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Blackmail & Secrets: The Sandoval Baby / The Count's Secret Child / Playboy's Surprise Son
Lucy Gordon

JENNIE LUCAS

Kate Hewitt


The Sandoval Baby Controlled, cynical Rafe Sandoval is shocked to discover he has a son by his late ex-wife, but Max’s nanny, Freya Clark, is on hand for all their needs. . . Hearing for the second time in weeks that he’s to be a father, Rafe vows this child will have two parents from the start! The Count’s Secret Child Theo St Raphael summoning Carrie to his Provençal castle must mean he’s finally ready to accept their baby son. So, as she walks up the grand stone steps, the last thing she expects is to discover all Theo wants is her – back in his bed!Playboy’s Surprise SonFive years ago, racing driver Jared held innocent Kaye in his arms, only to leave her. But their one night had consequences… Now an older, wiser Jared discovers that the child he longs for exists and the mother is the woman he’s never forgotten!











Discovering you are a father can be a shock … A child needs both its parents … Sexual attraction is powerful …




Blackmail

& Secrets


Fantastic brand-new stories from favourite

authors Kate Hewitt, Jennie Lucas

& Lucy Gordon




Blackmail

& Secrets

The Sandoval Baby

Kate Hewitt

The Count’s Secret Child

Jennie Lucas

Playboy’s Surprise Son

Lucy Gordon









www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)



The Sandoval Baby




About the Author


KATE HEWITT discovered her first Mills & Boon


romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen, and she’s continued to read them ever since. She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long—fortunately they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older.

She has written plays, short stories, and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling, and learning to knit.

After marrying the man of her dreams—her older brother’s childhood friend—she lived in England for six years, and now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children, and the possibility of one day getting a dog.

Kate loves to hear from readers—you can contact her through her website: www.kate-hewitt.com


To Tiffany, Thank you for your friendship and

your honesty. Love, K.




CHAPTER ONE


RAFE SANDOVAL pulled his car to the kerb and stared at the seemingly innocuous terraced house he’d parked in front of. It was a bit shabby, on an ordinary little street, in a bland, faceless suburb of London. And his son—his son—was inside.

Rafe’s fingers curled around the steering wheel until his bones ached. He felt a tidal rush of emotions pour through him before he pushed it all down, forced himself to maintain an icy calm. He needed it now, when he was so close. Close to his son.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then turned off the ignition and slid from the car. The slam of the door echoed in the street and he surveyed the little house with its blank windows and unkempt garden. A single geranium in a cracked pot stood on the step, looking woefully bedraggled. A blue rubber ball had been left in the garden, lost in the weeds. Rafe curled his lip at the pathetic sight, yet he could not quite keep some small part of him from being touched by these signs of life. The life his son had lived for three years without any knowledge or awareness of his father.

Or Rafe’s awareness of his son.

He reached for the tarnished brass knocker and let it fall sharply three times. Then he waited, the tension coiling inside him, demanding release. After years of longing for a child, years of being lied to, he was finally so close. Only one woman stood in his way.

The door opened and Rafe gazed dispassionately at the figure standing there. She looked remarkably composed, without even a flicker of surprise at seeing the stranger on her doorstep. Of course his solicitor had informed her of the arrangements.

‘Señor Sandoval, hello. I’ve been expecting you. Won’t you come in?’ She stepped aside, and Rafe entered the cramped foyer, taking in the faded wallpaper, the worn carpet, the clutter of boots by the foot of the stairs. He could hardly believe his son—his heir—had been living like this.

‘You must be Miss Clark?’ he said, turning to face her. She had surprisingly striking features. Her pale face was heart-shaped, her eyes a cool grey, revealing nothing. Her hair, pulled back into a neat ponytail, was a deep red, almost magenta, yet he didn’t think she dyed it. Her eyebrows, arching over those clear, expressionless eyes, were the same colour. ‘Yes. Please call me Freya.’

Rafe inclined his head in acknowledgement, but did not reply. He had no intention of staying long enough to call her anything. He wanted his son. That was all.

Freya gestured to the little parlour off the hall. ‘Won’t you come in? Max is sleeping for the moment, but he should wake up soon.’

Max. Maximo. The name was both familiar and foreign. He wondered why Rosalia had chosen the name—if she’d chosen the name. How involved had she been in the life of their son? How much had this woman been involved, and how much did she know? He had so many questions, yet he did not intend to find answers from this stranger.

He did not want to sit and make pleasantries over a tepid cup of tea. Still, Rafe acknowledged, forcing his impatience and his anger back, this woman had cared for his son for most of his young life. Talking to her was necessary, perhaps invaluable. Undoubtedly there were things he needed to know. Nodding again, he followed her into the parlour, which was as shabby as the rest of the dismal little house.

‘I realise this is a strange situation,’ Freya said. She perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair, her legs crossed at the ankles. She looked. Rafe thought, as if she were interviewing for a position at finishing school.

He remained standing by the door. ‘Yes, it is strange,’ he agreed tersely, ‘although I do not blame you for that.’

Freya Clark raised her eyebrows. ‘Indeed, Señor Sandoval,’ she said coolly. ‘I did not know of your whereabouts until the solicitor informed me a few days ago and requested that I bring Max for a paternity test.’

She spoke with a hint of censure, but Rafe had no intention of explaining anything to her—certainly not how he’d craved reassurance that Max was truly his, how much reason he’d had to expect he was not.

‘I realise it all happened very quickly,’ he said coolly. Less than a week ago he’d been informed his ex-wife had died in a car crash. Then another, even more shocking call: he had a son.

A son he’d never known about. A son his wife had never told him about, even though she must have known she was pregnant when she’d left him. Even though he’d been paying her maintenance for the four years since their divorce. Glancing around the parlour, with its secondhand suite and faded curtains, Rafe knew where his money hadn’t been going.

‘And I did not know of my son’s whereabouts,’ he countered, ‘or even his existence.’ Not until his solicitor had rung him. Not until he’d had the results of the paternity test, confirming that Max really was his.

Something flickered in Freya Clark’s silver-grey eyes, like a ripple in water. Was it guilt? Had she participated in Rosalia’s deception? She looked as if she was hiding something with her carefully closed expression, those blank eyes, and Rafe had no intention of trusting her.

Still, it hardly mattered. He was taking Max back to Spain and he would hire a reliable governess there. He had no need of this woman, with her strange silver eyes and her remote composure. He did not want any vestige of his son’s—or his wife’s—former life cluttering up their future as a family.

‘I’m very glad the solicitor was able to locate you,’ Freya said, and again Rafe felt that flicker of suspicion. She did not sound very sincere—or was he simply being cynical? God knew he had enough reason to be cynical where women were concerned. Not one had deserved his trust or love.

He pushed the question aside, too impatient to deal with it, or the woman who had caused it. The sooner he—and Max—were gone from this awful place the better.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he agreed pleasantly, although he knew she heard the thread of steel in his voice. He’d had enough of pleasantries. ‘When Max wakes up you can pack his things. I intend to return to Spain tonight.’

Any faint hope that Rafe Sandoval might not be interested in his son crumbled to dust in light of his coldly delivered statement. And, Freya told herself fiercely, that was fine. That was good. Max needed to be with his father—the only family he had now. During the last week she’d told herself that again and again. Yet still the idea of losing him so quickly, so coldly, of him being ripped away from her just as—

Freya stopped that train of thought immediately and made herself smile at Rafe. ‘I can certainly understand your haste, Señor Sandoval—’

‘Can you, Miss Clark?’

His dark eyes flashed dangerously, and she knew he was mocking her. He was a beautiful man, with his high cheekbones and the dark slashes of his eyebrows a bold contrast to the sensual fullness of his lips. Although his hair was cut quite short, it looked silky and soft, and he couldn’t quite keep it from flopping over his forehead. She imagined that annoyed him. He’d raked his long, brown fingers through his unruly fringe three times since he’d come into the house. A tiny insecurity, but it made him seem more human. More approachable.

And this was the man Rosalia had never wanted to speak of. A man she’d had to escape because he was so hard and cold and even cruel. Freya knew better than to believe every accusation Rosalia had hissed out in her anger and fear, but Rafe Sandoval did have an intimidating presence. She could sense a leashed anger emanating from this powerful man; it vibrated in every taut line of his muscular body. His fingers clenched into a fist at his sides and then straightened out again. Twice.

