Wish For The Moon. Carole Mortimer

never thought of me again after writing that letter you were to receive after his death. And we both know by the date of that that he wrote it when I was three years old! Any duty he might have felt to me taken care of—and then forgotten!’

      Gerald Farnham drew in a ragged breath. ‘I can’t pretend to have understood my son.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘All I do know is that you are my grandchild. And I’d like for us to get to know one another better.’

      ‘I—–’

      ‘I never denied you, Elizabeth,’ he cut in softly. ‘I never would have done.’

      ‘We’ll never know that, will we?’ she scoffed.

      His mouth firmed determinedly. ‘I understand that you hate Gregory; I’m not feeling too pleased with him myself at the moment,’ he admitted softly. ‘But,’ he added firmly, ‘we both know the truth now. I think we owe it to each other at least to get to know one another.’

      Her eyes flashed. ‘I don’t owe you anything!’

      He gave an impatient sigh at her defiance. ‘Did your aunt or uncle ever give you a good spanking for being unreasonable?’ He glared back at her, green sparks visible in his hazel-coloured eyes.

      It suddenly occurred to Lise how ridiculous they must look standing beside a river glaring at each other, eyes locked, jaws set. It also occurred to her that there was more than a casual similarity between them, that this man was her grandfather, her own flesh and blood.

      She had begun to cry then, held firmly in his arms, offering no resistance when he led her back to the road and helped her into his car, taking her back with him to Farnham Hall.

      She had been here ever since, gently guided by her grandfather to be the sort of woman who was capable of running his estate. She had felt strange at first, like the village brat who had accidentally gatecrashed a life she didn’t understand, or particularly want. But her grandfather had shown such pride in her, complimenting her effusively on each new accomplishment she made, until it had become the determination to be his granddaughter that had spurred her on to accept the new life he had provided for her.

      After five years she was completely at home here, had become Elizabeth Farnham, Lise Morrison a part of her past that she remembered with affection but had no wish to return to.

      She had almost forgotten she had ever known another life besides this one, even the expected arrival of Quinn Taylor back in her life not having disturbed her. She despised the man, saw no reason why she should explain that they had met before. And she had no intention of doing so!

      Unfortunately for her grandfather, he seemed to have some sort of match-making idea in mind between her and the entertainer. She found it difficult even to be polite to the Canadian, didn’t feel even a spark of that attraction towards him that had once made her so dizzily ecstatic. And her grandfather was going to realise that after he had tried to throw them together a couple of more times.

      She moved to her bedroom window to gaze out at the west lawn, could clearly see the blue-suited figure as he moved about the stage. She had been wrong that night six years ago when she had supposed he was more at home in his casual clothes; he looked just as relaxed and comfortable in the formal suit.

      The years had been kind to him, his attraction still devastating, in fact in some ways he seemed more attractive, his features ruggedly virile. His divorce several years ago had left him free to exploit that virility to its fullest, his name constantly linked with one woman or another. Elizabeth hoped he didn’t waste his time by trying to impress her!

      * * *

      ‘I can’t understand what all the fuss is about,’ Giles muttered at her side.

      Elizabeth gave a rueful grimace, longing to agree with him, but knowing it would be impolite to their guest of honour to do so.

      Her grandfather had completely outwitted her in his effort to throw her into the company of Quinn Taylor, telling her he wanted this dinner party arranged at short notice, omitting to tell her that his guest of honour was going to be the singer.

      The Canadian had only been to lunch the day before, and when no dinner invitation had been forthcoming she had heaved a sigh of gratitude. It wasn’t until she descended the stairs earlier this evening to stand at her grandfather’s side to greet their hastily invited guests that she had realised Quinn Taylor was going to be there. She had telephoned round herself and invited the dozen or so other guests, little guessing that her grandfather had personally issued one to Quinn Taylor.

      She should have guessed really; as he had with her father before her, her grandfather had started complaining about his lack of great-grandchildren when she reached twenty-one. And he didn’t approve of Giles as the father of those children, claimed he was too weak. She had never met a man yet who was