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practice near Twickenham. Brr, cold out here, isn’t it? Still, what can you expect in the middle of February?” He seemed to suddenly remember that he was at a funeral and altered his tone accordingly. “Terrible shame, all this. Terrible shame.”
“Miss Tom is in a bit of a rush, Foreman.”
Rosie nodded awkwardly. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it to the pub—one of Amanda’s friends mentioned that everyone would be gathering there to pay their respects. I’ve travelled all the way from East London and I really need to be getting along.”
“Of course, of course! But I need to corral the pair of you for a word.” James Foreman looked around him with a little frown, as though searching for somewhere convenient into which the corralling could take place. Rosie, by now, was thoroughly confused. More than anything else, she wanted to be gone. It had been a mistake seeing Angelo again. That part of her life was a chapter that should be firmly closed. Coming here had reopened it and now she knew that their brief, embittered encounter would prey on her mind for weeks ahead.
“What’s this about, Foreman?” Angelo asked in a clipped voice.
“Stroke of luck finding you both here. Of course, Mr Di Capua, I knew that you would be here but…Well, put it this way, Miss Tom, it’s saved me a bit of bother tracking you down…not that it would have been difficult. All part of the business.”
“Cut to the chase, Foreman.”
“It’s about a will.”
Rosie had no idea what this had to do with her. She did know, however, that the longer she stood still the colder it felt. She glanced across to Angelo, her eyes drawn to the harsh, beautiful lines of his face like the unerring and dangerous tug of a moth towards an open flame.
The last conversation they had ever had was imprinted on her brain. The coldness in his eyes, the contempt in his voice when he had told her that he wanted nothing more to do with her. They had been dating for nearly a year, the most wonderful year of her entire life. She had not stopped marvelling at how this terrific, wealthy, sophisticated guy had pursued her. Later he had told her that the second he had laid eyes on her he had wanted her, and that he was a man who always got what he wanted. He had certainly got her and she had been on cloud nine.
Of course, on the home front, things had not been quite so rosy. Jack’s problems had been deteriorating steadily and Amanda…How could she not have guessed that, whilst she had been waxing lyrical about the love of her life, her best friend had been busily storing up jealousy and resentments that would one day spill over into the horror story from which none of them had emerged intact?
While the past threatened to overwhelm her, James Foreman was still talking in a low voice, ushering them away from the chapel and towards the car park which was shrouded in darkness.
“Hang on a minute.” Rosie stopped dead in her tracks and the other two men turned to look at her. “I don’t know what’s going on here and I don’t care. I need to get back home.”
“Have you been listening to a word Foreman’s been saying?”
Actually, no, she hadn’t. “So Amanda left a will. I don’t see what that has to do with me. I haven’t seen her for over three years.” She looked apologetically at the lawyer who probably hadn’t a clue what was going on. “We had a bit of a falling out, Mr Foreman. Amanda and I used to be friends, but something happened. I only came here because I felt sad about how things had ended between us.”
“I know all about the falling out, my dear.”
“Do you? How?”
“Your friend—”
“Ex-friend.”
“Your ex-friend was a very vulnerable and confused young woman. She came to see me when…eh…she was having certain difficulties…”
“Difficulties? What difficulties?” Rosie laughed bitterly. Mandy had played her cards right and she had got exactly what she had wanted—Angelo Di Capua. “All’s fair in love and war,” she had once said to Rosie when they were fifteen. Rosie had come to see just how tightly her so-called friend had been prepared to cling to that outlook.
“Not for me to say at this juncture. Look, why don’t we nip to a little bistro I know not far from here? It should be relatively quiet at this hour and it would save you both the hassle of coming to my office in the morning. My car’s in the car park so we could go right now. Mr Di Capua, perhaps your driver could come and collect you in an hour or so?”
They were virtually at his car and Rosie heard Angelo click his tongue impatiently but he shrugged and made a brief phone call before sliding into the passenger seat, leaving her to clamber in the back. She felt as though she had no choice but to surrender to this turn of events. The short drive was completed in silence and twenty minutes later they were in a bistro which, as James Foreman had predicted, was fairly empty.
“I find it hard to believe that Amanda would leave a will,” Angelo said the second they were seated. “She had no one in her life. At least, no one of any significance.”
“You’d be surprised,” James Foreman murmured, his sharp eyes flicking between them.
“What were the difficulties you were talking about?” Rosie pressed. Next to her, Angelo’s hand, resting on the table, brought back sharp memories of how things had once been between them, cutting through the bitterness, leaving her dry-mouthed and panicked.
“Your friend was an emotional young woman carrying burdens she found difficult to cope with. She came to see me about a certain property she owned. I believe you know the property I’m talking about, Mr Di Capua—a certain cottage in Cornwall?” He turned to Rosie with a warmly sympathetic half-smile. “I understand the problems you both had. Over the years I built up a strong rapport with your friend. She was a needy soul and I became something of a father figure for her. My wife and I had her over many times for dinner. Indeed, we both did our best to counsel her on—”
“Are we ever destined to get to the point, Foreman?”
“The point is that the cottage was your wife’s prized possession, Mr Di Capua. She found refuge there.”
“Refuge from what?” Rosie interjected. She glanced across to Angelo’s hard, uncompromising profile and saw him flush darkly.
“We’re not here to discuss the state of my marriage,” Angelo bit out, meeting her puzzled stare with ice-cold eyes. “So she went a lot to the cottage.” He dragged his eyes away from her face. Hell, how was it that she could claw a reaction out of him? Was it possible that only this burning hatred could find a response in him?
“And the cottage belonged to her. In its entirety. Along with the acreage surrounding it. You recall, Mr Di Capua, she insisted shortly after you were married that you give it to her so that she could feel secure there and could be certain that it would never be taken away.”
“I recall,” Angelo said abruptly. “I agreed because I owned the estate alongside it. I could keep an eye on her.”
“Keep an eye on her? Why would you want to do that, Angelo?”
“Because.” Once again he looked at her. Once again he felt that surge of blistering, chaotic emotion which was a damn sight more than he had felt for the past few years. For as long as he could remember he had been completely dead inside. “Amanda had a problem with alcohol. She fancied the cottage because she wanted peace and quiet. On the other hand, with her fondness for the bottle, I couldn’t let her stay there without some form of supervision. She was unaware that I owned the estate abutting the cottage. I always made sure that one of my people was around to check on her now and again.”
“I can’t believe she started drinking. She was always so sure she wouldn’t go down that road.”
“Is that your convoluted way of asking me whether I drove her to drink?”
“Of course not!”
“Because