‘I can,’ she replied steadily. ‘I know you must be eager to spend time with your son, and get to know him—’ Actually, she didn’t know that. From everything Rosalia had said, Rafe wasn’t interested in Max. Never had been. Then the solicitor had rung and told her Max’s father had been located, had never known about his son, and was coming to collect him as soon as possible. Freya’s safe little world had suddenly been rent apart—the truth she’d built it on that Max had no one but her now shown for a lie.

Yet she should have known it would happen at some point. She was Max’s nanny, not his mother. She was temporary, expendable, replaceable. She’d always known that, even if she’d managed to pretend otherwise while Rosalia had partied in London and she and Max had lived their separate, contented existence here. Even if she’d let herself love him, had been as good as a mother to him for over three years. She’d still known, and it was that knowledge that was breaking her heart now.

‘Indeed.’ Rafe’s tone was forbidding, the word clearly a close to the conversation. His dark gaze flicked towards the stairs.

Freya felt a rush of gratitude that Max had been so tired from his morning at playgroup that he’d fallen asleep. A small mercy, but a crucial one. She needed this time to convince Rafe Sandoval to take her to Spain with him.

And, from the ill-disguised impatience on his coldly handsome face, it wasn’t going to be an easy job.

‘Did the solicitor say anything to you about Max?’ she asked.

Rafe’s fingers clenched once more. ‘He told me that he was my son, and the paternity test verified that. Is there more I need to know?’ From the sardonic note in his voice Freya knew he was being sarcastic, and she felt a lick of anger, which she suppressed. Losing her temper would not help her in this situation.

‘Actually, there is. Max has just lost his mother—’

‘I’m well aware.’

‘And is in a fragile state,’ Freya continued, ignoring him. ‘He needs consistency, stability.’ He needs me. She barely kept from saying the words. ‘Rushing him off to a foreign country is not the best thing for him now.’

‘Being without his father for three years wasn’t the best thing either,’ Rafe returned, an edge to his voice.

‘True, but there is no point adding one hardship on top of another.’

Rafe stared at her, his gaze icily assessing. ‘What do you suggest, Miss Clark?’ he finally asked, his tone as cold as his look.

Freya took a deep breath. ‘I have been the one consistent element in Max’s life,’ she began evenly. I love him. She swallowed down the words, knowing they wouldn’t help. They might even hurt. They certainly wouldn’t sway a man like Rafe—a man who, according to his ex-wife, had no interest in love at all. A man who was staring at her with cold impatience. ‘I think I should stay with Max as he makes the transition—’

‘I intend finding a suitable carer in Spain,’ Rafe returned flatly.

‘There’s no need,’ Freya argued, her voice calm. She felt as if her heart were flinging itself against her chest, but she’d never let Rafe Sandoval see how much this meant to her—how much she’d come to love Max over the last three years. He was the only person she’d let into her heart in ten years. Since—

No. She would not think about that. She lifted her chin. ‘You have a suitable carer right here.’

Rafe let out a slow breath, studying her. Freya waited, knowing judgement could come swiftly, in seconds. ‘I would prefer,’ he said finally, ‘to have a completely fresh start.’

‘Understandable,’ Freya countered, knowing how acrimonious the Sandovals’ divorce must have been. ‘But fresh starts are not always good for children. Max was happy here.’

Rafe glanced around the little parlour, which Freya knew was a bit … worn. ‘Really?’

Scepticism dripped from his voice, and Freya stiffened. ‘You don’t need a mansion or a flashy car to make a child happy.’

‘How about a father?’

‘Yes, exactly. Someone to—’ Once again she swallowed down that dangerous L-word.

Rafe narrowed his eyes. ‘I will give you severance pay,’ he said, his look and tone both assessing. Suspicious. ‘A generous package. So if it’s money you’re concerned about—’

‘It’s not money,’ Freya replied sharply. Colour flashed into her face. ‘It’s Max.’

Rafe arched an eyebrow. ‘You care for him?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Enough to travel to a foreign country?’ ‘I’m familiar with Spain,’ Freya admitted, trying not to show how reluctant she was to reveal that fact. She didn’t want to think about the last time she’d been to Spain, or the mistakes she’d made. The loss she’d endured. She never thought about that. She met Rafe’s speculative gaze clearly, refusing to allow even the faintest flicker of emotion to cross her face.

‘I’d prefer,’ he said, ‘to have someone care for Max who speaks Spanish.’

Freya could not keep the triumph from her voice as she told him, ‘I’m fluent in Spanish.’

Rafe smiled faintly as he conceded the point in their power struggle. ‘You are full of surprises, Miss Clark.’

‘I don’t mean to be. But Ro—Max’s mother wanted me to speak both Spanish and English to Max.’

‘I’m glad,’ Rafe said, in a voice that was carefully, painfully bland, ‘that she did not keep Max from his Spanish heritage.’ His mouth hardened into a thin line. ‘Only his Spanish father.’

Freya said nothing. She’d had no great affection for Rosalia Sandoval, but she’d felt sorry for her. The woman had been clearly unhappy, and underneath the anger Freya had thought she’d seen hurt. At one point, Freya suspected, Rosalia had been deeply in love with her husband.

Rafe straightened, glancing around the little parlour with an expression of dismissal. Freya felt her heart lodge like a stone inside her. ‘I appreciate all you’ve done for Max,’ he said briskly, ‘but children adapt. And Max is going to have a completely new life—one in which he will not want for anything.’ His expression softened for only a second, those dark eyes shadowed with something like pity. ‘On occasion a fresh start is exactly what is needed.’

His tone was so unbearably final that Freya could not keep herself from retorting sharply, ‘I doubt Social Services will agree.’

Rafe tensed with a predatory stillness, all traces of pity vanished. ‘I hope,’ he said in a dangerously soft voice, ‘you have not involved Social Services in the life of my son.’

Freya bit her lip. She’d just made a critical error—one that might cost her any possibility of staying with Max. Although, she acknowledged with a stab of pain, that possibility already seemed depressingly remote.

Rafe was still levelling her with a hard stare, compelling Freya to confession. ‘No,’ she admitted, ‘I haven’t.’ Rafe’s solicitor had been clear on that point.

This last week, the week after Rosalia’s death, had been a terrible blur. Hearing of Rosalia’s accident, arranging the funeral, seeing the solicitor, and all the while trying to comfort and reassure Max, whose world had collapsed without him even realising it. And then the sudden, startling news that Rafe Sandoval, the man Rosalia had seemed to hate, was coming to England to take custody of his son.

All Freya was meant to do, the solicitor had told her with unctuous urbanity, was bring Max for a blood test to confirm paternity, and then wait until he arrived. Rafe had been unreachable when Rosalia had died, which was why he’d missed the funeral. The solicitor had said something smarmy about a very important business deal in South America.

Freya had constructed a picture of Rafe Sandoval in her mind of a man too caught up with his own affairs to care about his ex-wife—or his son. A man who insisted on genetic testing before he so much as stirred himself to consider the child that had been left in his care. A man who would be more than willing to hand over such care to the nanny already in place.

And now, in the cold, hard light of reality—of Rafe—she knew it wasn’t going to happen like that at all.

Yet during the last endless week she’d come to the impossible, emotional realisation that she could not hand Max over to a stranger. For a while she’d been able to look at it with her usual remote composure, but now, when it came to packing his things, saying goodbye …

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She’d spent the last three years loving Max, and she wasn’t ready to give that up. She’d given up once before, and she couldn’t do it again. Doing it again would destroy her.

And so she’d convinced herself that Rafe Sandoval would not want such a thing for his son. He would surely see the sense and have the sensitivity of allowing his son to remain with the one person he’d bonded with.

Apparently not.

But then this was not a man known for his sensitivity. Internet searches had told Freya all she needed to know about Rafe Sandoval’s business practices: he waited until a company was struggling, desperate and in its death throes, and then he moved in and bought it, dismantling it for its valuable parts with ruthless efficiency. They even called him El Tiburón—the shark—and she could see how the name fitted. Could imagine him cruising hungrily through the business world, looking for his next prey to devour.

