. “I’d go now, Nicole, if I were you. Rem
ember you’re a Prescott!”

  That stopped Nicole more effectively than a jug of cold water. She backed off abruptly, saying scornfully as she went, “Your poor mother—the cleaning lady—never did teach you any manners, did she?”

  Rohan laughed, as though genuinely amused by the comment. “I’ve never heard my mother swear—yet your mother drops the F-word in every other sentence. I bet you do too.”

  For once Nicole had no reply. She spun about, and then took off like a bat out of hell.

  Rohan sat down again with an exaggerated sigh. “What a gentle little soul she is! A helicopter could spot that chip on her shoulder. All in all, the Prescotts were blessed with their children, wouldn’t you say? Nicole’s jealousy of you is downright pathological.’

  “That’s what makes her dangerous, Rohan.”

  He looked across at her, seeing her distress. “It’s okay. Stop worrying. What can she actually do?”

  “She’s already seized on Christopher’s resemblance to you,” she said in a deeply concerned voice.

  “Christopher’s relationship to me must come out.” His tone hardened.

  “But you promised!”

  “And I meant it.” Frowning, he looked truly formidable. “Nicole and her dreadful mother—how in God’s name did you ever live with them?—can suspect all they like. They don’t know.”

  “They could offer to take him for a weekend. This is the age of DNA testing.” Fear was lodged like a heavy stone against her heart.

  “Isn’t that good?” he countered with the utmost sarcasm. “Tell them no. You’ve already said they’ve seen little of you since Martyn’s death.”

  “I like Gordon—Martyn’s father. He’s the nice one of the family.”