Chapter Twelve
After a sleepless night Bronte decided she wasn't going to let a mere man get under her skin.
Padding into the kitchen the message light on her answer machine beckoned. Pressing play she listened to three messages consisting of a long silence and the receiver being hung up. She frowned, a wrong number?
She shrugged and how embarrassing had last night been? Nico had morphed into Mr Polite and 'please do not worry.' Don't worry? The whole county now knew that Bronte Ludlow was shameless, never wore panties and was happy to prove it to hundreds of guests at a society wedding.
Here she was at eight o'clock on Sunday morning and wide awake thanks to a cold shower and a certain Italian who'd been the central figure in several hot and steamy dreams.
She tied her hair up in an untidy knot on the top of her head. In black yoga pants, cashmere socks and matching thick sweater, she did the only thing that relieved stress, she baked. A stainless steel mixing bowl clanged onto the work surface and she got to work. In no time the smell of cinnamon, apples and brown sugar filled the kitchen.
And she felt marginally better after a coffee.
Sunday mornings were usually spent lounging around in her cosiest pyjamas, catching up with the latest cake designs. Talking of which, she pulled a large sketch pad out of a drawer and grabbed a pencil. Janine Brooke-Stockton wanted a dramatic black and white theme for her cake? Then that's exactly what she would get. Fifteen minutes later the sketch took shape, but Bronte's weary mind refused to focus.
Flipping over to a new page, she drew her tormentor's face with quick, precise strokes. Absently, she spent time getting the mouth just right, highlighting the high cheekbones and working to get the super confident expression in those dark, dark eyes just right.
So what if her intuition told her something else was going on under that wonderful face. He had a tortured dark angel look and she had absolutely no intention of getting involved with him on an emotional level.
Annoyed with herself and her fixation with a fabulous looking man she drew horns sprouting from the top of his head, gave him a pitch fork and made his eyes diabolical.
The oven pinged and she slid out her apple upside down cakes onto a wire rack.
With lust curling in her belly, her eyes were drawn like a magnet to her sketch. When she'd danced with him it had been magical. Had she ever been touched or kissed like that? Never. Okay, he'd been a pain when he wanted to know all about her life and yet kept schtum about his own. He'd been hurt at some point, she'd felt it as she'd recognised his pain.
The scene in the hallway gave her goose bumps goose bumps. Yes, he'd been rough with her and that was totally unacceptable behaviour. But he'd pulled back immediately. Part of her had actually enjoyed it and what did that say about her? It said she was a pathetic excuse for a female. But God, his hands knew exactly where to go, what to do.
Son-of-a-bitch, she nearly snarled at the drawing. He probably had a woman in every city. Alexander had mentioned Nico was popular with the ladies. No surprises there, some of the women at the wedding had been virtually panting after him. Pathetic. She firmly pushed aside her own panting response last night to his undoubted sexual prowess with a grimace of shame. And what would her brother think about his sister practically having sex up against her front door with his friend and business partner? She closed her eyes. Poor Alexander, he'd looked so stressed last night, if he got wind of her behaviour with Nico, he would be frantic. Hadn't she put him through enough? Her tired brain segued into another issue. He'd been her rock, along with Rosie, when her whole life had been turned upside down.
Don't think about it - not today.
But her mind refused to let it go.
Her dreams were still haunted by the scene.
She'd been in a hurry singing along to a song on the radio and drove her car round a bend and into a scene from the bowels of Hell. Straight into teams of Police, Ambulance and Fire crews desperately fighting to release the shattered remains of her parents from their car. She'd never forget, couldn't forget, the smell of petrol, the roar of power tools and men shouting. And the smell of death.
The trauma of the loss of her parents had been nightmare enough, but then had come the discovery of a letter.
She knew it by heart.
Bronte, my darling,
You have been a joy to us since the day you were born. Even now when we look at you, we can't believe we've been so lucky to have you as our daughter.
