His Australian Heiress (17 page)

“The situation was not created by
me
,” Olivia spoke fiercely in her own defence. “I was the injured party. I have never regretted what I did, Brendon. Of course they argued. Christopher was such a fool. He worshipped her.”

Brendon gave a deep, heartfelt groan. “I can't bear to dwell on this, the worst of it. You're my mother. I love you, but my feelings for you will never be the same.”

Olivia's answer came in a haggard tone. “I'm only trying to protect you, Brendon. It's my duty.”

“Then I relieve you of it.” Brendon broke off with a jerk of the head, as unnoticed by him and his mother, his father had entered the living room, tall, handsome, a most memorable-looking man with a tense expression on his face.

“Relieve your mother of what, Bren?” Julian asked. He knew from long experience that when his wife shifted into a certain gear, there was no changing it.

“Nothing that matters, Dad.” Brendon didn't want to involve his father in his upset.

“I think it matters very much,” Julian Macmillan said, his eyes moving to his wife, sitting rigid on the sofa. “What's going on, Olivia?” he asked, his expression grim.

Olivia's laugh had not an ounce of humour in it. “Brendon was telling me he won't be joining us for Christmas Day, my dear. He intends to spend it with Charlotte Mansfield, of all people.”

“And?” Julian advanced into the room.

“What do you mean,
and
?” Olivia retorted, her face suddenly overlaid with uncertainty.

“Our son can surely spend Christmas Day with whomever he pleases,” Julian said.

“Oh, Julian!” Olivia cried, pressing her hand against her breast. “If he loved us he would be with us.”

“Poor Liv!” Julian said quietly, seeing his wife's pallor. “You demand absolute allegiance, don't you? We have the best son in the world.”

“Who will be corrupted by that Mansfield girl,” Olivia cried out, near hysterically, unusual behaviour for such a self-contained woman.

“That will do, Olivia.” Julian Macmillan abruptly showed an iron hand. “You've wasted more than half your lifetime on your jealousy of Alyssa Mansfield, and now her daughter. You've poisoned our marriage. I won't have it. Not any longer. You won't put Brendon through hoops. You have to make changes.”

“Please, Dad,” Brendon intervened, acutely conscious of his mother's stricken face.

“You go, Bren,” Julian said. It was an order. “I'll see you tomorrow. Your mother and I need to have a long talk. I've been wrong to delay it. All I've done is feed the flames. I absolutely refuse to countenance any attack on Charlotte. I owe that to her parents.”

Olivia raised her head quickly. “You've never persuaded me, Julian,” she accused. “You loved Alyssa Mansfield. There's no getting away from that.”

“So you set out on your dangerous course,” Julian said, “indifferent to possible consequences. I will say this for the last time. Every rumour you somehow managed to put out there was a lie, a meanspirited desire to strike at a woman entirely innocent.”

“A woman you can't bear to talk about.” Olivia had the thrust of the last word.

B
rendon let himself out of the house with one of Karl Marx's doom-laden quotes running through his head.
The tradition of the dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the minds of the living.
That seemed to apply to the two families, Mansfield and Macmillan. His mind was spinning from all the upset and the chilling things he had learned, but increasingly his mind was spinning towards Charlotte. Charlotte was his centre of gravity amid the maelstrom. Inside his car, he put a call through to her, praying she would answer. She answered almost at once.

“What are you doing this evening?” he asked. He knew he didn't sound his usual self, but he couldn't help it.

“Remind me,” she prompted.

He released a taut breath. “I need to unwind, Charlie. What say we walk around the city enjoying the lights? We can catch a meal somewhere.”

“So what's happened now?” she asked, gently.

“You really are
too
intuitive.” Her intuitions were part of what drew them so closely together.

“There's something you want to tell me. I hear it in your voice. Is it about your mother? She's dying to have me over for Christmas Day? Let the festive season roll, that sort of thing?”

“I'm not going anyway,” Brendon said, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Gotcha,” Charlotte replied. “I've had a great time too. I rang Uncle Conrad this afternoon to tell him I want him and Aunt Patricia to vacate Clouds by the end of January. I intend to use the house as my getaway.”

“And of course he said he understood perfectly,” Brendon said sarcastically. “He had his eye on another house anyway?”

“He could have said that, but most of what he yelled down the phone was incomprehensible. I did gather he wasn't very pleased.”

“But he understood?”

“Rest easy, Bren, he did. I can crack a skull or two. Dare I mention that Sir Reginald Mansfield was my grandfather?”

Laughter rose in him, softening his mood. “I'll pick you up in an hour, okay?” He wanted to take a shower, cool down, and change his city clothes.

“Terrific. We can get off to a flying start.”

