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t that easy for you.'
Their eyes met and held and her heart lurched in her breast. Was it possible that he wanted her back? 'Then why are you here?' she asked quietly.
He laughed without humour. 'What do you think? That I want you back?' His too intelligent brain had read her mind. 'You were good in bed, but not that good, and I don't go in for used goods, my dear. But I am your guardian until you're twenty-five.'
She had forgotten all about Uncle Bertie's will. 'But under the circumstances surely ?'
Justin cut in, 'Exactly. I see no reason to continue the guardianship.' He spread some papers on the table. 'If you will read these and sign where indicated. You'll find Black Gables is to be sold at a decent price and afterprobate all the monies accruing to you will be placed in a bank of your choice. Any further communication between us can be conducted by your American lawyer.'
Justin the lawyer was in total control as he raised cold eyes to her face. 'I'll take a walk while you read the relevant documents, and if you have any questions I'll be more than happy to answer them.'
She could not believe what she was hearing. 'And why no divorce?' She was not aware that she had asked the question out loud.
'I have a career to think of. There is no way I will divorce you, and as you have no grounds for divorcing me you must wait the five years as set down in English law.'
She could feel the anger welling up inside her. She had no grounds? The arrogance of the man was incredible. 'You bastard,' she said softly, shaking her head. How had she ever thought she loved such a man?
Snatching the papers from the table, she didn't bother reading them, but simply signed where indicated and thrust them back at him. 'Now get out.'
Leaving him standing, she dashed back into the house, sliding the glass doors closed behind her.
Zoe drove slowly along the main street of Rowena Cove and up the hill leading out of the village. She turned left into a drive leading towards the sea and parked outside the dark green door of her home. For a long moment she simply sat behind the wheel of her practical, four- wheel-drive Range Rover and stared out across the cold waters of the bay.
Three and a half years ago, when she had moved to this house at the top of the hill, she had fallen in love with the place. It was true that in the summer mid-coast Maine was flooded with visitors, but at this time of year—a crisp day in March—the locals had Rowena Cove pretty much to themselves.
Her mind went back to the first winter, and the birth of her son. A fierce snowstorm had blocked the roads out of the village and her beloved boy had been born at home with the help of a local sailor's wife, Margy. Since that day they had become firm friends. Two years ago they had gone into business together, running a small gift shop specialising in hand-painted cards. Amazingly the business had flourished. In the summer they designed Christmas cards, in the fall, valentine cards.
She choked back a sob. Val, her son, loved playing with Margy's daughter Tessa—or he had until his illness had prevented him. She glanced distractedly around the yard. A magpie landed on a tree-stump and was speedily joined by another one. One for sorrow, two for joy. . . A bitterly ironic smile twisted her lips. There was no mirth, no laughter any more, and she no longer believed in omens.
Her son had been born fit and healthy at twelve-thirty on the morning of Valentine's day. She had called him Valentine after checking the meaning in the baby book. Derived from the Latin, meaning strong, powerful, healthy. . . The last was the cruellest cut of all.
She glanced over her shoulder at her son, belted into the back seat and fast asleep. His beautiful black curls fell over his forehead, his long lashes, so like his father's, rested on the curve of his cheek, and she was stricken with pain and guilt.
She opened the car door and got out. The cottage door was open and Mrs Bacon was standing on the step, a worried frown creasing her already lined face.
'You're days late; is everything all right?'
Zoe simply shook her head and, opening the rear door, leant in and lifted the sleeping boy into her arms. She hugged him close, burrowing her face in his sweet-smelling hair; he was so precious that she could not bear to lose him, and she was not going to. She would go anywhere, do anything, sacrifice everything she owned, but her son would live, she vowed silently. Straightening her back, a grim determination in her stride, she walked into the hall.
'I'm putting him straight to bed, Mrs B,' she murmured as she passed the older woman and headed for the stairs.
An hour later, bathed and changed into a soft blue jogging-suit, she took a last peek at her sleeping son, dropped a soft kiss on his tousled head, and went back downstairs. In the kitchen Mrs B was waiting, a pot of tea at the ready.
Zoe collapsed on the ladder-backed chair at the pine table and, zombie-like, took the cup Mrs B offered, and seconds later she was greedily drinking the refreshing brew. She didn't have to speak—her face said it all. Devoid of make-up, white as a sheet, her eyes circled in purple shadows, she was a picture of devastation.
'You know what's wrong?' Mrs B prompted quietly.
'Yes, and I still can't accept it,' she said almost to herself. 'It's too incredible for words. Why us?' The cry was from her heart.
The housekeeper shook her head, the sympathy in her hazel eyes plain to see.
'At Christmas Val was a healthy boy—maybe a little tired, but I thought it was simply the aftermath of the cold he had earlier. When he started pre-school in January, I thought maybe that was what was tiring him out.
'I took him to Dr Bell-- ' she lifted red-rimmed eyesto her companion '—you know I did, and he gave him junior vitamins and a blood test. Then he said he was anaemic.
'I took him to Portland and then to New York University Hospital; he had blood transfusions, but still he was anaemic. Last week we stayed in hospital together while they carried out further investigations. So where did I go wrong? What else could I have done?'
'Don't blame yourself, Zoe; you have done everything you could.'
