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It was a Sunday, midsummer in England. Adam left his London residence, looking forward to the pleasure of driving his Aston Martin into the country and collecting his daughter from Davenport Hall where she had spent the first week of her school holidays with her best friend, who happened to be the niece of the Earl of Stanthorpe.
Adam’s ex-wife was delighted with that connection to the British upper class. Sending their daughter to Roedean was pure status snobbery on Sarah’s part—a ridiculous reason in Adam’s mind, but it wasn’t a big enough issue to argue over. Besides, Cate seemed happy there, didn’t complain about anything.
She’d just turned thirteen, his one and only child from his one and only marriage, and a very bright spark, indeed. He was proud of her, always enjoyed her company when she spent time with him. They had fun together, the kind of adventurous fun her mother had never appreciated—going places, experiencing new things.
To Sarah, there was no place like England and she wasn’t happy anywhere else, a fact she made plain by divorcing him three years after they were married. She didn’t want to spend her life gallivanting around the world with him. She was now married to a member of parliament and was the perfect politician’s wife, do-gooding with the best of them for public brownie points.
Adam wished her well. There was no acrimony between them. The divorce settlement had been more than generous and he still paid for whatever Sarah wanted for Cate. Money, he’d found, bought a lot of harmony. He could have their daughter with him whenever he wanted. Having made time off from business commitments for Cate’s summer holidays, it somewhat niggled him that she had chosen to spend the first week of it with her best friend. Didn’t she have enough of Celeste’s company at school? Or was Davenport Hall a big attraction?
Having been invited there for lunch to meet Celeste’s family before whisking Cate away, Adam took particular notice of the place when he arrived, driving slowly through the gateway and down a long avenue of massive trees, their branches intertwining overhead to form a sun-dappled tunnel. He had the eerie feeling of being drawn into some time warp.
Cate had told him the hall was over four hundred years old and the thickness of the tree trunks suggested they were of the same age, yet the leaves were a light pretty green showing a bright continuance of life. At the end of the avenue the driveway circled around a massive stone fountain, water splashing and tumbling in endless cascades, a sparkling pleasure. Beyond it stood an impressive mansion, three storeys high, much of its walls covered by ivy.
The impression of solidity and permanence was strong. This had been the home of the Earls of Stanthorpe for half a millennium. Adam had no need of deep roots himself, but he could feel its attraction here, the sense of security that undoubtedly came with nothing ever changing. Did this place have some special magic to it that appealed to Cate? Or was she being over-influenced by Sarah’s values?
He was greeted at the front door by an old butler who’d probably served the family for decades. Having identified himself, Adam was ushered into a huge hallway, a wide strip of rich red carpet bisecting a floor of black and white tiles, a gallery of portraits on the walls, obviously depicting generations of earls. Adam instantly thought he wouldn’t want to carry the weight of all this heritage on his shoulders, tying him to the one place for life.
Yet when he was shown into a drawing room of magnificent proportions and furnished with rich elegance, he could understand the tug of possessions that made their own seductive claim. There were three groupings of sofas and chairs and tables, one directly in front of a massive marble fireplace. But no fire was lit or needed. Sunshine streamed through a bank of six windows at one end of the room where a man and woman rose from another sitting area, smiling their welcome.
‘Mr. Adam Cazell, m’lord,’ the butler announced.
The Earl of Stanthorpe was tall and lean, but with none of the rather effete air Adam associated with aristocracy. He had dark intelligent eyes and a strong grip to his hand. ‘Hugh Davenport,’ he said, inviting informality. ‘A pleasure to meet Cate’s father. This is my wife, Rebel.’
Curious name for a lady of the establishment, and she was certainly a distinctive one—a mass of curly black hair tumbling to her shoulders, bright hazel eyes, an unusual angular jawline, a warm, winning smile of perfect white teeth.
Adam smiled back at her as he retrieved his hand from the Earl’s and offered it to his hostess. ‘How do you do?’ A silly greeting, he’d always thought, but it seemed appropriate on this occasion.
‘I trust you had a pleasant trip down from London, Mr. Cazell?’