He was approaching his son with the same kind of cold-blooded logic. Here was a company to manage; she was an unnecessary part. How could she convince him otherwise?

‘Freya …’ Max’s sweetly childish voice drifted from upstairs.

Freya and Rafe both froze, staring at each other.

Max called again, more insistently. ‘Fre—ya!’

A muscle flickered in Rafe’s jaw and his fingers clenched again. Freya swallowed, her heart starting its fearful, frantic beat once more. Then simultaneously they both moved towards the stairs.




CHAPTER TWO


ALTHOUGH he wanted to take the stairs two at a time, Rafe held back. He had enough sense to know that barging into his sleepy son’s room was hardly the best introduction. He didn’t want to frighten the child.

He followed Freya down the narrow hallway to the back bedroom. Although all he wanted was to see his son, his gaze was momentarily diverted by the sight of Freya leaning over the bed. Her clothes were boring—a cheap black skirt and a white button-down shirt—but there was something so gracefully maternal about her movements as she sat on the edge of the bed, a smile softening those cool features. She looked as lovely and remote as a painting—distant, decorous, and yet also, he realized, desirable.

She brushed the silky hair away from his son’s forehead, and Rafe turned to look upon the child he’d never known he had.

The child he’d always wanted.

Max.

The little boy scrubbed his eyes with his fists, then blinked sleepily, smiling up at Freya. ‘I had a funny dream …’ He paused, the smile freezing on his face as he stared past Freya to Rafe. Max shrank into Freya’s side, his eyes rounding with uncertainty and perhaps even fear.

Rafe stood there, his throat working as he tried to think of the right words to say. He’d never been speechless before, yet now his mind was empty. The realisation of his own child was thudding through him, obliterating thought.

‘Max, this is a friend,’ Freya said, shifting over on the bed so Rafe could see his son.

Max buried his head in Freya’s lap and Rafe watched as she continued to stroke his hair with pale, slender fingers.

Her words caught up with him and his frozen brain finally thawed for thought. A friend? Freya glanced at him sharply, and he saw a warning in her eyes. Anger spiked through Rafe. He was not a friend. He would not begin this most precious relationship with a lie. Yet, even as he opened his mouth to deny her claim, he realised how difficult it would be to explain the truth to his son. The anger hardened inside him. Already Freya Clark had put him in an impossible position. Already she had tricked him, showing him that he was right not to trust her. Trust anyone.

He clenched his fists, then forced them flat again. He wanted to tell Max to get up, that they were going; he wanted to hug him. He knew both would terrify the child, so he clung to his last shred of patience and took his cue from Miss Clark.

‘Hello, Max,’ he said, and his son buried his face against Freya’s shoulder. ‘Yes, I am a friend. And I’m so very happy to meet you.’

Freya heard the raw note of emotion in Rafe’s voice, and it surprised her. Moved her, even. For, after everything Rosalia had said—’He never loved me. He doesn’t know how to love.’—she hadn’t really expected Rafe to feel anything for his son. He was cold, cynical, unable to love. That was what Rosalia had told her, what the tabloids and gossip magazines said. El Tiburón.

And she’d been counting on that, counting on the fact that Rafe was too busy with his professional life to deal with his son properly; she’d thought—hoped—he’d be glad for Freya to do it, despite her connection with Rosalia.

Yet hearing the rawness of Rafe’s voice, seeing how he looked almost hungrily at his child, made Freya realise uncomfortably, painfully, that nothing about this situation was what she’d thought. That maybe Rafe wasn’t what she’d thought.

Max peeked at Rafe from behind her shoulder, curious now, but still shy, and Freya stood up from the bed. ‘Why don’t we go downstairs and have a snack?’

Max slipped his little hand in hers, and Freya led him downstairs, Rafe following behind. She could feel the tension and even the anger emanating from the man; it rolled off him in waves. She felt her own body tense in response, her heart thudding despite her determination to remain calm. To feel calm.

Already this man was making her feel too much. She’d been carefully, comfortably numb for so long, and it was strange and unsettling how he’d managed to strip that away from her within minutes. Her mind and body’s basic response to him was alarming. Frightening, even.

Unless, of course, it wasn’t him. It was simply the situation. The possibility of losing Max, and even of travelling to Spain, had brought too many painful memories to the fore. Memories she’d spent the last ten years trying to forget. And, even though they hurt, it was better than thinking Rafe affected her.

Better than making the mistake—again—of falling for a man’s handsome face and then being crushed under his heel. No, she’d learned that lesson all too terribly well. She would not be affected by Rafe Sandoval at all.

Yet she could still feel his presence, even his heat, behind her as she went down the stairs.

The next quarter of an hour was spent dealing with Max, yet Freya knew she could put off another conversation with Rafe for only so long. He loomed like a shadow in the kitchen, watching as she prepared Max a cup of milk and some slices of apple, helping him into his chair while he watched the stranger with wide, solemn eyes.

‘Are you a friend of Mummy’s?’ he finally asked, and the very air seemed to freeze.

Freya was amazed Max had even thought to make such a connection; Rosalia’s visits had been infrequent enough to make him stop asking for her. Yet her death, of course, had brought his mother and her absence to the front of his mind, and Freya supposed it was natural for him to attempt to make sense of the recent disorder of his world.

‘I knew your mother,’ Rafe replied carefully, his voice controlled.

‘Were you friends?’

Another agonising pause. Freya watched emotions flicker across Rafe’s face: anger foremost, and then uncertainty, perhaps even sorrow. ‘Yes,’ he finally said, although to Freya the word sounded reluctant. ‘We were.’

Max nodded, apparently—and thankfully—satisfied, and while he sipped his milk Freya returned to the kitchen, mindlessly tidying up while she registered Rafe Sandoval’s presence near her, felt the force of it like a charismatic and inexorable tug on her body. ‘We leave tonight.’

She turned, her heart caught in her chest. ‘We?’

Rafe inclined his head. ‘I take your point, Miss Clark. Max needs the stability of a familiar care-giver until he settles into his new home.’

Until. The word was ominous. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice cool with dignity. ‘I’ll pack our bags.’

Rafe nodded, satisfied with her acquiescence. Freya knew better than to push for more time in England. She’d got what she wanted, and she intended to keep it by asking for no more. Still, the thought of returning to Spain sent a shiver of trepidation and even cold, raw fear through her. She suppressed it, determined to deal only in practicalities.

‘I don’t think Max has a passport—’

‘I can deal with that.’ Rafe slipped a mobile phone from his jacket pocket, already punching in numbers. ‘I have to make a few preparations for the trip. Be ready by five o’clock.’

Startled, Freya glanced at the clock on the cooker. That was in just over two hours. ‘So quick—’

‘Yes.’ Rafe looked up, and his dark gaze—his eyes were so black—pinned Freya in place. ‘I conceded to you in this one thing, Miss Clark. Don’t look for other concessions.’

Freya swallowed. This felt like a war, yet she could hardly blame Rafe Sandoval for feeling antagonistic.

She had seen him as the opposition from the moment she’d heard his name in the solicitor’s office.

He’s the man who will take Max away from me.

‘Just making an observation,’ she stated coolly. ‘We’ll be ready.’

‘Good.’ Rafe snapped his mobile shut and returned to Max, who had finished his milk and apple slices and was now looking at the two adults in the room with wary expectation. ‘Max, how would you like to go on a trip?’ Rafe crouched down to Max’s eye-level, smiling and assured, while Freya watched on.

‘A trip?’ Max repeated, and glanced at Freya. She nodded her reassurance.

‘Yes, a little holiday, Max. Would you like that?’ ‘Where are we going?’

‘To Spain.’ Rafe stood up. ‘I have a house there, right in the mountains. There’s a swimming pool too. Do you like to swim?’

Max smiled shyly. ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘He hasn’t been very much,’ Freya explained.

Rafe’s gaze flicked over her, and when he looked away it felt like a dismissal. ‘I’m sure there are many things Max hasn’t done,’ he said. ‘This will be a new experience for him.’

The hint of challenge in his voice made Freya realise how easily Rafe Sandoval was able to put her in her place. He had all the power, all the control.

She only had Max.and for how long?

