Oliver’s nostrils flared and he was tempted to eject his brother from the office forthwith. But to do so would arouse more questions than answers and, until he’d heard whatever Tom had to say, he decided to contain his wrath.
But that didn’t alter the way he felt about seeing him again. It had been almost four years since they’d had a serious conversation and, although he resented his gall in coming here, he couldn’t deny a certain curiosity as to why his brother was here.
Yet, perhaps it was time that they put the past behind them. They’d been good friends when they were boys before Tom’s treachery, and the collapse of Oliver’s marriage, had driven them apart. The fact that it had been as much Sophie’s fault as his brother’s that the marriage had broken down was something he’d had to live with. After all, she had been his wife, while Tom had been a free man.
Of course, that still didn’t alter the fact that he would find it hard to trust his brother again. Oliver’s divorce from Sophie had been painful and destructive and for months the only respite he’d found was at the bottom of a glass. Tom’s snide comments about the bottle of Scotch and his reference to Oliver’s stay at Blackstone Abbey—a well-known centre for those needing an escape from either drugs or alcohol—were evidence that his brother wasn’t here to make amends for his behaviour. He probably wanted something, thought Oliver bitterly. That was usually why he’d come to him in the past.
Subsiding into his own chair behind the desk, Oliver leaned back and steepled his fingers, regarding the other man speculatively. Tom looked older, he decided without prejudice. But then, so did he. Trauma—particularly emotional trauma—did that to you.
‘How’s Sophie?’ he asked at last, deciding to get it over with, and was surprised at how little emotion he felt. For months after the divorce, even hearing her name could arouse the destructive desire for oblivion. But now he felt only a trace of regret for what might have been, a rueful reminder of the gullible fool he used to be.
Tom looked surprised at the question. ‘She’s okay, I guess,’ he answered offhandedly. ‘Why don’t you ring her and find out?’
It took an effort but Oliver managed not to look as stunned as he felt. ‘I think not,’ he said, his hands falling away to the arms of his chair as he sat forward. Then, as Mrs Clements reappeared with a tray he managed to summon a smile for her benefit. ‘Thank you.’ He viewed the plate of biscuits with feigned enthusiasm. ‘This looks good.’
‘If you need anything else, just let me know,’ the older woman declared warmly. Her eyes flicked briefly over his visitor, and Oliver could practically tell what she was thinking. Mrs Clements was intensely loyal and she had been shocked and angered by his brother’s betrayal.
‘We will,’ Tom answered now, deliberately bringing a flush of pink to her cheeks. He, too, had to be aware of the woman’s feelings and it was his way of reminding her that her opinion meant less than nothing to him.
The door closed behind her, but Oliver made no attempt to touch the tea tray. If Tom wanted tea, he could help himself, he thought, once again leaning back in his chair. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, with a resigned sigh. ‘If it’s money, you’re wasting your time. Apart from the fact that my ex-wife did her best to clean me out, there’s been a downturn in the housing market.’
‘Don’t pretend your business relies on domestic contracts,’ retorted Tom with some energy. ‘I happen to know you’ve just made a deal to design the shopping complex they’re going to build at Vicker’s Wharf.’ He scowled, his fair features losing much of their attraction. ‘In any case, I haven’t said I want money, have I? Since Sophie invested most of her divorce settlement in the garden centre, it’s going from strength to strength.’ He paused, as if reluctant to continue, but eventually he went on. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve just bought the smallholding that adjoins the centre and I’m hoping we can sell conservatories, too, in the future. They’re the accessory of choice these days, as you probably know.’
‘Good for you.’
Oliver was glad to hear his brother’s business acumen was paying off. He had no problem in applauding his success. The Ferreira garden centre had been their father’s business before his retirement, but Tom had been the only one of his sons to share his love of the soil. Since Tom had taken over the centre, the interest in gardening generally had enabled him to practically double the profits. That and Oliver’s ex-wife’s contribution, of course.
‘Don’t patronise me,’ muttered his brother now, evidently hearing something other than simple approval in Oliver’s voice. ‘We can’t all be academic geniuses. Some of us have fairly modest ambitions.’
Oliver refrained from arguing with him. This was an old grievance and one he had no wish to revisit. Tom knew full well that he was no genius, nor was he particularly academic. But he’d been good at maths at school and working with computers had been an automatic progression. The fact that his degree in computer science led to a career in design engineering had been just as natural to him as working in horticulture had been to his brother.
‘So,’ he said at last. ‘If it’s not money, what do you want? I can’t believe you’ve come here to enquire after my health.’
‘Why not?’ Tom’s response was swift and resentful. ‘You’re still my brother, aren’t you? Just because we’ve had our differences in the past—’
‘Seducing my wife and breaking up my marriage cannot be dismissed as “differences”,’ retorted Oliver curtly.
‘I know, I know.’ Tom looked sulky now. ‘Like I say, we’ve had our problems. I’m not denying it. And I’m not denying that I was to blame.’ He sniffed. ‘But, dammit, I couldn’t have seduced Sophie if she hadn’t been willing, could I? You were always hell-bent on becoming a partner in Faulkner’s. You neglected your wife, Oliver. Admit it.’
Oliver’s jaw clamped. ‘I have no intention of admitting anything to you, Tom. And if this is your way of justifying what you did—’
‘It’s not.’ Tom interrupted him quickly, leaning forward in his chair, his expression rueful now, appealing. ‘Look, would it make you feel any better if I told you that—that what happened was a mistake? It should never have gone as far as it did.’ He chewed on his lower lip. ‘I was a fool, a selfish, arrogant fool. You can’t regret it any more than I do.’
Oliver’s chair slammed back against the wall behind him as he got to his feet. ‘I think you’d better go,’ he said, the muscles in his jaw jerking furiously. Then he gave a short, mirthless laugh and shook his head disbelievingly. ‘You really are priceless, do you know that? You actually thought that coming here and telling me you’d made a mistake—made a mistake, of all things—would be some consolation to me!’
Tom’s chin jutted. ‘I thought it might be,’ he muttered peevishly. ‘We all make mistakes, don’t we?’
Oliver shook his head again. ‘Just go, Tom. Before we both say something we’ll regret.’
Tom hunched his shoulders then, but he didn’t move, and Oliver glanced down wearily at the narrow watch on his wrist. It was half past three, he saw, half incredulously. Had it only been fifteen minutes since Tom appeared?
He blew out an impatient breath, regarding his brother’s hunched figure with some ambivalence. What now? he wondered. Was the other man going to make him throw him out? He could, if he wanted to, he knew that. Although Tom was broad and bulky, Oliver was fitter and had at least four inches over him in height.
Yet he baulked at the prospect. The idea of propelling his brother through Mrs Clements’ office and along the corridor that was flanked by other offices on either side was not something he relished. It had been hard enough suffering his colleagues’ sympathy when Sophie left him and