To Make a Marriage (14 page)

Rome stood up. ‘I said I heard you last week, Adam—that doesn't mean I believed you. Most people who meet me for the first time believe—as they are supposed to!—that I am just an easygoing man who happened to make a couple of lucky business decisions early on in my career, and that I have built on those decisions because of that earlier success. That's most people, Adam,' he repeated. ‘I didn't count you amongst their number!'

He had told Andie only yesterday that he wasn't most men!

But he knew that wasn't what Rome meant at all. Rome was right; Adam had never been fooled by that happy-go-lucky philanthropic guise Rome wore for the general pub
lic. Rome had achieved his success by shrewd intelligence, accompanied by kid-glove ruthlessness.

‘Audrey told me I should leave the subject alone,' Rome continued. ‘And while I accede to my future wife's views on most subjects—' he smiled tightly ‘—Andie's future happiness is not something I intend letting anyone play around with.'

He looked across at Adam with narrowed blue eyes, the two men of similar height and build, the fourteen years' difference in their ages noticeable only in the lines of experience beside Rome's eyes and mouth. But it was a difference Adam had always known he should be wary of…

‘I am as concerned for Andie's future happiness as you are,' Adam told him shortly.

‘Are you?' Rome returned in measured tones. ‘Then let me tell you that I was never fooled for a moment by that story of the two of you keeping your relationship a secret. Not one single minute, Adam,' he repeated firmly as Adam would have spoken. ‘My daughters were simply not brought up to be secretive,' he declared with proud affection. ‘However,' he went on, ‘at the time, I considered the details of your earlier involvement none of my business.'

“‘At the time”…?' Adam echoed.

Rome nodded abruptly. ‘I'm still not going to pry, Adam; the two of you have decided to marry, and that is the end of the matter as far as I'm concerned.'

There was still a but. Adam sensed it.

‘However,' Rome said, ‘Andie's visit here this morning changed things somewhat.'

‘It did?' Again Adam looked at the other man warily. This wasn't turning out at all as he had imagined it would!

Rome gave a stiff inclination of his head. ‘My daughter is under the impression that there's a—complication in your life that may affect your married life together.'

Adam drew in a harsh breath. He had come here for the very reason of talking to Rome about that complication. But now he felt on the defensive.

He moistened dry lips. ‘Did she tell you what that complication was?'

Rome gave a humourless smile. ‘As it happens, yes, she did. But she didn't need to. I already knew.'

Adam stared at him dazedly. Rome knew? But how—? The only person he had ever told about Glenda had been Barbara, and he couldn't believe—

Rome softly broke into his racing thoughts. ‘Adam, when you came to me twenty years ago with your business proposal, I was a man of thirty-four, with a wife and very young family; I took risks, but I wasn't stupid. I had your background thoroughly checked out before I agreed to finance you.'

Adam could only stare at the other man. Rome really did know! All this time he had known—and never said anything!

Rome gave an impatient sigh, moving over to the drinks tray to pour them both a glass of brandy, handing Adam one of those glasses before sipping at his own.

‘What are you so afraid of, Adam?' Rome looked at him over the rim of his glass.

Losing Andie! He was so close, so close to having her for all time, and the thought of losing her now—!

Rome briefly closed his eyes. ‘Do you have so little faith in Andie that you think she won't want to marry you once she knows about your past?'

Adam swallowed hard, dropping down heavily into a chair. ‘You don't understand,' he groaned. ‘Andie doesn't love me. And once she knows—'

‘Andie doesn't love you!' Rome repeated with incredulous disbelief. ‘Are you stupid, Adam? Or just blind? Andie
has worshipped the ground you walked on since she was seven years old!'

Adam took a gulp of the brandy. ‘You're wrong. She—'

‘Take my word for it, Adam,' the older man broke in. ‘Andie loves you. She always has.'

Adam looked across at him. Could Rome possibly be right? Did Andie care for him?

No! He couldn't believe that. He didn't dare take the risk of believing that.

‘Adam, this morning I told Andie that if she had any doubts, if she had changed her mind about marrying you, that it was all right with me,' Rome told him gruffly. ‘That I would stand by whatever decision she made.'

Adam's breath caught and held in his throat. ‘And?' he finally gasped weakly.

Rome smiled. ‘She told me that if she didn't marry you she would never marry anyone—'

‘That's because of the babies—'

‘No, it isn't, damn it!' Rome rasped harshly, blue eyes blazing. ‘Adam, I know how difficult it's been for you,' he continued more gently. ‘But you aren't responsible for your past. You were a child—'

Adam's eyes clouded. ‘Don't you see? My past makes me the man I am!'