‘We’ll both look forward to it,’ she said, and with the faintest flicker of a smile Rafe turned away from her to face his son once more.

‘I shall see you later, Max. We’ll take an aeroplane to Spain. You can even watch a film during the flight.’ Max didn’t reply, clearly unable to process all these changes in so short a space of time. Rafe gazed at his son, his eyes seeming to turn even blacker, and then slowly—hesitantly—he reached out one hand and very gently, as if Max were made of glass, tousled his hair.

Max flinched a little under the hesitant caress, and to her surprise Freya felt a pang of sympathy and perhaps something else, something deeper and more dangerous, for Rafe.

‘He’s a bit shy with strangers—aren’t you, Max?’

Rafe turned to her, his expression coolly challenging, his voice low enough so only Freya would hear. ‘Well, we shan’t be strangers for long, shall we?’ he said, and with one last smile for his son he left.

Rafe sat in the driver’s seat, knowing he needed to put the key in the ignition and drive away. He didn’t. Couldn’t. His hands were trembling too much.

He let out a slow, shuddery breath, adrenalin, anticipation, and anger racing through him in equal measures. He’d just seen his son. The child he’d always wanted and never thought to have.

The child his ex-wife had tricked him out of … twice.

Rafe forced himself to relax, forced the dark memories back—memories of his own loveless childhood, and then the unhappy years of his marriage. The cold, cold gaze of his father as he surveyed the son he’d never loved. The way he’d often looked past him, as if Rafe wasn’t there. As if he didn’t want him to be. And only when he was an adult had he learned why.

Things would be different now, Rafe promised himself. A new generation, a new day. He was the father now, not the unwanted child, and he loved his son. Nothing and no one would keep him from Max … and certainly not Freya Clark.




CHAPTER THREE


FREYA settled Max into his seat on Rafe Sandoval’s private jet, trying not to show her awe and intimidation at such luxurious surroundings. The scope of Rafe’s wealth and power had never been more apparent than now.

Max wriggled, trying to peer out of the window in his excitement, and frustration, exacerbated by her nerves, caused Freya to raise her voice in a way she hardly ever did.

‘Max, settle down!’

‘He’s just excited—aren’t you, Max?’

Rafe had appeared behind her without sound or warning, so Freya nearly jumped in surprise. Annoyance bit at her; the last thing she wanted was Rafe Sandoval seeing her lose her temper with his son. She turned around to face Rafe, smiling coolly, composure firmly restored.

‘Of course he is. This is an amazing aeroplane.’ She looked away from Rafe’s dark, knowing gaze to examine the inside of the jet, taking in its leather sofas and teak coffee tables. It looked like an upscale hotel lounge, not a mode of transport.

‘We’ll be taking off in a few minutes,’ Rafe said. ‘Once the plane is at altitude, we can have something to eat. I suppose Max must have missed his dinner?’

Freya nodded. She’d spent the two hours between Rafe arriving this afternoon and now sorting and packing their things, answering Max’s ceaseless questions, and trying to quell her own nerves. This was so soon, so sudden, so much.

She wanted to stay with Max, of course she did. Since hearing about Rafe Sandoval’s custody claim a week ago she’d thought of little else. But she hadn’t considered how quickly he would move, how much he would want Max.and what it would feel like to return to Spain after all these years.

She pushed that thought—that memory—away. She never thought of her year in Spain, or the endless well of sorrow it opened up inside her. She wouldn’t start thinking about it now; she couldn’t afford to.

Max was happily looking out of the window now, so Freya took the opportunity to speak privately—and professionally—to Rafe. ‘I just left the house—locked, of course.’

‘My solicitor will deal with it,’ Rafe dismissed, the matter dealt with easily, thoughtlessly.

Freya thought of the terraced house where she’d spent so many happy days with Max over the last three years. She’d probably never see it again. Neither would Max. Those days, Rafe was effectively telling her with his dismissal and his dark stare, were over.

She swallowed, the hugeness of Rafe’s decision—and her determination to stay with Max—reverberating through her. ‘You should sit down,’ Rafe told her. ‘The plane is about to take off.’

Freya took her seat, holding her hands tightly in her lap, trying to remain calm. The events of the day were catching up with her with dizzying speed. She took a few slow, deep breaths and let them out, hoping Rafe wouldn’t notice her little exercise in self-control. She needed it now—needed to steady herself. Feelings and memories lingered on the fringes of her mind, in the recesses of her heart. If she let them, Freya knew, they would take her over completely.

They didn’t speak as the plane took to the air, and for the next little while Freya kept herself occupied with Max, pointing things out on the ground, chatting mindlessly about the aeroplane and all its features. She could sense Rafe’s presence near her, felt awareness prickle along her skin and coil inside, yet she did not face him. He’d taken out a sheaf of papers, and out of the corner of her eye she saw he was focused on his work—which was just as well. Even just sitting there he was far too distracting. Too tempting.

No, she couldn’t think that way. Freya stiffened, appalled by the nature of her own thoughts. She’d kept men strictly off-limits for years, and now this cold-blooded corporate type was causing her to stumble. Surely she was tougher than that? More experienced than that?

Yet, even so, her gaze wandered past Max, now busily exploring the plane, to Rafe. He was tapping a pen against his thigh—the fabric pulled taut over lean, hard muscle—as he gazed, frowning, at the papers spread across the table. Freya couldn’t look away, even when he looked up. His gaze settled on his son, and there was such longing and sadness in that dark look that Freya’s breath caught in her chest. She was not mistaking the depth of emotion in Rafe’s eyes, for she still saw it when his gaze swung to her and pinned her in place. She could not look away.and neither could he. They stared at each other, and Freya felt heat break out over her body. Awareness. Desire.

Rafe’s gaze moved slowly over her body, and Freya felt her face flush. Then his expression hardened, his mouth thinning, and he looked away. Freya sagged against her seat, amazed and unnerved by how affected she’d been by a simple look. Except there had been nothing simple about it. It had been dark and dangerous and far too tempting.

After dinner—which was thankfully dominated by Max’s childish questions—Freya tucked him in and sat stroking his hair until he dropped off to sleep. The flight would land in just another couple of hours, and there was nothing keeping her from talking to Rafe. Why did the thought bother her so much? Why did he bother her so much? There was something about him, Freya thought. The blackness of his eyes and the tense energy he radiated, the overwhelming, charismatic maleness of him. It made her nervous.

Made her remember.

Which was ridiculous because, while Spain certainly held many painful memories, Rafe Sandoval looked nothing like Timeo. Timeo had been slighter, shorter, less imposing—if charming in his own way. Just thinking of Timeo, of everything that had happened, made her feel dizzy, and she forced herself to push it away. It had all happened ten years ago. A lifetime ago. A lifetime she’d never forget.

And a mistake she’d never make again … and certainly not with Rafe.

Straightening, Freya turned to face Rafe. He was watching her, his eyes narrowed, his head cocked, his gaze so thoroughly assessing.

Smoothing her skirt, Freya sat on the sofa across from him. ‘Perhaps you should tell me a little bit about the arrangements in Spain.’

Rafe rolled the gold-plated fountain pen between his fingers; Freya’s gaze was unwillingly yet unstoppably drawn to the small movement of those long, lean fingers.

‘We will land in Madrid and spend a few days there. I have business to attend to. When it is taken care of I will take Max to my property in Andalusia.’

‘And what is it like there? Is it accessible to a town? Will Max be able to attend nursery?’

Rafe frowned. ‘I assume he will not. There is enough for him to get used to already.’

‘I think it would help him settle,’ Freya said firmly. ‘Give him a routine, friends—’

‘I’ll look into it, Miss Clark.’

‘Please, call me Freya. If we are to be living together—’ She stopped abruptly, felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment. ‘Sharing living space,’ she amended, and Rafe’s mouth quirked upwards. It was the first time she’d seen him smile.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her dryly. ‘I took your meaning.’

Freya nodded stiffly, yet she could not keep a hot rush of awareness from coursing through her body and she shifted in her seat. Those innocent words had caused a reel of provocative images to flip through her mind—images of Rafe that had no business taking up space in her brain. Yes, he was a handsome, arresting, intimidating man, but she was not attracted to him. She couldn’t be. She didn’t do relationships, wasn’t looking for a man. Didn’t need or even deserve one, considering all that had happened before. And she could not afford the slightest slip when it came to caring for Max.

