The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  “I don’t think it’s that bad,” Charlotte replied. “I think Mummy’s right. It’s just bad luck.”

  “Or maybe you just got lucky,” Sylvia remarked, pointing her finger. “How do you know the guy who did this wasn’t a rapist or a murderer?”

  “Mon Dieu! Perhaps Sylvia is right.” Armand paled. “Who knows what dangers may be lurking on the moors. For all we know,” he added, turning to Penelope, expression grave and his voice low, “chère, Charlotte may very well have escaped a fate worse than death.” He dabbed a dainty white handkerchief to his lips.

  “Maybe Armand’s right.” Brad turned thoughtfully to Charlotte. “Perhaps you and Genny should stay at the castle tonight and—”

  “Oh no you don’t. This is perfectly ridiculous and I wish you’d all stop fussing.” Charlotte jumped up, and tugged at her short T-shirt, annoyed. “Some idiot broke in and took a few things. End of story. It could have happened to anyone, anywhere. It just happens that it was me.” She shrugged and pretended to make light of the matter. “There’s no need to make a mountain out of a molehill.” She glanced at her wrist automatically. It felt strangely bare without the weight of the watch. “I need to get over to Moira’s to pick up the kids. I promised I’d take them for pizza later, and to the movies,” she murmured, suddenly needing to escape.

  “I’ll drive you,” Brad offered. “I want to take a look around the cottage myself, see if there are any clues. Do you want to join us and the kids at the movies, Syl?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass,” she murmured dryly.

  “Okay. I’ll be back in a little. Better not wait up for me.” Brad rose, moved across the room and dropped an absent kiss on her furious brow before escorting Charlotte to the door.

  Sylvia almost stood up and followed, suddenly regretting her decision to stay, then thought better of it. The last thing she wanted was to appear clinging, petty or jealous. She had a plan going and that was what mattered. Let him run loose with the kids for a few more days. After all, the board meeting was in two weeks and by then she would make damn sure his mind was focused on next quarter’s earnings, and not, as increasingly appeared to be the case, on Charlotte. She laid her cup carefully back on the tray, with no hint of the turbulent emotions troubling her. She must stay focused on priorities. She and Brad were engaged to be married and on a fast track to becoming one of New York City’s most powerful couples. And that, she reflected grimly, was exactly how they were going to stay. She hadn’t given him and Harcourts five whole years of her life just to see him walk out of it with Charlotte Drummond. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  But as she watched them leave the room, she was puzzled, trying to understand what an intelligent man like Brad saw in a woman like Charlotte. Okay, she was gorgeous. But she was also flaky and vague. The woman lived in a dreamworld. Men wanted self-assured, independent women who brought something to the table and could fend for themselves, didn’t they? A fey fairy creature who designed jewelry on a remote island could only be a whim, not a permanent option, she reassured herself.

  All in all, she was satisfied with her own performance. For a moment she grinned. She had to admit she’d taken perverse pleasure in egging on all their fears; it was a small but surprisingly satisfying payback for all the crap she’d had to put up with this last week. She knew they were right. The robbery was probably an isolated incident. Hell, aside from a few trinkets and gewgaws, there wasn’t enough in this backwater to interest any self-respecting criminal. Truth was, the only real threat to security here had just walked out the door on Brad’s arm.

  It was fortunate, she realized with a wry smile, that she was a resourceful woman who wasn’t about to let herself be messed with. She had a few weapons of her own up her sleeve, and she wasn’t afraid to use them.

  “What a mess.” Brad gazed around the chaotic bedroom in disgust. Clothes lay strewn in all directions, a drawer turned on its end, its contents scattered over the floor. “Whoever did this did it in a hurry,” he remarked, picking up a T-shirt and laying it on the dresser. “Come on. I’ll help you clean up.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight and tackle all this tomorrow. Heck,” she said in a bright tone that didn’t ring true, “I needed an excuse to tidy up the place anyway.” She stooped and picked up a photo frame. “Do you remember this?” she asked, handing it to Brad.