* * *

Christmas is a time of celebration. It is also the time of the year when Sydney puts on a fantastic light show, with blues, pinks, violets, greens, and amethyst, using the façades of all its historic buildings, its iconic Opera House and Sydney Harbour Bridge, the world's tallest steel arch structure connecting the North Shore with the city centre. The bridge, spanning the magnificent harbour, a sparkling cobalt blue by day, couldn't have made a more advantageous site for thrilling displays of fireworks and light spectacles. The entire city was looking forward to the annual New Year's Eve midnight fireworks, arguably the best in the world.

That evening one of the best light spectacles and the largest crowd-drawer was the Catholic Cathedral, St Mary's, adjacent to beautiful Hyde Park with its playing fountains. The massive front façade of the cathedral, the tower, and its spires seventy-five metres high were illuminated with a changing display of Christmas themes, in lovely colours, the most beautiful of which, in Charlotte's opinion, were the iconic representations of Madonna and Child.

“I'd like to be married in St. Mary's,” Charlotte found herself saying right out of the blue.

“You're not a Catholic, Charlie.” Brendon looked down at her in surprise.

“They ought to open the cathedral doors to everyone. It seems to me religions don't bring people together, they set them apart, too often in terrible conflict. We hear about it every day. By the way, I've bought the Toohey Building. George Goss from Properties handled it for me.”

“You don't fool around, do you?” he said, not altogether surprised. She had told him of her plans. “When did this happen?”

“Only today.” Charlotte looked visibly delighted.

“I've never met anyone so young with so much focus as you, Charlie,” Brendon said.

“I'm not a dreamer, Bren,” she said. “I have my dreams, but I need to turn them into reality. All this money I've inherited, money I don't
need
, has to benefit sections of the community who desperately need help. I've been given the power to change things. I can make a better life for a lot of deserving people, particularly women and children.”

“Your heart is in the right place.” He hugged her. “I'd tear the building down. Start again.”

“Precisely what I intend to do. We can go over the plans together when they're ready. Our own architects can do the job. I'm going to call it Lady Julia House.”

“A lovely gesture.” There was real feeling in Brendon's voice. For a rich woman, or a woman married to an extremely rich man, Lady Julia Mansfield's life had been in many ways a struggle. To this day he didn't think Charlotte knew anything about Lady Julia's connection to his grandfather.

“There's going to be plenty of security,” Charlotte was saying. “No enraged husbands or partners breaking in, threatening the women there.” She drew closer to him, taking his arm with girlish enthusiasm. Multicoloured lights played across part of her face and her glittering golden-blond hair. Tonight she was dressed casually in a yellow silk camisole over white crop pants, a stylish pair of walking shoes on her feet. Brendon could feel her young body brushing his own. Nothing could stand between them. He could feel his heart beating in his chest. He could feel the pulse in his temple. He was forced to the inevitable conclusion that he was in love with Charlotte. Deeply in love with her, even though he could see all the turbulence in front of them.

“You've something to tell me,” she prompted, momentarily resting her head on his shoulder.

They were so close he could catch the essence of roses on her skin. She had such delicate collarbones beneath her smooth skin. The vee of her camisole top revealed the shadowed triangle between her small, high breasts. His feeling for her by the day was becoming more and more intensely
physical
. He wanted to know every inch of her creamy flesh.

“Have I?” he stalled.

She laughed, the charming, musical sound he loved. “Of course you have,” she said. “There's always a story to tell. I'd say your mother is very upset you're not having Christmas Day at the house?”

“That's not the least of it,” he admitted. “When I left, pretty well punch-drunk from all I'd heard, my dad was only waiting to read the riot act.”

“Perhaps he has waited overlong?” Charlotte suggested. “What started it? At a wild guess, something about me?” Charlotte's voice was almost lost in the laughter and chatter around them, the excited shrieks of children, the running around and clapping of their hands, as they revelled in the festive atmosphere.

“About you
and
your mother,” Brendon told her. “Some of the things Dad had to say were shattering.”

“He's been too noble about it all,” Charlotte said, steadying a giggling toddler about to run into her. She held the child's shoulders gently until the young mother arrived with a breathless thank-you. “Jealousy must be a terrible burden to carry. It
is
one of the deadly sins. I expect your mother will hold to her beliefs until the day she dies. It must be painful indeed to love a man with all your heart and soul when you
know
he doesn't feel the same way about you.”

“Unrequited love.” Brendon nodded. “But my father has been very good to my mother. He's never strayed. There has never been any real instability in the marriage, when most marriages would have had their rough spots. My mother has everything she wants. Dad defers to her when I've always thought he shouldn't. Dad has had to carry a big burden too.”

“We can't love on demand,” Charlotte said, “though I suppose many couples do grow to love each other as they discover the good qualities in their partners. Your mother would be keen to see you married off to Lisa, who, I freely admit, is a fine choice. She's beautiful, intelligent, caring. A lovely woman, moreover, she loves you.”