Rafe watched colour wash Freya’s face, turn her eyes to smoke. Her tongue darted out and moistened her lower lip, and he experienced a sudden fierce jolt of lust. It surprised him because, while he hadn’t been completely celibate since his divorce, he focused on business, not pleasure. Not desire. And yet now he felt it uncoil within him, and he could hardly credit that Freya Clark, with her neat ponytail and sensible shoes, was its source.

There was something unsettling about how still she kept herself, how those fog-coloured eyes gave nothing away. The fact that she was embarrassed by her silly slip of the tongue intrigued him, for Freya Clark seemed utterly in control of her emotions … if she had them at all. She felt passionately about staying with his son, he knew that, but it was still a careful, controlled ambition, and he knew that it was intentional—just like her expressionless face. Was it just a mask? What secrets and emotions could Freya Clark be hiding so carefully? For surely she was hiding something? Desire aside, his instinct told him not to trust her.

He capped his fountain pen and closed the folder of business documents that had been spread out on the table before him. ‘How long have you been taking care of Max?’

‘Three years.’ She spoke firmly, clearly on familiar territory. ‘Since he was three months old.’

Three years ago. That would have been less than a year after Rosalia had left him. She would have been four or five months pregnant; she would have known. And she’d never said. She had, in fact, told him the opposite. ‘I never mean to fall pregnant—ever.’ Even now the memory sent a fresh rage rushing through him. He forced himself to relax.

‘And how did you meet my ex-wife?’

‘I answered an advert in a newspaper,’ Freya replied. ‘For a nanny. Rosalia’s English wasn’t exceptional, and she wanted someone who was fluent in Spanish to converse with her, but who could also teach her son English.’ She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, the movement both delicate and graceful. ‘I fit those requirements.’

Unusual requirements, Rafe thought. There were so many things he wanted to know: what Rosalia had said of him, how she had explained his absence. What lies she had told. And more, too, more about Freya herself: why was she a nanny? Why was she fluent in Spanish? What was she hiding?

For surely those clear grey eyes held some secrets.

‘And have you been a professional nanny for very long?’ he asked. ‘Did you have a position before Max?’ He supposed he should have asked for a reference before bringing her to Spain. He’d been so overwhelmed by meeting Max, by wanting to get him back to Spain—back home—that such considerations had completely slipped his mind. Still, he trusted Freya at least to care for Max. Beyond that …

Freya hesitated, causing Rafe to refocus, swinging his gaze back on her sharply. She bit her lip, looking unsure for only a second before she answered, ‘I was a student before I cared for Max.’

‘A student?’ He’d assumed she was in her late twenties, simply based on the assured way she held herself. Despite that brief flash of uncertainty, Freya Clark had the composure and confidence of a woman, not a girl.

‘Yes, I took am MPhil in pure mathematics,’ she elaborated, although with seeming reluctance.

Rafe sat back, saying nothing. This woman had no end of surprises. She possessed an advance degree in an abstract and technical field, and yet she had been nannying for the last three years and seemed content—in fact, intent—on continuing to do so.

‘And you did not wish to pursue a position in your field of study?’

Freya lifted her shoulders in a defensive shrug. ‘No,’ she said simply, and Rafe’s gaze narrowed.

Something wasn’t right. She was hiding something; he was sure of it now. She stared at him steadily, without a flicker or tremor, refusing to give anything away. Yet there was something silently defiant about that stare, and it told Rafe that Freya Clark was not telling him everything he needed to know. Or was he simply suspicious, because he wasn’t used to taking women at face value? The two women he’d let into his heart—his mother and his wife—had both deceived him in the most devastating ways possible. Over and over again. He didn’t trust Freya, but he didn’t know if that was because of him.or her.

‘What an interesting choice of study,’ he finally said mildly. Was he imagining her relaxing, no more than the tiniest fraction of a movement, shoulders lowering, expression ironed out?

‘It was,’ Freya said in that same firm, cool voice. ‘But caring for Max has been far more rewarding.’

‘Indeed.’ He steepled his fingers together, watched her over their tips. She’d tensed again; it was something he felt, as if they were connected by an invisible thread, a live wire. She didn’t want to talk about herself, Rafe thought. She was afraid of revealing something—but what? ‘And will you return to mathematics when your position here is finished?’

Pain flashed across her features, a lightning streak through her eyes before she composed herself again. Perhaps he had been needlessly cruel, reminding her that her position would end, but she needed to know it. He had no intention of Freya Clark staying around any longer than necessary.

‘I’ll have to see,’ she told him, her voice and gaze both level. ‘When the time comes.’

Max stirred then, letting out a little cry. Freya rose and went to him. Rafe watched her bending over the child, speaking in a low, soothing voice as she swept the silky dark hair from his forehead.

Watching her, the cheap material of her black skirt moulding itself over her hips, Rafe felt another lick of lust uncurl inside him, and he yanked his gaze away impatiently. His unexpected desire for Freya Clark was yet another reason to have her return to England as soon as possible.




CHAPTER FOUR


IT WAS nearing midnight when they were finally driven to Rafe’s home in Madrid. Freya hadn’t really spoken to him again since that tense exchange on the aeroplane, and for that she could only feel relief. She didn’t like the way Rafe looked at her—so assessing, so knowing. She saw suspicion in those dark eyes, and she wondered what he suspected. It wasn’t as if she was hiding anything relevant from him. She had no secrets when it came to Max and her care of him. Yet still Rafe looked at her as if she did.and he intended on finding them out.

Max was exhausted from the flight, and he’d barely woken up as they’d left the plane. Freya had been bending to lift him when Rafe had stepped forward.

‘Let me.’

Silently she had watched as he’d scooped his son into his arms, so gently that Max had barely stirred before nestling closer against Rafe—almost as if he instinctively recognised and trusted this stranger who had come so suddenly into his life.

The sight of Rafe cradling his son had made Freya’s throat close up. This was how it was meant to be—parents and children. This was what she was missing out on being just Max’s nanny. This was what she would forever miss out on. She’d turned away, unable to watch, unwilling to feel.yet the pain and memory still lanced through her.

A limo had been waiting on the tarmac to take them into the city.

Freya breathed in the warm, sultry air, so different from the chill of early spring back in London. She remembered how she’d loved stepping into the sunshine when she’d flown into Barcelona ten years ago, her heart buoyant with the opportunities and possibilities ahead of her.

If only she’d known.

Would she have averted the heartbreak and loss that had come later? Could she have kept herself from that consuming despair? Or had the weaknesses which had led to so much heartache been there inside her, fault lines waiting to crack open and destroy everything she’d ever held dear?

Her gaze travelled to Rafe, the breadth of his shoulders, the darkness of his hair. Those fault lines were still there, she knew. Papered over, perhaps, but still visible. Still a threat. She had to be careful. Perhaps it was because he was Spanish, or simply because he was an unbearably handsome and charismatic man, but Rafe Sandoval presented her with a lethal temptation—and it was one she had to resist.

‘Are you all right?’ Rafe asked over Max’s head. He was still holding his son, and Freya had slid into the seat next to them in the limo.

He must have felt her tension, sensed her anxiety. She forced herself to relax. Smile.

‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired.’

Rafe nodded, accepting, and Freya turned her face to the window and watched the darkened streets slide by. Neither of them spoke, and Max didn’t stir, yet the tension in the limo felt palpable—at least to Freya.

She was conscious of how close Rafe was sitting to her, his strong, muscled thigh just inches from her own, and how easily and gently he held Max. She could hear the steady sound of his breathing, could inhale the musk of his aftershave. All of it conspired to make her feel tense enough to snap. Break. There was simply too much about this whole situation that she didn’t like. The rawness of old memories, the uncertainty of her present situation. Her unwanted attraction to Rafe Sandoval.

She took several slow, deep breaths, forced her fists to unclench even if her insides wouldn’t.

‘We’re here.’ The limo had pulled up to a stately building with ornamented pillars and portico, and a general aura of privilege and wealth. A liveried doorman opened the door.