  “The summer of ’86. Sure, I remember. I beat Colin four sets to one that day. Those were good times.”

  “Yes, they were.” Charlotte sighed and looked at the photo, then at him. Then quickly she looked away, his presence in her bedroom making her nervous. “This room is depressing,” she said, turning. “Come into the living room and I’ll get us a drink.”

  “Just give me a minute. I want to take a look around.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll get us a snack, too, and make up a fire. It’s chilly tonight.”

  “Fine.” He squeezed her arm and their eyes met.

  “Thanks for coming, Brad. I really appreciate it.” She remained in the doorway, lingering, then turned and headed to the kitchen, doggedly determined not to betray her emotions. Pulling a wheel of Brie from the refrigerator, she searched the pantry for some crackers and forced herself to examine her actions. What impulse, she wondered as she carried the plate to the sitting room, had sent her rushing over the hills and into Brad’s arms? Let’s face it, she admonished herself as she piled wood on the fire, that’s where you knew you wanted to go. Worse, you knew you had to be there.

  She crouched and, picking up the matches, lit the newspaper and watched the fire take. The moment she’d felt vulnerable she’d run to him. Yet, strangely, she didn’t feel mortified by her actions, but rather, emboldened, glad that for once she’d not second-guessed herself but had followed her natural instinct. Just as she had when she was young, she admitted ruefully, kindling the fire until it blazed nicely. Brad had always provided a safe haven in the far-off past. But not recently.

  Still, Charlotte reminded herself, hadn’t she sworn after her marriage dissolved that the future was going to be different? That she was going to depend on herself and not lean on anybody?

  She rose, turned dismally to the antique painted tray that held the decanters, and automatically poured him a scotch. This was a crazy situation, one she had no idea how to handle. How to explain that she was in love with a man she’d known all her life and who, she reminded herself, was engaged to another woman? A woman who, unlike herself, was free to share his life, she recognized with a gloomy sigh. It was almost more than she could bear.

  Placing the tumbler on the ottoman, she poured herself a glass of port, then curled into the deep velvet cushions on the sofa, and waited for him to return from the bedroom. How had she let this happen? How could she not have seen it coming? They’d spent a considerable amount of time together over the past few weeks, but that didn’t give her the right to violate all canons of propriety. Her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast. She was mixed up and lonely—she hadn’t realized just how lonely until Brad had appeared on the scene—but that did not accord her the right to destroy his future. And there was little use in blaming her newfound feelings on loneliness and lack of male companionship, when she knew very well that it was Brad, and Brad alone, who made her feel this way. There was no use pretending. She was experiencing the same feelings as she had that long-ago night in Chester Square.

  Charlotte stared into the flames, recalling her life as it had been up until John’s accident: a never-ending trail of film shoots, long flights back and forth to L.A. worrying about Genny, John’s giddy parties in Hollywood and her permanent feelings of guilt, even when she didn’t know why. Her mother’s words rang in her ears and she took a long, pensive sip. What if Mummy was right? What if behind the comatose front the same cruel, selfish nature remained intact? But even before the accident, he could transform from one moment to the next from a wonderful, charming being who overwhelmed her with jewelry, treats and attention, leaving h
er confused and ashamed for having thought such dreadful things about him, into a monster.

  Opening her eyes, she shook off the mood and her mouth curved gently. Just Brad’s presence in the cottage made her feel warm and secure, even if it was only temporary. “Your drink’s ready,” she called. Perhaps if she was careful not to show him how she felt, they could go on as they always had. Leaning back, she gazed again into the prancing flames and wondered if he was oblivious to her feelings or if he, too, sensed something. After all, he’d been concerned and attentive as though she were his—

  She sat up with a jerk, knowing she simply must stop. Sylvia was back at the castle, she reminded herself brutally, and probably waiting for him to join her. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose: a wife who was perfect for him and a future filled with success and happiness. If she truly loved him, Charlotte realized, her heart breaking, she must be the one to take a step back. She would keep up the farce of light friendship until he was safely married and back in New York, she decided, draining her glass. Then her own feelings and desires wouldn’t matter anymore.