Every marriage has its tough times and ours has been no different. Twelve months before you were born, we separated for a time. Hindsight is a great thing and we now realise we were too young to handle the responsibilities of running the estate. Duty came to us too early after the death of your grandfather.
Both of us were to blame for what happened. Your mother found solace and badly needed affection in the arms of another for a time. We came to our senses and realised we still desperately loved and cared for each other. But your mother was already pregnant. We want to make it clear that we never, ever thought of terminating the pregnancy. You have always been much wanted and much loved.
If you are reading this it means we've left this earth too soon, before we found the courage to tell you to your face.
Your biological father has no idea of your existence. That is a decision we have come to regret, but we made it when we were young and once done it could not be undone.
Your biological father is Carl Terlezki. He is a wonderful man who cared very deeply for your mother at a vulnerable time in her life.
We hurt too many people all those years ago. And now we have to hurt you too. We are so sorry, my darling.
What you do with this information is entirely up to you, Bronte, but we hope you contact Carl and show him this letter. Perhaps finding each other will bring joy to you both. Please find it in your hearts to forgive us for keeping you apart.
Your loving parents.
They'd been so close, had shared so much.
Why hadn't they told her?
She had so many questions and too many words were left unsaid.
Then the problem with the will had arisen and the inheritance because she wasn't a Ludlow. Her parent's had left her The Dower House, but Ludlow Hall would need to be sold. And then she'd had to deal with her fianc?'s decision that they were too young to settle down. He hadn't attended the funeral, saying it was a 'private, family matter.' What kind of person did something like that to someone they were supposed to care about?
The room swam as tears gathered behind her eyes. Her throat tightened. Furious with herself she blinked them away.
She'd researched Carl Terlezki. Google wasn't just Rosie's friend.
The man who stared at her from her laptop was in his mid-sixties, slim, tanned and still handsome. He had a thick shock of white hair and apparently was a wealthy financier and a man who raised millions for good causes. Although he appeared to have had relationships, he'd never married nor had children. At least none he acknowledged publicly.
She'd put his face on her screensaver just to torture herself. What if he didn't want to know her? What if he thought she was after his money? What did she want from him? In spite of her parent's lying to her she'd had an idyllic childhood. She still felt angry with them, the sense of betrayal a weeping sore in her heart.
So she'd sent a tentative letter keeping it vague, telling him about her parent's death and the discovery of a letter. Might she meet him to discuss it? The reply had taken weeks since the letter had got caught up in other correspondence. Carl had asked her to phone him and she had done, less than forty eight hours ago. She was due to meet him on tomorrow morning at his office in the City. By his tone he sounded intrigued; he assumed she wanted him to donate funds to a worthy cause. He'd be delighted, he said, to meet the daughter of such a wonderful woman.
Bronte had no idea what she was going to say to him and Alexander was not happy about the situation. Her brother didn't want to stir up a scandal, old
news from the past that would certainly hit the headlines and smear the family name. She could understand it, but for too many months she'd struggled with what was the right thing to do. Doing nothing was not an option. So she'd taken the decision to play it by ear. Give Carl Terlezki the letter and gauge his reaction to the news. What was the worse that could happen?
No more tears, she told herself ruthlessly as she stared now at the drawing of Nico Ferranti.
She wanted him desperately, but was honest enough with herself to realise that if she took, she may lose something too - a fundamental part of who she was. Nico would never understand her.
Bronte bit into another cake, topped up her coffee, still staring at the drawing. Surely a fling or an affair would hurt no-one? An affair sounded more sophisticated, less sleazy. After all, her heart wasn't involved. With a man like Nico, who knew the score, she could have fun. He'd spelt it out clearly last night and so had she. Therefore there was no risk to her or to him. She could experience things other women took for granted without a second thought. He wanted her and she wanted him. They were single, unattached and free to do as they wished.
Feeling more settled Bronte rose and boogied her hips; there was another way to relieve stress.
She plugged her iPod into her surround sound system, selected Rihanna and flicked it up to full volume.
Life, she told herself, was too damned short not to have fun.
?