Маргарет Уэй – Australia: Outback Fantasies: Outback Heiress, Surprise Proposal / Adopted: Outback Baby / Outback Doctor, English Bride (страница 15)

‘You want someone to trust, Carrie, you’d better find a puppy,’ he returned with biting humour.

The battle lines had been drawn. The enemy was in plain view.

It was a total nightmare, Francesca thought. The worst possible disaster. Yet through it all Bryn continued to keep hold of her hand.

‘Going to turn our attention to Francey now, are we?’ Carina challenged him with great bitterness. ‘You’d do anything to get control of Titan. We all know that. You’d even take up with Francey and abandon me. You swore you loved me. You swore when the time was right we’d get married.’

Bryn uttered a single word. ‘Delusional.’

How easy it is to sow the seeds of doubt, Francesca thought. She thought of those long passionate kisses Bryn had given her. How could Bryn, of all people, do a thing like that when he had made a promise to Carina? It wasn’t Bryn. It didn’t fit anything she knew about him. Nevertheless, she very quietly withdrew her hand from his, before Carina took it into her head to spring at her like a jungle cat. Could it be possible Bryn was deliberately provoking Carina?

A charged atmosphere surrounded them both. Carina, mercifully, stayed in place, while Bryn rose to his impressive height, as though standing guard over the more vulnerable Francesca.

‘Am I?’ Carina cried. ‘Delusional? Why would I be? You know what we talked about.’ She transferred her burning blue gaze to her cousin. ‘Don’t let him fool you. Or has he started to already? He’s as devious as they come. The master manipulator. Gramps always said that. He warned me we always had to be on our guard around Bryn. I know he was talking to you in your room, Francesca. The maid told me.’

‘Poor thing!’ Bryn cut in derisively. ‘I bet it was more like an interrogation.’

‘Carrie, please stop,’ Charles Forsyth said with surprising authority. ‘You too, Bryn. We really don’t need all these personal matters to be aired here. Douglas needs to proceed.’

‘Of course he does!’ Carina hissed. ‘But I’ll have my say if I want. This is my home.’

‘My home,’ her father corrected her, in a voice no one had ever heard him use with her before. This was his princess. Or at least she had been, until she had started making it very plain she thought her father thoroughly deserved to be overthrown.

Oddly, Carina looked tremendously shocked. She blinked. ‘So you want me out?’ She clenched her hands in front of her breast, as though at any moment her father might have one of the servants pitch her out onto the street. She realised in a rare moment of self-evaluation that any one of them would be pleased to.

‘Don’t be absurd, Carina,’ her father answered, torn between parental loyalty and pity. ‘Of course this is your home.’

‘I should damned well think so.’ Carina returned fire; she was nothing if not resilient. ‘So what does he get out of it?’ She resumed her seat, pointing an accusing finger at Bryn, who was now sitting in an elegant slouch, his expression quite unreadable. ‘Let’s hear it. More shares in Titan? The Macallans already own twenty-three percent of the company.’ The Forsyths had the majority shareholding in the multibillion-dollar corporation; something that had happened only after Sir Francis had succeeded the late Sir Theo Macallan and became Chairman and CEO.

‘I’ll continue now to read out Sir Francis’s wishes.’ The solicitor consulted the impressive-looking legal document. ‘Ah, y-e-e-s,’ he said slowly. ‘Bryn Barrington Theodore Macallan, in recognition of his own outstanding abilities and his valuable contributions to the ever-escalating success of Titan, and in memory of my great affection and admiration for his late grandfather, my lifelong friend, Sir Theodore Macallan—’

‘Get on with it, Douglas,’ Carina barked, in a frenzy of impatience.

Douglas McFadden’s pale grey eyes narrowed, but he spoke at the same measured pace. ‘Bryn Macallan inherits a fifty percent share in Sir Francis’s pastoral empire, its flagship being Daramba. Francesca inherits the other fifty percent on the understanding that Bryn is in sole charge of the business end of the enterprise. Evidently Sir Francis believed Francesca would be fully occupied elsewhere, whilst Bryn was the best man to handle an extra job. Charles had already indicated to his father he had little interest in the pastoral side of things. Rule number one with Sir Francis was always, Who is the best person to handle the job?’