‘Señor Sandoval. Buenas noches.’

‘Good evening,’ Rafe returned in Spanish. ‘Has my apartment been prepared?’

‘Of course, señor.’

‘Bueno.’

Rafe turned to his sleeping son, and in the wash of the streetlight Freya could see how his face softened, was suffused with tenderness. Her insides clenched again, this time with a nameless longing. She had not expected Rafe to seem so vulnerable when it came to his son. And so cold with her.

‘Come, Max,’ he whispered in Spanish. ‘We are home now.’

Still holding Max, he slid out of the car and entered the building, leaving Freya no choice but to follow. She followed Rafe through an ornate foyer, its marble floor gleaming from the light of a crystal chandelier. Despite the late hour, several porters were in attendance, and they moved with quiet efficiency, taking their bags to a separate service lift. Freya followed Rafe into a wood-panelled lift, and the operator, also liveried, slid the iron grille in place before taking them to the top floor. The penthouse.

Freya glanced at Max, because it was better than looking at Rafe. She had to fight the insane impulse to look at him, to notice the hard angle of his jaw and the faint glint of stubble on his chin. The sound of him speaking Spanish, his voice low, the tone mellifluous, had slipped into her senses, stirred them to life. She’d forgotten what a beautiful language Spanish was—which was ridiculous, because she’d been speaking it to both Max and Rosalia for years. Yet somehow it was different when spoken by a man. By Rafe.

The operator slid the grille open, and Rafe walked straight into the penthouse flat. Clearly someone had been there cleaning, turning lights on, stocking the fridge. The place had an empty yet enlivened air, and Freya gazed at the stark, modern furniture, so at odds with the classical building and its stately architecture. Most of the interior walls had been taken out to create a huge open space, and long, sashed windows revealed Madrid in all its glittering glory.

Freya gazed in dismay at the leather-and-chrome sofas, the glass coffee table, the awkward sculptures of glass and iron that Max could so easily break or hurt himself on. This was hardly a place for a child.

Rafe must have realised that too, for he half turned to Freya, so his face was in profile, and said in a gruff whisper, ‘We will leave as soon as possible for my house in Andalusia. It is much more suited for a child.’ He jerked his head towards Max, still amazingly asleep, nestled against his father. ‘I will put him to bed.’

‘Of course.’

Until he left Freya hadn’t realised they’d been speaking Spanish. She’d slipped into it so naturally. The thought caused her a ripple of foreboding. Being back in Spain was stirring up so many memories—memories of loss and desire and regret—and she did not want to feel them again. She didn’t want to remember at all. She couldn’t be tempted.

Alone in the huge reception room, she wandered around, gazing at the sculpture and the modern art, wondering what it revealed about Rafe. The place felt stark and soulless, much like the man Rosalia had described.

‘He never loved me. He never showed me any affection at all. How would he treat his child?’

Freya had listened to Rosalia’s diatribes patiently, because she’d known how frazzled and fractured the other woman was; she’d never seemed comfortable or happy or even at peace. She’d never bonded with Max, despite Freya’s attempts to bring them together. Freya had never known how much of Rosalia’s misery was self-inflicted, and how much was caused by the man in the other room. The man putting his son to sleep so tenderly.

There was so much she hadn’t expected, so much she didn’t understand. She’d made assumptions about Rafe Sandoval based on what Rosalia had told her, what the media described, and yet when he looked at his son he seemed like someone else entirely. Someone kind and gentle and good.

‘He seems to have settled,’ Rafe said, startling her. She turned around, her arms folded in front of her in a posture of defence.

‘Oh … good.’

Rafe propped one shoulder against the door, his gaze speculative.

‘Your Spanish is very good.’ ‘I told you I was fluent.’ ‘Yes.and why is that?’

He arched one eyebrow, the low lighting from the lamps sending his face into half-shadow so Freya couldn’t quite make out his expression. ‘You are not Spanish.’

‘My Spanish isn’t that good?’ Freya said wryly, surprising herself. At some point she must have mentally called a truce. This man was not her enemy. He showed too much concern for Max to be that. Yet he was still a danger.

‘Not quite,’ Rafe allowed.

Even in the shadowy light she saw a smile flicker across his face, and felt an answering tug of need deep in her belly. She took a step backwards.

‘So how and why did you learn Spanish?’

‘I studied it at school,’ Freya said. She took a breath, knowing she would need to tell him more, that he would ask eventually. ‘And I spent my gap year in Spain.’

‘Gap year?’

‘A year after sixth form,’ Freya explained. ‘When I was eighteen.’

The words felt like explosions in her heart, hollowing out holes. Ten years ago, and yet for a decade she’d acted as if that year didn’t exist—hadn’t happened. And here she was, admitting it to Rafe Sandoval. He’d slipped under her defences so easily, and she didn’t even know how it had happened … or why. All she knew was that it was frightening and dangerous … and yet a part of her craved it at the same time—that closeness, an intimacy. She’d denied herself for so long, and yet she couldn’t have picked a more inappropriate person to need. Want.

‘Ah.’ Rafe’s gaze swept slowly over her, and Freya stared back coolly, refusing to look away or show any sign of weakness. ‘You can sleep in the bedroom next to Max’s,’ Rafe finally said. ‘Let me know if there is anything you need.’

Freya nodded, and he moved off to the other bedroom wing. Freya walked slowly down the corridor, peeking into a darkened room with its door ajar to see Max curled peacefully on a double bed.

In the room next door her bag had already been placed by the bed, although she hadn’t noticed anyone enter the apartment besides themselves. Presumably there was a separate service entrance, and the staff were trained to come and go silently. She gazed around at all the opulence—the king-sized bed with its cream satin duvet, the plush carpet under her feet. She moved to the window and lifted the heavy damask drape; outside she saw a wrought-iron balcony, and she slid the door open to breathe in the dusky warm air.

Freya closed her eyes, letting the sultry breeze ripple over her. Happiness and sorrow warred within her. She was with Max. What more could she possibly want? Yet memories whispered on the fringes of her mind. Threatened to pull her under.

She’d known it would be difficult, returning to Spain after all these years, but she hadn’t quite prepared herself for the way the very air brought her tumbling back to that old version of herself, innocent and untainted. She wished suddenly, fiercely, that she could go back and change the events of that year, erase the mistakes she’d made. She wished she could be a whole person—untroubled, unscarred—for Max. And maybe even for Rafe. If she was, would things be different now? Would she even be here at all? For surely it was her desperate knowledge that she could never have a child of her own that had derailed her mathematics career and led her to care for Max in the first place?

Freya undressed quickly, exhaustion not just from the flight but from the last week crashing over her in a wave, and slipped beneath the cool, slippery duvet. She fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, despite the thoughts and memories churning through her mind and heart.

And she awoke to an unholy scream of terror renting the air.




CHAPTER FIVE


FREYA bolted out of bed, every nerve on high alert as the scream echoed through the apartment. It was coming, she knew, from Max. She recognised the sound of raw fear, for in the week since Rosalia had died he’d woken up several times with night terrors. She hurried out of her bedroom, stumbling in the unfamiliar surroundings, groping in the dark. And skidded to a halt on the threshold of Max’s bedroom—for Rafe was already there.

She gaped in disorientated surprise as Rafe leaned over Max, whispering soothingly, stroking his hair. Max kept on screaming. His eyes were open, but Freya knew he wasn’t really awake. She had yet to find a way to deal with Max’s night terrors other than time and patience.

‘What is wrong?’ Rafe asked in a low voice. He did not take his gaze from his son. ‘Why will he not stop? What can I do?’

There was a raw note of pleading in Rafe’s voice that tore at Freya’s heart. Rafe Sandoval was not a man used to being helpless.

‘He’s not really awake,’ she said quietly. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, next to Rafe. Too late she realised how few clothes either of them wore; Rafe was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of drawstring trousers, and because of the warm night she wore only a tank top and shorts. They were very close on the bed, their bare legs brushing, causing gooseflesh to rise all over Freya’s body in an instinctive response of awareness.

She turned to Max, murmuring quietly, stroking his hair just as Rafe had. Now that the terror had run its course—or perhaps because Max recognised her, even in his sleep—he relaxed just a bit, his screams lowering to exhausted moans, and buried his head in Freya’s lap.