His answer was somewhat harsh. “As I've told you before, Charlotte, we have to close the book on Lisa. I don't love her. I never did tell her I loved her. Had I, I wouldn't have changed. Lisa is all the things you say, and I pray she finds the right man, but I want
more
from a woman. I want something that's going to last forever. Someone to share my life with, body and soul.”

“And that's the whole of it, is it?” She tilted her glittering eyes to ask.

“Would you have it any other way?” he said in a deepening voice.

“No.”

* * *

They turned into a handsome boulevard with long sparkling ropes of white lights strung overhead. The avenue was lined by bedecked real Christmas trees in huge glazed pots. “Would you like something to eat?” Brendon asked, concerned he was on the brink of giving himself away. He could see other young couples, stopping, kissing. He was swallowing the urge to do the same. Over and over and over. He needed the searing pleasure of having her in his arms.

“Coffee,” Charlotte broke into his tortured thoughts. “Something chocolatey to go with it. I'm not actually hungry.”

“Oddly enough, neither am I. Let's try Pascali's.”

“Fine. The best coffee in town.”

The warm and welcoming coffee shop was crowded, but Pascali himself organized a table for the two of them, wishing them both
Buon Natale
many times, with a kiss on both cheeks for Charlotte and a manly crush for Brendon, both of whom he knew well from their valued patronage.

Coffee duly arrived, accompanied by a platter of delectable little chocolate offerings. What both of them wanted really was some quiet time together, but who could tell what would happen? After that one kiss, their whole relationship had changed, no matter how much they sought to keep the old easy camaraderie on track. They spotted a few friends and acquaintances inside the coffee shop, all of whom were out for the evening doing what most of the city did, enjoying the wonderful spectacle of lights.

They were just rising to leave, when they literally ran into Lisa and another mutual friend, Shane Herrick. More greetings were exchanged, and a few pleasantries, but not before Charlotte caught the look on Lisa's lovely face. There was longing and regret, but for the very first time a visible green flash of jealousy in Lisa's eyes. Lisa had thought she and Brendon, although admittedly very close, were in no way romantically involved. It seemed as if Lisa had changed her mind.

Back on the boulevard Brendon warned, “I know what you're going to say. But don't say it.”

“Gimme a break, I wasn't going to say a word. Shane isn't a bad catch. He's going really well in the advertising world. They say we get the people we deserve. Personally I don't believe that. Are we going home, by the way?”

“Where exactly is ‘home'?” Brendon asked. “Your place or mine?”

Charlotte adopted a mock-pondering expression. “Mmmm . . . my place, I think. After all, you left the Porsche there.”

It was impossible to find a cab, so they walked to Charlotte's Darling Point apartment, directly overlooking the harbour. Brendon's inner city apartment would have been the better choice. It was in striking distance. Neither of them minded the extended stroll, though. The breeze off the water was heavenly. It was a beautiful balmy Sydney summer night. The whole city was under the spell of Christmas. Although they had rarely held hands in the past they were holding hands now, neither with a thought of pulling away. Skin on skin was perfect. From the apartment complex someone was playing a song from an old Grace Kelly–Bing Crosby movie,
High Society
.

Bing's smooth, melodious Irish voice floated out over the brilliantly lit harbour, singing an ode to true love.

The crowd lining the area blazing with lights took the opportunity to join in. There were lots of kisses and loving embraces. The combined voices carried powerfully on the wind. Charlotte and Brendon, gripped by the joy of the moment, joined in. It was an extraordinary night filled with happiness not unmixed with nostalgia. Everyone had loved ones no longer with them, but never forgotten. Charlotte had more than her share of them. Wealth was no protection against the relentless hand of fortune.

Once inside the complex, the magic disappeared like a puff of smoke. Conrad and Patricia Mansfield, heads down, in the middle of a fierce argument, were charging out of the lift.

“I don't believe it!” was Brendon's laconic groan.

“Just what we're looking for,” Charlotte said, never lost for words. “I had no idea they were coming into the city.”

“No doubt they wanted to drop off your Christmas present,” Brendon suggested.

Patricia Mansfield saw them first. “Charlotte, we wanted to see you,” she announced loudly, her eyes sweeping over Brendon, who was looking incredibly handsome. “Only we couldn't wait any longer.”

“A very Happy Christmas to you too, Aunt Patricia and Uncle Conrad. Why didn't you say you were coming into the city?”

“We're spending Christmas Day with the Carringtons,” Patricia Mansfield said, as if the Carringtons were the crème de la crème. Which, in fact, they were. “I might have known we'd find the two of you together.”

“And that's a problem?” Brendon retorted, very crisply indeed.

Patricia declined to answer. She couldn't take her eyes off of him. Everything about Brendon Macmillan threw her off balance.

“I wondered if I might have a word with you, Charlotte,” Conrad Mansfield asked, his expression vaguely demonic.