Bryn, who after all these years among the Forsyths had thought himself impervious to shock, felt winded. It was as if he had received a violent blow to the solar plexus. He swallowed on the startled oath that was stuck somewhere in his throat. He had been way off the mark in expecting some token bequest. Maybe his grandfather’s golf clubs back. This was astounding news—or maybe Frank’s last-ditch attempt to get into heaven? He turned his head to gauge Francesca’s reaction. She was trembling with emotion, as well she might be. Her eyes were huge with distress, the pearly grey of her blouse further brightening their silver lustre. In all probability she was retreating once more into her protective shell.

Carina had well and truly brought her fierce jealousy out into the open. Damn her lies! Marriage was a word he’d never mentioned. Let alone thought about. That went for the L word as well. What he and Carina had had for a short time was sex—which had turned out to be a terrible mistake. Not that he had taken advantage of an innocent young virgin. Carina had a head start on just about everyone in that department. A free spirit, or so she called herself—even in those days. But he knew as well as anyone: throw enough mud and some was bound to stick. The undermining would continue. He had to be prepared for it. Carina, like her grandfather before her, would never let up. As for his bequest? Given a moment or two to reflect, he knew what Francis Forsyth had ripped off from the Macallans over the years would pay for this share of Forsyth Pastoral Holdings many times over.

Francis Forsyth had evidently believed in a Supreme Being after all. Maybe even in meeting up with Sir Theo and old Gulla again. Highly unlikely. Their destinations would be poles apart.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘ALL I’m saying is, give yourself time for it to sink in,’ Bryn advised. He had accompanied the stunned and visibly upset Francesca back to her apartment, where at least she thought she would be safe.

‘This is a disaster, Bryn. You know it is.’ She led the way into the living room, switching on lights as she went.

When she had left here this morning she had never dreamed what the day would bring: the massive upheavals, the responsibilities that were waiting to claim her. If she wanted them. She wasn’t at all sure she needed a lifetime of being in the front line. Strangely enough, she thought she could make a better fist of handling the Foundation than either her grandfather or her uncle. But there were other huge responsibilities. She tried to calm herself with the thought that she would have first-class people around her to advise and guide her. She could afford to hire the best minds. Douglas McFadden had given her the definite impression he thought she was up to the task. And Bryn had appeared to welcome it. No one’s opinion was more important to her than Bryn’s.

Now he spoke in a clipped voice, a decided edginess about him. ‘I know nothing of the kind, Francey. You’re very young to take on so much, but age isn’t an issue like it used to be. Youth can be a big advantage. Fresh ideas. Seniority has gone by the board. It’s a case of the best person for the job. You’re it. Whatever else Frank was, he was no fool. He wanted to keep the Forsyth fortune intact, not frittered away.’

Such a clever, complex man was Bryn. Macallan to her Forsyth; Montague to Capulet. Warring families. Since the death of Bryn’s grandfather hadn’t that been the case? Even if the war had been largely waged underground? Bryn followed her, removing his beautifully tailored black jacket, finely pin-striped, before throwing it over the back of an armchair. Then he unbuttoned the collar of his white shirt and yanked down his black tie as if it were choking him. ‘It’s one hell of a shock, I know. But think about it. Charles wants out. No problem there. I thought he was very reasonable about the whole thing. He never wanted a career in business in the first place. He was forced into it. Now he’s his own man, or near enough. There’s no immutable law of nature that says great talent has to be passed down to the next generation. Charles has no head for business. Your father, though the younger brother, was the logical heir. Sir Frank, even if he did his level best not to show it, was shattered when your father was killed. It seems he had expected them to make up. A tragedy all round.’

Her own assessment. Francesca sank dazedly into the comfort of one of the custom-made sofas covered in cream silk. She’d had a whole range of silk cushions made—gold, orange, imperial yellow, bronze and a deep turquoise—to pick up the colours in the exquisite eighteenth-century six-panel lacquered screen mounted on the wall. The screen had belonged to her parents, as did so many pieces of the furniture, paintings and objets d’art, a mix of classical European and Asian, in the apartment. They had been in storage all these years from the old house. What she had done, in effect, was wrap herself around with her own family even if they had gone and left her.