Reckless Nights in Rome (17 page)

He rose and
shook his head, his eyes swimming with emotion.

“No, please,
Bronte. Please stay.”

Carl took her
hand and led her to a leather couch the colour of clear honey.

“Did you have a
happy childhood?”

She squeezed
his hand, amazed that his first thought was for her.

“Absolutely I
did. They ... my parents ... loved my brother and I very much.”

“Alexander,
yes, he was a handful as I remember. How is he?”

Shocked, she
could only stare at him.

“You knew my
brother?”

He smiled in a
way that broke her heart.

“Ah, yes. He
was an energetic six year old who loved the steam engines at the
British Engineering Museum. They kept him occupied for hours.”

She looked at
him feeling totally helpless and spoke from the heart.

“He’s taken the
truth very hard. What are we going to do? How do we deal with
this?”

Her father took
a breath, squared his shoulders and patted her hand.

“How about we
take it one step at a time? We get to know one another?” He gave
her a heartbreakingly brave smile. “You can ask me anything and I
promise to tell you the truth. And you must tell me everything
about your life.”

She blinked
frantically as his face swam before her.

“I don’t know
if I can ever forgive her for this.”

He didn’t
attempt not to understand her.

“One thing I’ve
learned in life is that sometimes love is not easy. People are not
perfect, Bronte. They make mistakes, especially when they try to
protect the ones they love.”

He held out his
hand to her, his eyes brimming with emotion.

“Shall we make
today the start of a new beginning?”

Nico leaned back in
Alexander’s chair and stared unseeing into the log fire that shed a
warm glow over the room.

The meeting
with senior staff had gone well and the assistant manager was a
smart cookie, which, he acknowledged, made his life a hell of a lot
easier. He checked his Blackberry and found no message from Bronte.
He knew she’d gone into the City for an appointment. Probably
something to do with a wedding he supposed.

What did he
want from her? His libido spiked and he shook his head. Apart from
amazing sex she was a hell of a package. She was so much more than
just a fabulous body or a heart-stopping face framed by a silver
waterfall of hair. He adored her style. She was beautiful, loving,
funny and sexy as hell. He really
got
her in a way that he’d
never done with any other woman.

So what did she
want from him? He frowned now, remembering her words that she’d
never marry. The little witch had told him he wasn’t husband or
even boyfriend material. He smiled now thinking that was his line
was it not? And he had no idea how he was going to take back the
stupid words he had spoken.

A couple of
quick knocks on the door brought him back to earth.

“Come in.”

Rosie popped
her head around the door to give him a cheeky grin.

“Are you
busy?”

“Not at the
moment,” he told her and eyed the box she held with interest. “What
can I do for you?”

She plonked
herself in one of the leather bucket chairs in front of his
desk.

“You can give
me a coffee and I’ll let you have a taste of one of Bronte’s new
mini triple chocolate muffins with a toffee cheesecake centre.”

He found
himself grinning, picked up the phone and placed the order for
coffee.

“Has Bronte
returned from her meeting?”

Rosie blinked,
a wary look entering her eye and he wondered what it meant as she
nodded.

“She’s on her
way.”

A knock at the
door and Julie, Alexander’s PA, entered with a tray of coffee and a
hello for Rosie. After she’d left and Nico had poured, he bit into
a tiny muffin and a little bit of heaven melted on his tongue.

“How does she
come up with these ideas?”

“It’s part of
her creative make-up.”

“
Si
. It
certainly is.”

Rosie watched
him over the rim of her cup with a speculative gleam in her brown
eyes and he wondered what was coming.

“Are your
intentions towards my best friend honourable?”

He gave her a
smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. She held his stare with a
little nudge of her chin and Nico decided he liked Rosemary Gordon
very much indeed.

“My
relationship with Bronte is between her and me.”

“Okay,” she
said in a cheery voice. Then her eyes went hard. “But if you hurt
her you’ll answer to me.”

