Like Doctor, Like Son Page 6

  Quinn switched off the engine and followed her gaze over the moonlit pasture to the water glittering in the distance.

  ‘This is the view I can see from my bedroom,’ she murmured. ‘Ever since I was very small, I would come to sit on the window seat and watch the way it shimmered—gold in the sunlight and silver at night.’

  He watched the expressions changing on her face, far more interested in watching her than a moonlit river. She was far more beautiful, with her dark hair released to tumble over her shoulders now that school was over and the gleam of blue eyes in the shadowy interior of the car.

  ‘You’re not looking,’ she complained, suddenly realising that he was facing the wrong way.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he whispered, overwhelming emotions giving him the courage to reach out a trembling hand to touch an errant curl. ‘There’s nothing out there that can compare with the beauty I can see in here.’

  ‘Quinn!’ she breathed, and he saw her eyes widen almost apprehensively when she realised he was leaning towards her. He paused just long enough to be certain that she wasn’t going to push him away, then angled his head for the kiss he’d been dreaming about ever since the day he’d met her…

  Her lips were so soft, he thought in wonder when he touched them for the first time, pressing gently against their tender curves, stroking them from side to side. Soft and, oh, so sweet, he discovered a moment later when he couldn’t resist the urge to taste, flicking just the tip of his tongue over them.

  Then, to his surprise, she parted them to invite him inside, and he discovered her passionate heat.

  Faith lay back against the pile of soft pillows and sighed heavily.

  ‘I had a feeling that this week was going to be bad,’ she muttered into the night-time silence of the old mansion. ‘But I didn’t know it was going to be this bad.’

  Her brain felt as if it had turned to the consistency of scrambled egg with all the lists and details that seemed to need immediate attention. How she’d ever imagined that she’d be able to leave as soon as the funeral was over, she didn’t know. She’d already been here for two days before yesterday’s funeral, and it looked as if there was at least another week of it before she could expect to leave the Barton for the last time.

  The sound of music drifted softly along the corridor and she smiled. DJ was so supportive of her professional life and had quickly developed an unerring ear for selecting which of her piano compositions would go on to be the most successful. But it was now, with the smoky sound of an alto saxophone winding its way around the shadowy house, that he revealed his true preference.

  She listened for a moment, concentrating on his flawless execution of a particularly complex melody and sighed in resignation. He was good…very good…far more gifted than she had ever been. And yet he had no interest in music or performing as a career. In little more than a year he would be leaving her to begin his studies to become—

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp intrusion of the phone. The ring tone had been turned down low enough not to disturb the rest of the house, but was still enough to send her heart into overdrive.

  Or was that because she was hoping she knew who was calling?

  Was that the real reason why she’d been lying awake at this time of night when she should have been catching up on her sleep?

  She drew in a steadying breath before she reached across to pick up the handset, silently rebuking herself for behaving like a ninny.

  It was highly unlikely that Quinn would be phoning again. He’d said what he’d wanted to say last night and there was no reason why he should need to be in contact. She stifled the little voice at the back of her head that insisted on reminding her that she still had something to tell Quinn. She knew with sixteen years of bitter experience that her conscience wouldn’t let her rest until she finally did.

  Anyway, she thought as she lifted the receiver to her ear, the defiant angle of her chin more than a little reminiscent of her teenage self, so what if it was him on the other end of the phone?

  ‘Faith,’ he murmured into her ear, and stole her breath away.

  ‘Quinn,’ she breathed in exactly the same way as she had sixteen years ago, then had to bite her lip to control the sudden threat of tears.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she wailed silently. She was old enough to know that there was no point in looking back. There was absolutely no point in longing for the things she couldn’t have, especially when it was her fault that they were forever unobtainable.

  Once upon a time, far too long ago, she’d believed in the fairy-tales of love conquering all and happily ever after. Then reality had reared its ugly head and she’d learned that sometimes choices had to be made—heartbreaking choices that could never lead to happily ever after.

  ‘I thought you’d be gone by now. Did I wake you up again?’ he asked softly, his deep voice like the rumbling purr of one of the great cats in her ear.

  She shivered in response, all the little hairs all over her body instantly standing up so that she was aware of him in every pore. She could almost feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek and smell the mixture of soap and male skin that only belonged to Quinn. In fact, talking to him late at night like this, while she was curled up in bed, felt almost as if he was there in the bed with her, his head on the pillow beside hers.

  That thought certainly jolted her pulse rate up a few notches, and had her reaching for the covers. Even as she pulled them up to her chin over the silky slip of a nightgown she’d worn tonight, she knew it was ridiculous. He was on the other end of the phone, for heaven’s sake. He couldn’t see what she was wearing.

  There was definitely something illogical in the fact that he’d phoned, especially as he thought she’d already left the Barton, but her brain wasn’t up to making sense of it, not when she could almost convince herself that she could hear him breathing in her ear.

  ‘My brain hasn’t wound down enough to sleep yet,’ she said when she finally found some words to put together. ‘I hadn’t realised just how many things there would be to do. Thank goodness the solicitor’s handling all the legalities,’ she rambled. She certainly wasn’t going to be admitting that thinking about him had been contributing to her confusion today. If she’d been able to concentrate on what she’d been doing, instead of thinking about their conversation last night, she might actually have made better progress.