‘It’s all right now, isn’t it?’ Freya said, her fingers sliding through his silky hair. ‘You’re all right, Max. It was nothing but a dream.’

Max jerked his head up, his unfocused eyes suddenly trained on Rafe. And he started screaming again.

Rafe tensed, and Freya said, a note of apology in her voice, ‘He’s asleep—he doesn’t—’

‘I’ll go.’ Rafe stood up and walked stiffly from the room. To Freya’s dismay Max’s screams subsided as soon as his father had left. The strange events of the day must have affected him on a subconscious level.

She stayed for a few more minutes as he dropped back into a deeper sleep, and then she tucked the blankets around him. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, wondering if she should go back to her own room. Had Rafe gone back to bed? He’d seemed almost hurt by his son’s rejection, and that thought compelled her to tiptoe towards the living room.

Rafe stood by the window, a tumbler of whisky in his hand. He was still shirtless, and Freya could not keep herself from noticing how the moonlight slanting through the windows washed his body in silver, emphasising the sculpted muscles of his back, his broad shoulders and trim hips.

She almost turned around again and hightailed it back to her room, for her brain recognised that there was something dangerous about this situation—about both of them wearing almost nothing in the middle of the night, in a moon-washed room. Her body sensed danger too. Every nerve and sinew was singing to life, to a heightened awareness that was painful in its pleasure. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to feel … anything.

‘Why is he like that?’ Rafe half turned to her, his face in profile.

Freya swallowed and stayed by the door. ‘They’re night terrors.’

‘A dream?’

‘Not exactly. More severe, I suppose, and harder to comfort because he never actually wakes up.’

‘His eyes were open,’ Rafe said in a low voice. ‘He was looking at me as if.’ He turned back to the window, not finishing the sentence. His throat worked, his pulse beating rapidly, a testament to his anger and fear.

‘It wasn’t you,’ Freya said quickly, perhaps too quickly. She started towards him, stopping halfway across the room, aware that going nearer to Rafe right now might not be the best idea. The safest idea. ‘He doesn’t recognise anyone when he’s like that.’

Rafe did not turn from the window. ‘How long has he been having these terrors?’

‘It’s very common for children his age,’ Freya said, knowing she was hedging. Why did she not want to tell Rafe? She knew the answer already; she didn’t want to hurt him. Stupid, perhaps, and certainly impossible. Life was pain.

Rafe half turned to her again, and even from halfway across the room she saw the black glitter of his eyes. ‘How long?’

‘They’ve certainly been happening more often since Rosalia died,’ she said quietly.

Rafe nodded, accepting. ‘Of course. She was his mother.’ His fingers clenched around his glass. ‘Did she love him? Did she see him, hug him?’

Hug him. The question surprised Freya, and touched her too, for it seemed such a strangely specific and emotional thing for Rafe to be concerned about. Yet she understood the nature of the question, and she knew she had to answer truthfully. ‘She loved him,’ she said quietly, ‘but she didn’t see him that often.’

‘How often?’ Rafe asked in a raw voice, the question a demand.

‘Once every few weeks?’ Freya hazarded a guess. Towards the end it had been even less than that. If she was honest, at least with herself, Max had barely known his mother.

Rafe turned to her, shock and pain etched on his features. His chest rose and fell in a ragged breath, and Freya’s gaze was helplessly drawn to the movement. ‘Then you were his mother,’ he said simply, ‘in all but fact.’

Freya didn’t speak for a moment; she couldn’t. Too many emotions raced through her—hope and need and fear. She was glad Rafe could acknowledge how important she was to Max, and yet she was still dizzily afraid that he would force her to leave, that her closeness to Max would be a threat to his own relationship to his son. And she couldn’t keep need from coiling within her at the sight of Rafe, at the very scent of him—the kind of hungry desire she hadn’t felt in years. Hadn’t let herself feel because she knew where it led. The misery and despair it could cause.

‘Yes,’ she finally said, in no more than a whisper, ‘but it is a rather important fact.’

‘Is it?’ Rafe let out a bark of humourless laughter as he turned back to the window. ‘Sometimes I wonder.’

Freya could not decipher that statement, or what had motivated it, but she heard the bleakness in Rafe’s voice and knew its cause: three years of not knowing about his son, and now being faced with the seemingly insurmountable task of forging that all-important bond.

Impulsively she stepped towards him, going so far as to touch his arm. His skin was warm and the muscles jumped under her fingers. ‘He’ll get to know you,’ she said. ‘He’ll come to love you. It just takes time.’

Rafe turned towards her, and Freya realised she had not taken her hand from his arm. Instead her fingers had stretched out along his skin, as if seeking the heat of him. She was standing so close to him, in nothing but a skimpy tank top and shorts, and her breath suddenly started coming fast—too fast. Desire overwhelmed her senses, her thoughts. She knew she should step away, yet she couldn’t because she didn’t want to. She wanted this, wanted Rafe, and even as the realisation shamed her—she was still weak—she could not keep it from overtaking her, from guiding her actions. Keeping her hand on his arm, sliding her fingers along his skin.

Rafe’s face was still half turned to her, so she could see the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. And then he turned completely, his eyes glinting blackly in the moonlight, and he stared at her with a hunger that stole the breath from Freya’s lungs. He wanted this, too. He wanted her. She didn’t move.

The moment spun on—silent, taut with tension and yearning—and then with a whispered curse, Rafe closed the space between their bodies and kissed her.

The first feel of his lips against hers set off an explosion through Freya’s body, obliterating the barriers she’d erected around her mind, her heart. She wasn’t prepared for her sudden intense reaction; she had no defence. Her mouth opened under his and her arms came up to grip his shoulders, although whether to push him away or pull him closer she did not know. Perhaps she simply needed to anchor herself.

She felt tension shudder through Rafe, and knew he’d been surprised by her response. He’d expected her to push him away. Of course he had; it was what she should have done. Yet now that he’d kissed her she could not keep herself from wanting this, wanting more, craving closeness, needing the connection. It had been so long. It had been ten years.

His mouth stilled over hers, the taste of him still on her lips, and she knew he was battling with himself.

Knowing he should stop. One of them should step away. And yet even in this moment, as cold rationality seeped through her mind, she could not control the craving, and her hands tightened on his shoulders.

It amazed and shamed her that after ten years of holding herself apart, keeping herself numb and distant and totally under control, this one man, in one moment, had completely conquered her. Overcome her defences. Awoken her emotions. Reminded her of her own weakness.

The moment broke and Rafe’s mouth took sure possession of hers once more. Freya completely lost all power of thought. All power, full-stop. She could do nothing but respond, need, even if it made her weak. Again.

Rafe slid his hands to her shoulders, bracing her, before moving them to the hem of her tank top, and then underneath, sliding along her skin. The intimate contact overwhelmed her utterly. She stumbled back, needing the anchor of his hands, and he moved with her until her backside came into contact with a marble-topped table, the edge cold and hard against her.

In one fluid movement Rafe hoisted her so she sat on top of the table, and out of instinct and pure need she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer so they were—almost—in the most intimate contact possible. There could be no mistaking her intent … or his.

Rafe’s breathing was ragged as he continued to kiss her with a pent-up passion and fury that Freya’s body echoed and gave back to him. His tongue delved into her mouth time and time again and she felt the scrape of stubble on her cheek, the softness of his lips against hers, the glorious hardness of his body against hers, pressing, insistent.

Rafe did not break the kiss as he pulled at the waistband of her shorts, pushing them down, and Freya helped him, knowing this was moving crazily fast and yet powerless to stop it. Not wanting to.

His hand shook as he pulled at the waistband of his own pyjama bottoms, and then kicked them off. And then suddenly, amazingly, he was inside her. Freya gasped at the feeling; her body closed around him, tight and unused to the sensation, the sense of fullness and completion.

He muttered an oath, the words no more than a hiss, as he began to move. Freya moved with him, her face buried in the hot curve of his shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin. Or perhaps it was her own tears, because belatedly, distantly, she realised she was crying.

And then release came for both of them—an intense wave of emotion and pleasure that crashed over them, leaving them shuddering, silent and senseless.