‘Adam.’
‘Thank you.’ Her smile widened to a grin. ‘I’ve learned to be a bit cautious about jumping in with first names here in England. I’m from Australia and old habits die hard.’
Rather intriguing to find a dyed-in-the-wool English earl married to an Australian. Was he a rebel, too?
‘Please join us,’ she went on, gesturing to a nearby armchair. ‘The children are out walking the dogs but they should be back any minute.’
She’d barely finished speaking when Cate burst into the room, throwing the double doors to it wide open. ‘Hi, Dad! Saw your car coming up the drive,’ she breathlessly informed.
Celeste was right on Cate’s heels, along with a couple of Yorkshire terriers. ‘We ran but you got here first, Mr. Cazell. Oh, do shut up, Fluffy and Buffy!’ This to the dogs who were yapping at Adam—a stranger on their territory.
Two small boys raced in past the girls and the dogs, coming to an abrupt and rather shy halt at seeing Cate’s father, eyeing him up and down before the older one—possibly all of five—commented with considerable awe, ‘He’s as big as Uncle Zachary, Mum.’
Rebel laughed at the remark.
Then in strolled Rosalie James.
She looked directly at him.
And all Adam’s instincts transmitted a wild belief that the time warp in the tunnel of trees had been spiralling him towards this moment.
CHAPTER TWO
SO THIS was Adam Cazell…Cate’s father…
As her nephew had just said, as big as Zachary Lee, but what of his heart? From listening to his daughter, Rosalie had formed the strong impression that Adam Cazell didn’t give enough of it to Cate, whose discontent with her home life was all too evident. Celeste thought her best friend’s father was fabulous, but that had more to do with her image of him as a daring billionaire businessman with enormous buying power.
A colourful man, Rosalie thought, if viewed from the perspective of his flamboyant achievements, but close up…
Then the big man’s gaze locked onto hers, jolting her with an emanation of power that squeezed her heart and sent a weird shiver down her spine. Silver grey eyes…like bullets…tearing through defences she had raised a long, long time ago. She stared back at him, helpless to do anything else, feeling his aggression weakening every bone in her body.
Hugh rescued her, moving to draw the boys forward and introduce them. ‘These are my sons, Geoffrey and Malcolm.’
It forced Adam Cazell to look at them and say something appropriate, giving Rosalie enough recovery time to be more on guard when her introduction came.
‘And this is Rebel’s sister, Rosalie James.’
Politeness demanded she touch his hand. He seized complete possession of hers, strong fingers wrapping around it, pressing a hot imprint that felt like a claim on her entire body—his for the taking.
Resistance burned in her mind.
Nobody took her. Nobody!
‘Her sister?’ The assault of his eyes was briefly halted by a flicker of surprise at the relationship. He glanced at Rebel, then back to Rosalie, frowning.
‘No likeness,’ she dryly interpreted.
Celeste piped up. ‘Everyone in Rebel’s family was adopted, Mr. Cazell. From all over the world. Rebel is the English one…’
‘And you?’ he asked Rosalie, his eyes as sharp as steel knives.
Every instinct screamed to deny him any private information. She sensed he would maul it unmercifully. ‘My life is my own, Mr. Cazell,’ she said with quiet dignity.
‘Adam,’ he insisted.
She denied him the familiarity. Give this man an inch and he’d take a mile, and Rosalie was not about to travel his road which she’d already judged to be totally centred on what he wanted. She tore her gaze from his to send a quelling message to her chatterbox niece.
‘Let’s give Cate the chance to talk to her father, Celeste. She hasn’t seen him for…how long has it been, Cate?’
It was a deliberate barb, aimed at hitting some paternal guilt. Frustratingly, his daughter defused it. ‘Oh, Dad will get around to me in his own good time,’ she answered off-handedly.
Surprisingly Adam Cazell laughed, released Rosalie’s hand and swung towards his daughter, spreading his arms invitingly. ‘I could do with a hug, Catie mine.’