  ‘The legalities of taking over an estate as big as that are going to take some organisation. Still, it should make it more straightforward that you’re the only member of the family left to inherit,’ he agreed. ‘Will you be living there from now on?’

  Trust Quinn to get straight to the heart of a topic, she thought wryly. Since she’d made a name for herself and was obviously well able to support herself, the rest of the population around the Barton had probably been speculating for years about what would happen to the place when her mother died. He was the only person who had come right out and asked.

  ‘No, I won’t be staying.’ For the first time she felt a pang of regret, saying the words aloud. Her family had lived at the Barton for so many generations that it would feel strange to be the one to break the chain.

  For just a moment she wondered if she was making a mistake, if there was a different way to organise her life so that she could retain ownership, but even as she contemplated the idea she knew it couldn’t work, not with Quinn living so close. Not with so many secrets still hidden from the world.

  No, for all her regrets about turning her back on family history, she knew that she’d made the right decision.

  ‘It’s far too big to hang on to just for the sake of it,’ she said, aiming for a prosaic tone. ‘I haven’t got as far as looking at the figures yet, but the maintenance and running costs on a place this size must be horrendous. I just wouldn’t get the use out of it. And the idea of having permanent staff here to keep everything running when I have to be away so much…’

  She ground to a halt, fe
eling her cheeks heat with the echo of all those unnecessary words. Who was she trying to convince, Quinn or herself?

  ‘Did your mother know or did you keep it from her?’

  ‘Know what?’ she parried with a sudden spike of anxiety. That was the trouble with a guilty conscience—it made you question the most innocent of remarks.

  ‘That you planned to get rid of the Barton,’ he said as patiently as if she were simple-minded. ‘Some of the staff have been with her for years—like Molly Beech, for example.’

  ‘I already know that there are bequests in the will for all the long-time staff. And even if there weren’t, I’d set something up. After all, none of it would be worth much if they hadn’t done their jobs so well in looking after the place. Still,’ she added, ‘I’ll just have to wait until the meeting with the solicitors to find out all the details. For some reason, they’re being rather evasive and won’t discuss anything with me until the formal reading of the will.’

  ‘That’s probably under strict instructions from your mother,’ he pointed out wryly. ‘She did rather like having everything her own way. How long is she keeping you hanging on?’

  ‘Another day yet,’ she admitted. ‘Apparently, one of the legatees couldn’t take time off work until then but old Mr Protheroe is determined to keep to the letter of her instructions. He dealt with her for most of his professional life so he’s probably afraid that she’ll come back and haunt him if he doesn’t do what she told him.’

  ‘Protheroe?’ Quinn echoed sharply, suddenly reminded of this morning’s mystery letter with a shiver of unease. ‘Of Protheroe and Smythe?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ she agreed. ‘It’s almost feudal when you think about it. The various generations of their family have been dealing with the Barton’s affairs almost as long as our family has lived here.’

  She paused, expecting him to make the same sort of pithy response that had always come when she mentioned how long their roots had been planted in the same patch of soil, but he was strangely silent. No matter how hard she listened, there wasn’t a sound from the other end of the line. Had they been cut off in mid-conversation?

  ‘Quinn? Are you still there?’

  ‘I’m still here,’ he said gruffly, a definite edge to his tone that hadn’t been there before. ‘And I want to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Going on? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ His change of mood was so swift and so unexpected that it left her reeling. ‘We were just—’

  ‘Don’t give me that!’ he snapped. ‘You know damn well what I mean. Was it your idea to get your family’s pet solicitors to send me that letter? If you wanted to give me a message, all you had to do was pick up the phone. Doctors’ phone numbers are readily available, unlike celebrities’. If you weren’t happy about me using your unlisted number now that you’re such a big star, all you had to do was tell me.’

  And before she could draw breath to tell him he’d got everything completely wrong, he’d hung up.

  ‘Are you all right?’ whispered DJ under the cover of murmuring voices while they waited for the solicitor to appear.

  He took her cold hand between his much warmer ones and chafed it, almost bringing tears to her eyes with his gentle concern. She was so lucky to have him in her life.

  The same was true, to a greater or lesser degree, of all the people gathered around her in the room. She’d known many of them the whole of her life and it was going to be a wrench, knowing she was unlikely to meet them again once the Barton was sold.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Faith said with a reassuring smile, knowing DJ would worry if she didn’t. In reality, she was anything but fine. In fact, she felt sick, and knew it didn’t have anything to do with the sombre occasion. Remembering what her mother had told her about the arrangements several years ago, she knew that this meeting was little more than a formality. In spite of the family history, they’d both agreed that it would be crazy to even contemplate hanging on to the Barton once she’d gone.

  No, apart from her usual unease in any sort of crowd, her anxiety was largely the result of that disastrous conversation with Quinn.

  It had been a shock to discover that he’d been asked to attend the meeting today. Her mother had said nothing about making a bequest to the local surgery—well, she hadn’t even been a patient there, so it had been unlikely. And Quinn had returned to the area long after the will had been written, so he could hardly have been asked to attend today to hear about a personal bequest.