Rome sighed. ‘I accept that, unlike my own children, you were brought up in a world that didn't have any affection, let alone love. I can even understand how it must be difficult for you now to accept having someone love you. But the Summer family have always loved you. And Andie more than all of us.'

Was Rome right? Was he just unable to believe that anyone could love him?

Could Andie ever love him…? Was Rome right, and she already did love him?

He thought back over the last couple of weeks, their initial awkwardness together, and the closeness they had known last night…

He looked across at Rome, only to find the other man looking right back at him, his gaze steadily challenging. ‘What else did Andie say to you this morning?'

The other man hesitated. ‘As you might suppose, she asked me if I knew anything about a woman called Glenda Howarth.'

Adam tensed. ‘And?'

‘I had to answer her honestly and say no,' Rome came back easily.

‘But—'

‘Adam, I would never lie to Andie,' Rome assured him. ‘I have never lied to any of my children, and I'm not about to start now. The truth is I don't know anything about Glenda Howarth. Glenda Munroe is another matter, however. But that isn't what Andie asked me.'

Glenda Munroe…

Yes, that had once been her name. The same surname as his. Before she'd remarried.

‘I also happen to believe, Adam,' Rome said, ‘that it is for you to tell Andie about the past. About Glenda.'

It was. He knew it was.

He was just so terrified of losing Andie when he had done so, of her pity, if not her disgust.

Despite Rome's assurances that Andie loved him…

A
NDIE
watched Adam as he walked restlessly up and down her sitting-room.

He looked terrible, his face pale, a grimness about his eyes and mouth that she had never seen there before.

She had no idea why. Last night, sleeping in each other's arms, had been wonderful. As had sitting drinking coffee together this morning before he'd left.

But Adam had telephoned her late this afternoon and suggested he come over to her apartment this evening, turning down her offer to cook them both dinner. Andie had an idea why that was now; Adam didn't look as if he would be staying long enough to eat dinner!

Finally she could stand the silence no longer. ‘Adam—'

‘Andie, I have something to tell you,' he burst out. ‘It isn't something I'm going to enjoy telling you, but I know it has to be done.'

Glenda Howarth…?

Surely it had to be something to do with the other woman; Adam had changed since that meeting with Glenda Howarth outside his office yesterday.

Andie had been to see her father this morning, in the hope that he might be able to shed some light on the other woman's role in Adam's life; after all, the men had been close friends for years. But Rome had been less than helpful, his expression completely blank at the mention of the other woman's name. Although he had promised to see what he could find out about her.

But from the expression on Adam's face, Rome wouldn't
need to bother; Adam was going to tell her about the other woman himself.

She moistened suddenly dry lips. Adam looked so unhappy about all this that she just knew it was going to be awful.

But what on earth could be so terrible about his relationship with Glenda Howarth that it made him look like this? Andie had given a lot of thought to the other woman today—and the only thing she had been able to come up with, the very worst scenario, was that Adam had once been married to Glenda Howarth. After all, she knew little or nothing about his life before twenty years ago.

But even so, such a young marriage, a marriage that must have gone terribly wrong to have ended before Adam was even twenty, would have no significance in his life now.

Not that Andie would like the idea of Adam ever having been married to anyone else—and especially a woman like Glenda Howarth, a woman she had disliked on sight!—but it wasn't so terrible that Adam had to be reluctant to tell her about it. Was it…?

Or perhaps she had it all wrong, and Adam wasn't going to tell her something awful about Glenda Howarth, perhaps he was going to tell her of his feelings for her mother. That, she most certainly did not want to hear!

She stood up. ‘Do I really need to hear this, Adam? Is it going to help anything?' she reasoned.

He gave a slightly bitter smile. ‘Probably not,' he conceded. ‘In fact, I'm sure not. But Rome has convinced me it isn't something you should learn about after we're married.'

‘Rome has?' Her eyes widened. When had Adam spoken to her father about this? Before or after her own visit this morning? How had Rome reacted to being told that Adam had been in love with Barbara all these years?

Adam went on with his explanation. ‘He doesn't believe it would be fair to you not to tell you before we're married. And after thinking about it, I know he's right,' he acknowledged.

Fair to her? Had it been fair to Rome, even if he were finding happiness a second time in marrying Audrey, to burden him with the truth of Adam's feelings towards Barbara?