Her young face lit up with joy in the openly affectionate invitation. She flew at him and he lifted her up and whirled her around. ‘Dad, I’m not a little kid anymore,’ she protested, mindful of her dignity in this company but loving his uninhibited pleasure in her nonetheless.
He set her down with a look of helpless dismay. ‘The terrible teens,’ he moaned. ‘You’re only one small step into it. Does everything have to change?’
She huffed an exasperated sigh at him. ‘You have to face the fact I’m growing up.’
‘Well, you can teach me about it over the holidays,’ he said with grand generosity.
‘Sure.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘A few weeks to pack it all in.’
The irony floated right past him. Or he chose to ignore it, smiling to dispel the slightly sour note. ‘So what have you two been doing this past week?’ A twinkling look at Celeste. ‘Shall we sit down and you can regale me with teenage girl things?’
Quite a charmer, Rosalie thought, watching Celeste’s eager response to the invitation. They all moved to the lounge setting near the windows. With the confidence of a charismatic king, Adam Cazell proceeded to court his daughter and the family whose guest she still was until after lunch.
Rosalie had chosen an armchair slightly apart from the rest of them, determined on observing rather than participating. She knew he was aware of her detachment and would undoubtedly try to breach it sooner or later, which would put her on her mettle again, but she felt safe enough to watch him for a while, and he was quite compellingly watchable.
The charm tempered an innate forcefulness that obviously fuelled everything he tackled, explaining why he succeeded in whatever he undertook in the business world. And he was attractive, as well. Not in any pretty playboy sense. His face was too rugged to be called classically handsome but its strong lines and angles had a very male appeal that Rosalie judged would automatically evoke a positive response in both men and women. Besides which, the rather unruly waves of his dark hair softened the craggy look, adding to his charm, making him appear approachable.
The boys certainly weren’t frightened of him.
More fascinated.
As they’d been by Zachary Lee.
The comparison niggled at Rosalie’s sense of rightness. Adam Cazell might have the same formidable height and breadth of chest and shoulder as her big brother, promising a strength that would be easy to lean on, but she was sure he was much more a taker by nature than a giver.
She rubbed at the hand he had taken, wanting to erase the lingering sense of his invasive power. He noticed the action and she instantly stopped it, not wanting him to have the satisfaction of knowing he’d left his touch on her.
She wasn’t sure if it was sex or ego driving him where she was concerned—maybe both. She’d been targeted by too many wealthy and influential men not to recognise that Adam Cazell fancied acquiring her, which, of course, was for the purpose of public show and sex on call until the gloss wore off and desire waned.
Usually such attention was water off a duck’s back to Rosalie. But there was something more intense, more personal, more threatening about Adam Cazell. As much as she wanted to dismiss him, it was like he’d burrowed under her skin and she couldn’t pry him out. Maybe if she watched him long enough, the disturbing effect of the man would fade.
Oddly enough, his daughter had made a strong impression on her, too. Cate was very bright, older than her years in reading people and where she stood with them. The occasional flash of cynicism in some of her comments had disturbed Rosalie, revealing knowledge bred by disappointment or disillusionment. Cate had grown armour she shouldn’t need to have at thirteen.
But a privileged background didn’t guarantee a happy upbringing. Celeste, who still looked angelic with her beautiful fair hair and big blue eyes, had been characterised by Hugh as ‘an evil seed,’ a monstrous child—expelled from one school after another for outrageous behaviour—before Rebel came into their lives and turned everything around for them. Rebel had seen Hugh’s orphaned niece as a lost child in desperate need of rescue and had barged straight into proving to Hugh how wrong he was in his reading of the situation.
Rosalie didn’t see Cate Cazell as being in need of rescue. She was a survivor, that one, probably with as strong a will as her father. She’d inherited his dark wavy hair, and the shape of his face—the high wide brow and the sharply delineated chisel chin, but her mouth was softer and her eyes were a warmer grey with a ring of amber around the irises. She was tall, too, though with a much more slender frame than her father. Rosalie imagined she’d be very striking when she grew up.