He nodded. “You
are a very good friend. Since you are such a good friend tell me
about her ex-fiancé.”

Rosie wrinkled
her nose in distaste.

“Jonathan? He’s
a poor excuse for a human being.”

“
Grazie,
Rosie, but that tells me nothing.” He could see she was debating
with herself. “I know he hurt her and from what I can gather I
believe he was cruel to her.”

What he had no
intention of telling her was that it had been Jonathan who told
Anthony that Bronte secretly liked him. And Bronte herself had told
him how her ex had spread rumours about her in their close-knit
community. Along with the phone calls she was receiving, Nico
believed that someone was making mischief. But he couldn’t do
anything without facts.

Rosie took a
breath and met his eye.

“If he was a
woman I’d call him an evil bitch of the worst kind. He’s charming
and a liar with an eye constantly on the main chance. When she sold
his ring Bronte became his sworn enemy and that’s something I don’t
believe she realises. He was a controlling bully and did everything
he could do to destroy her self-esteem not that she had much of one
to begin with. The way I see Bronte and the way I know you see
Bronte is not how she sees herself.

“You’re going
to need to be careful, Nico, she’s vulnerable.”

He frowned,
picking his way gingerly.

“
Si
, she
is still missing her parents. To find them like that,
Madonna
mia!”

“It’s not just
that...” She bit her lip and shook her head.

Loyalty was a
trait Nico admired, but not at the moment.

“I only want to
help, Rosie.”

“What’s going
on in Bronte’s life is her business, Nico, not mine and not
yours.”

He had to
admire her. Another thought entered his head.

“Have you had a
number of calls received at The Dower House where they
hung-up?”

By the look on
her face he could see she had.

“Yes, there
were two on the answering machine and a couple picked up by the
girls. We assumed they were wrong numbers.” Her eyes met his and
she frowned. “Has Bronte been receiving crank calls?”

He nodded. “Any
other unpleasantness?”

She snapped her
fingers and pointed to him.

“Yes. On our
website we had a visit from a particularly nasty troll who made
sexist remarks about Bronte and called her a bitch. I’ve moderated
the comments.” Anxiety entered her dark eyes. “What’s going on,
Nico?”

He had no idea,
but he was going to find out.

Bronte drove home on
automatic pilot.

Her new father
as she saw Carl had shown great courage and a generosity of spirit
she could only admire. Of course, she had no idea what was really
going on in his head. But they’d agreed to get to know one another
and would take it slowly. She’d accepted his invitation to have
lunch with him in a couple of days and he’d told her he was there
for her.

Before she
realised it, she was in Ludlow chapel in the grounds of the Hall
with her hand on the door of the family crypt. In the early days of
bereavement she’d found no comfort, no solace here. But these days
spending time with the dead brought her a type of peace.

Eyes burning
she sank into a carved oak pew remembering the day she’d read the
letter Alexander had discovered in their father's safe.

Fate was an absolute
bastard.

She didn’t
apologise for swearing in her head in a holy place because she was
too bloody angry. Fate had taken her family, her home and her
ability to have children. Endometriosis meant her chances were slim
to none of being a mother. There was no point in bemoaning that
life was not fair. Look how unfair it had been to her father?

Loss crushed
her. It squeezed her lungs as she fought for control. Emotions,
long buried, floated to the surface of her psyche.

Bereavement she
knew now had an edge of ambivalence about it. Along with guilt,
bitter regret and anger for words unspoken there was unhealed
sorrows that needed to be expressed and unfinished mourning
completed. She’d been through denial and the truly desperate
bargaining with God but Bronte couldn’t find acceptance and she
wondered if she ever would.

Grief left her
too vulnerable these days, abandoning her in a wasteland of
sadness. With a shaky breath, she rose and pressed a hand to the
memorial stone.

“Mama, I wish
you’d told me.”