‘How did my father react?' she asked worriedly. After all, such knowledge was sure to put a strain on Rome and Adam's friendship. That was the last thing any of them needed just now!

Adam sighed. ‘Apparently, he already knew.'

Well, she had guessed that much, her father was far from stupid. But actually hearing the words must have made it seem so much worse.

Andie was puzzled. ‘I don't know what you hoped to achieve by talking to my father about this.' Any more than he expected to achieve anything positive by telling her either! It might succeed in easing Adam's conscience, but it certainly wouldn't do anything to help their own marriage.

‘I didn't hope to achieve anything,' Adam protested. ‘I just needed someone to talk to, and Rome was the only person I could think of. It helped that he already knew.'

‘I'm sure it did,' Andie snapped.

‘He mentioned that you had been to see him this morning, too.' Adam looked at her searchingly.

‘That was about something else completely,' she dismissed impatiently.

Adam frowned. ‘I don't think so…'

Andie was becoming more and more confused the longer this conversation continued along these abstract lines. ‘Maybe if you just say what you feel you have to say,
Adam…?' she prompted, anxious to get this over with now, her nerves already strung out to breaking-point.

He gave another deep sigh. ‘It's been buried inside me for so long—! Would you like to sit down again?' he invited.

Maybe she had better; she didn't want to fall down!

‘There,' she told him once she was back in her chair, looking up at him expectantly.

‘Right. Well. To start at the beginning, we have to go back thirty-five years—'

‘Thirty-five years?' Andie echoed incredulously. ‘But you would only have been four at the time!'

‘Yes,' he agreed, no longer looking at her, no longer looking at anything it seemed, his expression blank, his thoughts all inwards.

If this thing—whatever it was—went back to when Adam was four, then this couldn't possibly be anything to do with her mother. Or Glenda Howarth either, that Andie could see…?

‘I was four,' Adam confirmed gruffly. ‘And so was my—my brother. Harry.'

Andie had never known he had a brother, let alone—

Twins! If Adam and Harry had both been four, then that meant they had to be twins. The twin connection in Adam's family that he had told her about.

But where was Harry now?

Adam looked at her with pained eyes. ‘Harry is dead.'

Andie's gasp of dismay caught and held in her throat at Adam's next comment.

‘And I killed him.'

She stared across at him with incredulous green eyes. He couldn't have just said— He had been four years old, for goodness' sake!

‘Oh, not with my own bare hands,' Adam assured her bitterly. ‘But I was still responsible for his death.'

Andie swallowed hard, shaking her head. ‘I'm not sure a four-year-old has enough awareness of life to be held responsible for anything, let alone—let alone—Adam—'

‘No, don't touch me!' he instructed harshly as she would have stood up and gone to him.

Andie subsided back into her chair. But only because he'd asked her to. What she most wanted to do was cradle him in her arms while he told her the rest of what he felt he had to say.

Adam turned away, swallowing convulsively. ‘Harry was my identical twin to look at, but we were completely different in personality. I was the extrovert, the outgoing one. Harry was shy, liked to sit quietly looking at books. But at the same time, he would always follow where I led. My mother—our mother,' he amended, ‘was twenty when we were born. We never knew our father. They were married, but he—he walked out when he found out they were expecting twins. Too much responsibility, I suppose.' Adam took a gulp of air. ‘By the time we were six months old our mother had begun to go out in the evenings. She couldn't afford to pay for babysitters,' he added bitterly as Andie would have spoken. ‘By the time we were three, she was out almost every night. I was left in charge, because I was the oldest—'

‘By how much?' Andie gasped, horrified at what he was telling her. She had read about things like this in the newspapers, of course, but had never guessed that this could be Adam's childhood.

‘Five minutes,' Adam answered flatly. ‘Anyway, one night, when we were four, our mother had gone out as usual, and—the money ran out in the electricity meter.' He moistened dry lips. ‘I couldn't find any money to put in it,
so I—I lit a candle in our bedroom. Harry had never liked the dark, and I—I fell asleep!' he continued emotionally. ‘The candle must have fallen over, caught the curtains alight, and within minutes the place was an inferno. I couldn't find Harry amongst the smoke! I looked and I looked, but I couldn't find him. Then a neighbour burst in and carried me out. I never saw Harry again.'

Andie's sob caught in her throat. How horrible. How absolutely, heartbreakingly horrible. For Adam.

‘By the time my mother returned from her evening out, our apartment was burnt beyond recognition. And Harry was dead,' Adam said numbly.

A sudden—shocking!—truth hit Andie like a lightning bolt. Glenda Howarth, still beautiful but older than she actually looked, was Adam's mother!