  And as for his assumption that it was her fault that he’d been requested to come…How could he have thought that she would resort to using a solicitor if she didn’t want to speak to him? Surely he had realised that after her initial surprise, she’d been enjoying their conversations?

  Anyway, she was perfectly capable of putting the phone down on someone she didn’t want to speak to, and it would have been a fairly easy matter to change a telephone number if she’d wanted to.

  Granted, she’d put him off fairly abruptly when they’d been face to face after her mother’s funeral, but she’d had good reasons why she couldn’t spend any more time in his company. With her emotions in turmoil, she hadn’t been prepared for any sort of confrontation, and that was obviously what he’d wanted.

  She couldn’t blame him either. The way she’d left sixteen years ago would have been very hard for him to understand, especially after they’d made so many plans for their lives together. He’d wanted some answers.

  Or had he?

  If that had been all he’d wanted, why hadn’t he brought it up when they’d spoken on the phone? The mood between them had been so much more relaxed in the quiet dark of the night that it should have been easy.

  Perhaps that was why he hadn’t brought it up. Perhaps he’d been enjoying their conversation as much as she had, and hadn’t wanted to bring up the one thing that would spoil the mood.

  And perhaps she was being totally self-centred with her rationalisations. They might weigh heavy on her own conscience, but perhaps those long-ago concerns were the last thing on his mind. Perhaps he’d achieved what she’d never been able to—he’d gone on with his life. It was a blow to her ego, considering that she’d never been able to forget him for a single day, but perhaps she no longer mattered to him any more than any other school acquaintance.

  ‘That must be Mr Protheroe,’ DJ whispered with a hint of laughter in his voice. ‘He’s so old and wrinkled that his face reminds me of a tortoise.’

  ‘DJ,’ she murmured quellingly, startled that she was suddenly having to fight the urge to chuckle. Trust his off-the-wall sense of humour to lighten the mood. He’d probably done it on purpose. ‘Don’t be rude. He can’t help it. I think he was born looking like that. You wait…when he starts reading, he’ll probably even use the same Pickwickian glasses as his father, and they’ll be perched right on the end of his nose.’

  ‘Got it in one,’ he muttered, the words almost lost in the sound of Mr Protheroe’s surprisingly robust voice calling the meeting to order.

  ‘As you all know, we are here at the request of Constance Lavinia Adamson for the formal reading of her last will and testament,’ he began portentously. ‘With your permission, I will dispense with the usual opening formalities. It will suffice to say that Mrs Adamson’s will was changed and updated several times in her life. This final revision was drawn up within the last month and supersedes all others.’

  He paused briefly but no one spoke into the silence, least of all Faith. She was too busy trying to cope with the sudden sense of dread that was spreading through her. Her mother had told her some years ago exactly what she’d written in her will so that there wouldn’t be any surprises in the provisions she’d made. Why on earth would she have suddenly made changes so recently? This whole performance today was just supposed to be a formality before she could put the Barton up for sale and make the charitable bequests for the dispersal of the proceeds. Her mother had known from the time that her musical career ha
d taken off so spectacularly that Faith would not be needing the money from the estate for herself.

  In a dry-as-dust monotone, Mr Protheroe proceeded to read out a list of all the long-time staff who’d worked at the Barton, detailing generous bequests for their years of loyal service.

  Faith heard the sound of soft sobbing not far behind her and guessed that it was probably Molly Beech. For all that her mother had been a domineering woman and a hard taskmaster, she and her housekeeper had shared a mutual respect that could only be ended by death. The gift of the cosy little cottage that had been her home for so many years was no more than fitting.

  ‘As for the residue of my estate, including the property known as the Barton, they are to be assigned…’ Mr Protheroe continued inexorably, then paused abruptly. ‘Actually, there is a good deal of legal technicality here about the setting up of a charitable trust. You are welcome to read the details at your leisure but, for the purposes of this gathering, Mrs Adamson instructed me to spell it out in words of one syllable.’

  There was an almost unearthly silence as he explained that the Barton wasn’t to be sold after all, but was to be converted into the hospice that was so badly needed in the region.

  The room erupted with a buzz of excited conversation so that Faith almost missed the following sentences…the ones that promised to turn her whole world upside down.

  ‘With his agreement,’ Mr Protheroe continued reading doggedly, apparently oblivious of the bombshell he’d just dropped into the room, ‘Dr Quinn David Jamison and my daughter Faith Alexandra will be joint trustees with responsibility for overseeing the conversion and the initial setting-up of the hospice and…’

  Faith didn’t hear any more. Her brain was already overloaded with what she’d heard so far.

  What on earth had her mother been thinking of, to have done such a crazy thing?

  Ever since she’d met Quinn she’d avoided mentioning his name any more than those of the other pupils in her class, somehow knowing that her mother would have disapproved of anything that might have distracted her from achieving high grades in her exams. In fact, as far as she could remember, she’d never mentioned him within the walls of the Barton, hugging her secret to herself until such time as the two of them had been ready to face her mother together.