There, right
there, was the wound. A running sore that coursed through her soul
along with anger. She was bitterly angry with her dead mother.
Guilt kept anger gleeful company preventing true healing and she
had no idea what to do about it.

Alexander
continued to find the reality that she was his half sister rather
than a full blooded sibling too hard to bear. He’d lost his
parents. He’d lost his home and now he felt threatened by her
biological father. He was terrified he was going to lose her too.
Everyone had their tipping point she supposed. Their family had
always stood together no matter what but that had been an illusion
Bronte reflected, heartsick.

No matter how
hard she argued that knowledge was power, her brother did not want
to dig up the past. His choice, but he was suffering and she
couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Bronte stood and
rummaged in her jacket pocket for her car keys. Going over old
ground was a lesson in futility. She should count her blessings.
And learn to deal with the positives in her life instead of the
negatives. Not only did she have her brother, she had a friend who
was like a sister to her, a heady new lover and a business to run.
If she secretly dreamed of Utopia, where she had a wonderful
husband and a couple of children running around The Dower House,
well she just had to get over herself and damn well get on with
it.

Striding out to
her mini, Bronte ran through her schedule for the day. Rosie was
due after lunchtime. She had a consultation with a bride who wanted
a cake with a Brazilian carnival theme. Nothing much surprised them
these days, but they’d managed to persuade the bride that feathers,
firework sparklers and wedding cake were a volatile
combination.

Fortunately she
wasn’t a bridezilla and had agreed to multi-coloured edible beads,
miles of ribbon and an eye popping topper of a Swarovski crystal
crown. Since the woman loved sparkly things, Rosie had come up with
a diamond and silver theme to tone down the beads and ribbon, or to
get rid of them all together.

As far as
Bronte was concerned the role of Sweet Sensation was to give the
bride a cake to remember for all the right reasons.

Her black mini
sped down the road from Ludlow Hall, roared through her driveway
and whipped round to the rear of the property. She forced a smile
and waved at a trainee pastry chef busy in the back of one of the
vans.

For a moment
she stared into her gardens, knuckles white as she gripped the
steering wheel. Sweet Sensation was her baby. She’d given herself
to it twenty four seven. Now it was a thriving, busy business.
Awards and accolades had rained upon her wedding cake designs. The
diary was full for twelve months ahead.

Here was her
future, so why the hell did it feel so empty?

At the end of a
productive afternoon, Bronte took time to clear her mind.

She checked her
diary for the following week and cast an eye over the wall mounted
white board itemising the months’ events.

Three chest
freezers, each one the size of a family car, were filling up nicely
with carefully labelled containers of butter cream icings in twenty
different flavours. Along with emergency fruit cakes, muffin
batters and sponges of all shapes and sizes. The trainee pastry
chefs were coming along well too. Rosie had phoned to say she would
drop-in to Ludlow Hall to pick-up a supply of the chef’s new
menus.

Potential
couples were offered a dinner with free room to test drive the
hotel and business was brisk she was delighted to see by the
appointments scattered through the diary.

The weather
forecast predicted a punch from the Arctic meeting a kick in the
teeth from Siberia. A double whammy for the British Isles and minus
20 degrees. The weather warning had gone out with neighbours being
asked to keep an eye on the sick and elderly.

Dusk fell at
three-thirty, along with the temperature and Bronte padded through
to the sitting room with her laptop to check out the
competition.

Competitor
analysis was an ongoing exercise, one she took seriously with
diligence and determination.

Tomorrow, she
promised herself, she’d check out her suppliers’ new price lists.
They were tricky buggers who occasionally slipped in a price
increase. One of the smaller companies was lagging behind their
delivery date which was totally unacceptable.

Bronte paid her
invoices on time, so she expected the same courtesy on quality and
delivery dates. One more strike and they were out.

A vehicle approaching
the house crunched on the gravel drive its headlights illuminating
the rear of the house.

Expecting
Rosie, Bronte strolled into the kitchen to switch on the
kettle.