  Brad wandered about Charlotte’s bedroom in mounting frustration. A gut feeling told him this was not a hit-and-run robbery. Someone had been looking for something specific. He had no suspects or evidence, so he’d have to keep his doubts to himself. There was little use in causing a panic. But at least he could search for clues to support or discredit his theory. He wished he could call in the NYPD—professionals who knew what they were doing. The robber had done a sloppy job. Surely he had left all sorts of evidence behind—if only one knew what to look for. But after several minutes of searching, he realized, discouraged, that there was little he could do except secure the windows.

  He gazed at the mess and felt sorry for Charlotte. The fragile world she’d created, her first tentative step toward freedom, had been violated, and it must be tremendously upsetting. He wondered again if he could persuade her to return to the castle tonight. Probably not. He leaned over, picked up some clothes, and piled them on the chair. A crumpled negligee lay strewn in the corner and he lifted it, eyeing it with a raised eyebrow. He hadn’t thought Charlie would wear anything like this. His heart beat suddenly faster and, holding the soft, pale-pink silk to his cheek, he pictured her in it.

  His immediate reaction made him let go of the garment and take a hasty step back, as though it might burn him. Every sense was ignited by the thought of her clad in the sensuous silk. Dragging frustrated fingers through his hair, he swallowed, determined to control his emotions. Yet he couldn’t put aside the one thought that had preoccupied him since she’d burst into the office and told him of the robbery: in her moment of need, he was the first person she’d run to.

  He glanced at the open door and hesitated. Were Charlotte’s feelings for him more than merely friendly? After all, he mused, they had been once. For a moment he savored the possibility, then shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his corduroy pants, chiding himself for wishful thinking. Hell, even if she did have feelings for him, it didn’t change the fact that he was committed to another woman and she was married to another man. Stark reality left no room for the adolescent fantasy that for so long had haunted his days and nights of winning her for himself. Clenching his fingers into a tight, frustrated fist, he took a last look at the room. He frowned, certain something was eluding his notice. Whatever it was, it didn’t lie among the fallen clothes and overturned bottles of perfume. His eye fell on a small tray of trinkets lying on the nightstand. Moving toward it, he took a closer look, noting a strand of pearls, a couple of pairs of earrings and a sapphire signet ring. Why, he wondered, eyebrows creasing, hadn’t the robber helped himself to these as well?

  “Brad? Your drink’s waiting.” Charlotte’s voice drifted through from the sitting room.

  “Coming,” he called back. Casting a final look about him, he wondered if the watch had been with the other jewelry or on its own. That might explain the discrepancy.

  “What took you so long, Sherlock?” Charlotte asked when he came in. She pointed to the tumbler on the ottoman, then settled back among the cushions holding her glass. The soft sound of Latin jazz blended with the crackling logs.

  “Tell me, where did you keep the watch?” he asked, sitting on the opposite side of the ottoman near the fire. God, she was lovely, her hair shimmering, reflecting the flames and the lamplight. Don’t go there, he reminded himself, throwing back the whiskey in one bracing gulp as he focused on the robbery.

  “I think I left it on the dressing table with the cash, but I’m not absolutely certain,” she said, frowning.

  “Is that where you usually put your watch when you take it off?”

  “It depends. Sometimes I put it on the nightstand, next to my bed.”

  “With the other jewelry, the pearls and the ring?”

  “Yes. I slip them off before going to sleep. Oh gosh, I hadn’t thought of that.” She stared at him, understanding dawning. “You mean that if the watch was by my bed, why didn’t the robber take the other jewelry as well?”

  “Exactly. Do you remember the last time you saw the watch?”

  “Yes!” she exclaimed, excited. “It was on the night-stand. I remember now because I moved it to get at my sleeping pills.”

  “Sleeping pills?” He gave her a long look and she hesitated.

  “Sometimes I pop one if I can’t doze off right away. But this puts a whole new light on the robbery, doesn’t it?” she said, eyebrows creasing.

  “If the watch was on the nightstand and not on the dressing table, then yes, it does. At the very least, it would mean that whoever took it knew its true value.”