But for now, the girl did crave more of her father’s time and attention. And should have it, Rosalie thought, remembering how much it had meant to her to have Zachary Lee caring about her every thought and feeling, loving her, protecting her, making her feel safe and secure. Not alone.
Yes…that was how Cate felt…too much alone. Her family consisted of a socialising mother, too busy aiding and abetting her political husband’s career to actually listen to her daughter, a stepfather who was never there for her, a father who flew into and out of her life, handing out oodles of ice-cream, but not staying around long enough to realise that sweets weren’t enough. No wonder Cate liked being with Celeste’s family!
‘Rosalie…’
His voice sliding into her private reverie, kicking her heart into a faster beat…the silver bullet eyes trained on her again, commanding her attention.
‘I just remembered where I last saw you,’ he said with a musing little smile designed to tease her interest.
Modelling put her in the public eye. It was not remarkable that she had been seen somewhere by Adam Cazell, possibly accompanying one of his girlfriends to a fashion show. Was this another attempt to dig into her life?
‘The premiere of Turandot at the Met in New York,’ he went on, surprising her with the venue named.
‘You were there?’ Rebel leapt in delightedly. ‘You heard Zuang Chi sing?’
He nodded. ‘A magnificent voice.’
‘He’s our brother,’ Rebel claimed with pride. ‘We were all there for his premiere. The whole family. It was a marvellous night, wasn’t it, Rosalie?’
‘Yes.’
She hadn’t seen Adam Cazell at the opera and didn’t like the feeling he had watched her without her knowing. Though she had been more or less on public exhibit that night, paid to wear the dress and necklace for others to see and covet.
He leaned forward on his sofa like a big cat about to pounce. ‘Just how many are in your family, Rebel?’
She laughed. ‘Fourteen of us. Plus husbands and wives and our wonderful parents. We filled a whole box at the Met, didn’t we, darling?’ She smiled at Hugh in fond recollection.
‘We certainly did. Marvellous night,’ he echoed.
Adam nodded in agreement. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t make your acquaintance at the time. Must confess I only noticed Rosalie.’ His gaze sliced back to her, a wry little smile on his lips. ‘You were singularly spectacular.’
She returned his smile. ‘I was on parade.’
‘And the red-haired man you were with?’
‘Zachary Lee,’ Rebel happily supplied. ‘Our big brother.’
Satisfaction glinted in his eyes.
A possible competitor dismissed, Rosalie interpreted, thinking he had certainly noticed her escort, probably sizing him up and wondering how attached they were.
‘None of us are blood relations,’ she stated, feeling a strong urge to put a spoke in his wheel. ‘That’s why we don’t look alike.’
‘Uncle Zachary is the American one,’ Celeste informed him.
‘And the one we all look up to,’ Rosalie quickly slid in, not wanting Celeste to list off their multinational family, which she was clearly on the verge of doing. A change of subject was urgently needed. ‘Do you often attend the opera, Adam?’ she inquired. ‘No.’
‘It was a premiere,’ his daughter commented before he could add more. ‘Daddy’s girlfriends lu-u-uv premieres.’
‘Oh, come on, Catie,’ he chided good-naturedly. ‘I’ve taken you to a few, too. The Harry Potter film, the…’
‘Okay, okay.’ She held up her hands in mock defence. ‘He’s far more into pop music, Rosalie. You know…Saturn Records before he sold it off? He didn’t do classical stuff.’
‘Which doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.’ Slightly more snappish on that reply.
‘I’ve never heard you play it,’ Cate argued.
‘You’re not with me all the time.’
Big blunder.
Cate’s face tightened. ‘You’re right, Dad. What do I get? Fifteen percent if I’m lucky? For all I know you could be playing opera all the time you don’t have me with you.’ She flashed a gritty look of apology at Rosalie. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t have butted in. I can’t swear my father doesn’t like classical music.’
‘Never a good idea to speak for others,’ Rosalie tossed back with a sympathetic shrug.
Adam Cazell erased the frown evoked by Cate’s rather biting mockery, his sharply penetrating gaze targeting Rosalie again. ‘Actually, a good voice attracts my attention regardless of what is being sung.’
