He didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell him why he’d chosen an unconventional career path, though as a Formula One driver he was more a businessman than one would expect. Not that he was going to continue racing. He’d already been rethinking his life, but his mother’s death punctuated his doubts regarding his chosen career.
He was the same age as his father when he’d died, and that made him contemplate his mortality. What did he have to show for his life but a big bank account and an empty house? Nothing that mattered.
It also made sense why Tabitha had taken up with Reginald Summerhill. He’d offered her security, of a sort. What didn’t make sense was how his mother had stayed with the man, even though he was never going to leave his wife.
What especially didn’t make sense was the way his sister worshipped a father who hardly paid attention to her.
Next to him, Summer sniffled.
The protective urge he always felt around her surged in him. He took her hand and squeezed it. It had to be hard for her. He’d only lost his mother; Summer had lost both her parents. This was Reginald Summerhill’s memorial, but in essence it was also one for Tabitha Welles.
There was a murmur of commotion across the room, and it seemed to come from his angel Rosalind. She was engaged in a whispered conversation with one of her older sisters—he wasn’t sure which one. They didn’t speak out loud in any way, but they were obviously agitated by whatever they were discussing. So agitated that their mother turned from the front row and gave them an arch look.
Summer stiffened next to him, watching them as well.
He squeezed her hand again, willing the eulogy to end.
The moment the service ended, Nick stood. Thank goodness. He stretched his legs. “Shall we?”
“I want to attend the reception.”
“Is that wise?”
She set her jaw, and he knew she wasn’t budging. “It’s the way it’s going to be,” she said.
“Just for a short while then.” He took her arm and led her from the ballroom. “This isn’t the place to make yourself known, Summer.”
“Don’t be daft,” she said, watching the milling people with laser-sharp interest. Suddenly, she pulled away. “I’ll be right back.”
Before he could stop her, she shot out of the room.
He checked his watch. If she wasn’t back in ten minutes, he was going after her. She’d always had a tendency to get into trouble. Only the sort of trouble had changed as she’d matured.
Nick stood on the periphery of the gathering, drinking tepid tea and trying not to draw attention to himself, which was a little difficult given his half-naked body was currently on billboards all over Europe. Fortunately, the ads were less prominent in London and dressed in a suit with his hair combed, he looked a far cry from the rumpled racer they’d exploited on the billboards.
Where was Summer? He gave his teacup to one of the servers wandering through the crowd and went in search of her.
He found her rushing down a hall, a peculiar light in her eyes. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back toward the room where everyone was gathered.
“I followed Beatrice, Rosalind, and their mother,” she whispered.
He groaned. “Summer.”
“It was good I did, though, because I overheard something important.” She pulled him into a shadowed corner and faced him, her eyes wide and earnest. “Reginald drafted a new will before he and Mama went on their getaway. Apparently he made some significant changes.”
Nick frowned. “How do you know that?”
“I overheard Jacqueline Summerhill tell them.” She grabbed the front of his shirt. “Do you think he named Mama in it? They think so.”
Reginald Summerhill, that egotistical bastard? Hardly. But Nick knew better than to voice that. “I suppose it’s possible, but do you think it’s likely?”
“Of course it’s likely.” She lifted her stubborn chin in the air. “Reginald loved Mama.”
Reginald loved himself. “I fail to see how it matters if he left anything to Tabitha, since she’s gone. She didn’t have a will, did she?”
“No, but that doesn’t matter.” Summer leaned in. “When there’s no will, the deceased’s property goes to her spouse, or children if there is no spouse. So if Reginald left anything to Mama, it’d be passed on to us.”
Summer would know—she was a solicitor herself, working at a leading law firm in the city.
But one thing was certain: he didn’t want Reginald Summerhill’s money. Besides, as one of the top Formula One drivers, he made a hefty wage, and that wasn’t counting endorsements. “I don’t need more money, Summer, and neither do you.”