Andie didn't know how she knew, couldn't even have said where the idea had come from. But she knew it with blinding certainty.

Andie stood up, determined to go to Adam now whether he wanted her to or not, putting her hand tentatively on the rigidness of his arm. ‘Glenda Howarth is your mother, isn't she, Adam?' Andie said evenly.

His mouth twisted with distaste. ‘She is,' he confirmed. ‘And I've hated her from the day Harry died.'

Andie felt choked. She understood his feelings, even while she ached with the pain he must have suffered at his twin's death.

She also understood now why he was so determined to be a good and loving father to his own children. Even if he couldn't love their mother, he would love and take care of his children.

 

Adam looked searchingly at Andie. He knew she was tender-hearted enough to empathise with his trauma at
Harry's death. It was his mother that was the real skeleton in his cupboard. After all that had happened, all the years of hating her, she was still his mother. Much as he hated it, her blood ran in his veins.

He had decided very early in his life that he would never love anyone again. When his mother had come back into his life fifteen years ago, he had known it was the right decision; how could he ever offer any woman Glenda as a mother-in-law? Certainly not Andie, who had only ever known love and sunshine in her own life.

He grasped Andie's arms now, putting her firmly away from him, still not sure how this conversation was going to turn out. ‘It was so hard for me to believe Harry was really gone. He was the other half of myself.' His expression softened. ‘You would have liked him, Andie—'

‘Don't!' she choked, tears glistening on her lashes.

‘No,' he accepted heavily. ‘It doesn't help, does it? I go to his grave sometimes, talk to him, but that doesn't help, either.' He swallowed hard.

‘I'll come with you next time,' Andie told him huskily.

‘We can tell him about our own twins. He would probably like that.'

She understood that, at least! He had hoped that she would, but been so afraid that she wouldn't…!

‘It's been so long since I was able to share Harry with anyone,' he admitted, his own throat choked with tears.

‘Your mother understood, but—'

‘My mother?' Andie repeated. ‘She knew about all this?'

‘I told her,' he admitted, sensing a sudden distance widening between Andie and himself. A distance he didn't understand. ‘Your mother was one of the most beautiful people I have ever known, gave me back my belief in human love and kindness, a belief that had been missing from my life for so many years—'

‘Adam, I don't want to hear how you felt about my mother!' Andie protested emotionally.

He blinked his surprise at her vehemence. ‘But—'

‘If we're to stand any chance of building a future together, Adam—and I believe from this conversation that you still want that—then it has to be with no emotional baggage,' Andie told him firmly. ‘Oh, I don't mean Harry,' she assured pleadingly at his pained frown. ‘Losing Harry, an identical twin, must have been like losing half of yourself.'

‘Worse,' he confirmed bleakly. ‘We were so close we could finish each other's sentences, read each other's minds. After Harry died I completely withdrew into myself, refused to speak. To anyone. There was an inquest on Harry's death, of course, a social services report on my mother.' He looked steadily at Andie. ‘The report showed that my mother's evenings out were spent with a number of different men. Men who gave her money.'

He watched as the truth dawned on Andie, the absolute horror on her face.

His mother, selfish, irresponsible, totally incapable of caring for anyone but herself, had been little better than a prostitute!

Oh, no one had actually used that word at the time, and Adam wouldn't have understood what it meant if they had, but he hadn't even been in his teens when he had worked out for himself that was what his mother had actually been. There was no denying the fact that the men his mother had seen had been on a regular basis, but the plain truth of the matter was, his mother had taken money from those men. Which made her only one thing in his eyes.

In Andie's eyes too…?

This was what he had dreaded Andie finding out: the horrible truth about his mother…

He was unable to look at Andie now. Frightened of what he might see in her face!

‘The authorities decided that Glenda wasn't a fit mother to look after me. But with typical selfishness, my mother refused to even think of agreeing to adoption, so I was put into care—'

‘No!' Andie protested brokenly.

He gave a humourless smile. ‘It was the best thing anyone could have done for me. Away from her, from the place where Harry and I had known such unhappiness, I at last began to respond to people, to talk again. On the few occasions when my mother came to visit I refused to see her. Her birthday and Christmas presents were always sent back unopened, until she finally stopped sending them.' He at last explained the lack of them in his childhood; it had been an act of deliberate denial on his part! ‘In fact, I didn't see her again until I was twenty-five or so. When I had begun to make a name for myself—and obviously money, too!—as a film producer,' he explained bitterly.