  “Then it would have to be someone who knows a lot about jewelry. Rothberg pieces are not common nowadays. It would have to be a connoisseur.”

  “That, or someone with a vested interest in the watch.”

  “Well, we can exclude that right away,” she dismissed. “The only person interested in a watch like that would be a collector or someone who recognized it and knew they could get a lot of money for it.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you should tell the sergeant tomorrow. You never know. There may have been similar robberies on the mainland. Sometimes clues can add up.”

  “I will.” She got up, refilled his glass, then kneeled next to him, placing another log on the fire. “Thanks for being so wonderful, Brad,” she said quietly, tilting her head and looking up at him.

  Their eyes met and he smiled.

  “You know you can always count on me.” He put down the tumbler.

  She nodded. Her earlier tension had drained away. Next to him she felt warm, drowsy and secure. Instinctively she moved closer, she laid her head on his knee and snuggled next to him as naturally as if she’d been doing it for years. Closing her eyes, she relished the moment, the feel of his strong hand softly stroking her hair, the warmth of the fire, the peace he radiated. How she wished she could stay like this forever. Her hand played mindlessly along his thigh.

  Then all at once he was lifting her, pulling her into his lap. For a moment they gazed silently at one another. Her breath caught. Then logic vanished and she let out a tiny moan and leaned forward, unable to resist any longer as at last their lips closed gently on one another.

  The years fell away and tenderness turned into desperate need as their lips searched and lingered and their bodies entwined. His hands coursed to her breasts as though they belonged to him and she gasped as his thumb grazed her taut nipple through her T-shirt, sending excruciating shafts of desire to her very core. Her hand slipped below his shirt, needing to touch his firm muscled chest. Then she reached for his waistband, struggling with the button as he reached under her skirt and between her thighs. The shock when he touched her was so intense she let out a small cry of pure pleasure, as if all these years she’d been waiting for this moment. Then the button gave way and she heard him groan her name when at last she found him.

  This wasn’t like anything he could reme
mber, Brad realized hazily. It was pure bliss. As his fingers reached inside her, heat and desire encased him. He caught his breath as she stroked him, forced himself to keep the rhythm of his own caresses slow, determined to lavish her with every feeling he’d been holding inside for so many years.

  It was Charlotte who finally came up for air, dragging her lips from his. “Oh God, I didn’t mean…We shouldn’t be doing this, Brad,” she whispered hoarsely. “It has to be wrong. We’re—I mean me, you…” She drew back.

  Brad struggled to regain his composure. “I know. I’m aware. I don’t know how this happened. I—”

  “Brad, if you say you’re sorry, I’ll—” She clenched her fists and made a face. He laughed despite himself. “I don’t know about you, but I have to confess, I’ve been dying for this to happen ever since you arrived. And here I thought I’d managed to grow up and put the old reckless Charlie behind me.” She smiled down at him and touched his cheek. “Doesn’t seem to have done much good, does it?” Then she slumped. “What are we going to do?”

  “I dunno.” He took a deep breath and tried desperately to focus. “Oh, to hell with it,” he muttered, pulling her back against him, seeking her lips, his hands wandering once more. God, how he’d longed for her, dreamed of her. And now she was right here in his arms, pliant and giving. The fire crackled, and evening shadows grew as she shifted in his lap, making him groan once more, and her soft tongue tickled his ear. Then, all at once, the sound of an approaching car engine made them both sit up, rigid, staring at one another.

  “Who can that be?” he murmured.

  “I have no idea, but it sounds like the Castle’s Volvo. You don’t suppose—” Charlotte jumped out of his lap and moved to the window.

  The headlights flashed across the panes. Then the engine went off and the lights turned out and a female form got out of the vehicle. “It’s Sylvia,” Charlotte hissed, guilt and embarrassment surging as she hastily straightened her hair and T-shirt and quickly glanced in the mirror. Not too bad, thank God. She turned to Brad, who was busy doing the same thing. Did they look as guilty as she felt? she wondered, moving quickly to the front door.