His breathing still ragged, his chest heaving, Rafe remained in the circle of her arms, still inside her, for one precious beat, before he pulled away, yanked up his trousers and left the room.




CHAPTER SIX


RAFE stalked into his room, dazed and shaking. What had just happened?

He took a shuddering breath and raked a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He knew all too well what had happened. He just couldn’t believe he had done it. It seemed utterly impossible that he had just had sex with Freya Clark, yet he felt satiation stealing through his body even as his mind rebelled, denied. He had known her for less than twenty-four hours. He had had no intention of so much as laying a finger on her. And yet within minutes—seconds—all that had changed.

She had come close to him and he’d breathed in the faint scent of lilac that he knew must be from her soap or shampoo, seen the rise and fall of her chest through her thin tank top as she breathed, and he had felt a sudden, desperate tidal wave of yearning that he hadn’t been able to control.

And when she had responded in kind … her mouth opening under his, accepting, Wanting … that tidal wave had dragged him under completely.

After four long, lonely years—years of living off anger and bitterness rather than desire or love—he’d wanted that immediate connection and satisfaction, had needed it from her, and that deep need had overtaken any reason or self-control he’d had. The thought shamed him.

And now he was left with the aftermath of that rash act. How could they go forward with that between them? How could they concentrate on Max? He would have to tackle it directly, Rafe knew, yet he could not face it now. The realisation shamed him further. He’d shown such appalling weakness. He shuddered, shook off the thought.

He would speak to Freya in the morning. Explain—what? That it shouldn’t have happened? He knew she would agree. Surely she hadn’t expected.

Had she planned it? Rafe stilled, his body tensing with sudden suspicion. Had Freya been trying to seduce him as a way to bind herself closer to Max, keep him from finding another care-giver? The suspicions slid slyly into Rafe’s mind, causing him to freeze as he considered the awful possibility. He thought of how she’d placed her hand on his arm, how she hadn’t moved it. She’d looked up at him, her eyes wide, her mouth parted, waiting, and then her shocking, shameless response.

Had she used him?

God knew he had little reason to trust Freya Clark. He’d felt she was hiding something from the start—sensed that calm composure was covering some purpose or plan—but seduction? Did she really think a single night of rushed pleasure would change his mind? And yet in that moment of shocking intimacy he’d felt closer to Freya Clark than he had to another human being in a long, long time. She could not have expected him to respond that way, to have known how much he longed for it.

And yet it had happened. Freya had approached him, had not turned away from his kiss despite his every expectation that she would. Rafe’s mouth twisted in disgust at both her and himself even as he fought against the urge to condemn her without true proof. He did not want to be unjust, yet he’d faced so much injustice himself.

And even if she had been using him, he could not send her away so suddenly. Max would be devastated. He thought of Max’s blankly terrified face, the endless screams. Max needed Freya—for several more weeks, at least. They were stuck together, at least for a little while, no matter what her intentions had been. He didn’t trust her. And he still had every intention of sending her away as soon as possible.

Freya walked from the living room as if she were made of glass. She felt as if she could shatter at any moment. She walked with her arms wrapped around herself, as if she could keep herself together by sheer physical force.

How could she have allowed herself to be so weak, tempted by desire yet again? How could ten years of distance and decorum, of carefully building a fortress around her body and heart, count for nothing? She felt as defenceless as a razed tower, her body and heart raw and vulnerable, open and exposed to the elements. To Rafe.

She thought of how he’d left the room, stalking from it as if he were angry, probably disgusted. By what they had done. By her. Had he sensed that weakness inside her? Had he known she would respond to his kiss, unable to keep desire from swamping her senses, obliterating all reason?

Freya went to the bathroom and, mindless of the late hour, ran a steaming bath. She needed to wash away the memory of what had just happened even if she couldn’t erase the regret. She would, Freya knew from experience, live with that for ever.

Even after a bath, sleep wouldn’t come. She kept reliving those urgent moments with Rafe—the feel of his lips on her skin, his body inside her, the fierce sense of both joy and regret, pleasure and pain. She had not been close, much less had sex, with anyone for ten years. Since Timeo. And it stunned and scared her that Rafe Sandoval had been the one to crumble her defences. She turned her head towards her pillow, closing her eyes tightly, willing the memories and regrets to recede.

She must have slept, although she did not remember doing so, for she opened her eyes several hours later to see Max standing very close to her face, peering owlishly at her. Freya blinked and tried to smile, although every muscle in her body ached.

‘Hello, there, sleepyhead.’

Max grinned. ‘You’re the sleepyhead.’

‘So I am.’ She touched his cheek, as soft and round as a peach, savouring the moment. Then the memories of last night rushed in, obliterating anything else, crashing over her so her throat closed up and her eyes stung. She withdrew her hand. ‘Let me just get dressed, Max, and we’ll go and see about breakfast.’

A few minutes later, with Max’s hand slipped through her own, Freya cautiously headed out into the apartment. Rafe was nowhere to be seen, and she felt a dizzying wave of relief. She wasn’t ready to see him yet; she didn’t know if she ever would be.

A housekeeper was busy in the kitchen, setting out bowls of fruit and slices of warm bread with pots of butter and jam, and she smiled at both Freya and Max as they entered. Freya made introductions, and they sat down at a table in the alcove and set to eating.

‘How long are we going to stay here?’ Max asked as he popped a strawberry in his mouth, juice running down his chin.

‘I’m not sure, Max. I think we’ll see Rafe’s house in the country soon. Wouldn’t you like that? To visit the mountains?’

Max frowned, and Freya knew she hadn’t fooled him. Despite her cheerful, brisk attitude, he sensed that something wasn’t right about this whole scenario.

‘I want to go swimming,’ he finally said, and Freya knew he was remembering Rafe mentioning that he had a pool.

‘And you will. It’s warmer in Spain, you know. You can go swimming outside even this time of year.’

Max brightened at this, and turned back to his fruit. Freya felt another wave of relief. She wasn’t ready to offer Max explanations she couldn’t even give. Thank goodness children were resilient.

Certainly more resilient than she was … She felt fragile and bruised, her body and brain both aching with the aftermath of last night.

Even as those thoughts ricocheted through her mind Rafe entered the kitchen. He was dressed for work, looking cool and remote in an immaculately cut business suit, a gold and silver watch flashing on one wrist. He greeted Maria, the housekeeper, and accepted a cup of coffee before turning to the two of them at the table.

‘Good morning, Maximo.’ His face softened in a smile clearly meant only for his son. He did not look at Freya. Max grinned back, his face and shirt already splotched with strawberry stains. ‘I’m afraid I must be at work today, but tomorrow we will go to my house in Andalusia and have fun there. Bueno?’

Max nodded shyly. ‘Bueno,’ he said.

Then Rafe turned to her, his mouth tightening, his eyes narrowing. The movements were almost imperceptible, yet Freya saw them. Felt them. He looked angry, she realised with a shaft of pain that surprised her, even though she should have expected it. He was blaming her—just as she couldn’t keep from blaming herself. ‘We will talk tonight.’

She nodded, returning his gaze, refusing to allow all the aching emotion to show on her face. She might have suffered a moment of weakness in allowing Rafe access to her body, but she would never let him into her mind or heart. That would be even more dangerous, more painful.

Rafe stared at her, his gaze still narrowed, as if he was trying to understand her … and then make a judgement. Then, after a tense pause, he turned away, and Freya let out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

After breakfast Freya took Max for a walk in the neighbourhood, Barrio Salamanca. They window-shopped on the chic Calle Serrano, and gazed at the modern sculptures—much like the ones in Rafe’s apartment—at the Museo de Escultura Abstracta.

By lunchtime Max was worn out, and Freya tucked him in for a nap before lying down herself, since she’d got very little sleep last night. Her body still thrummed with memories, ached with regret. Her mind insisted on replaying every moment with Rafe, and despite his coolness this morning she realised that she still desired him. At least her body did. Her body longed for his touch again.

She managed a restless doze before Max woke up, and then they ate a light dinner that Maria had prepared. Rafe still wasn’t home by the time Freya had bathed Max and tucked him into bed with several of his favourite stories.

‘When will Rafe come back?’ he asked, after she’d read each story at least twice. His eyes were already drooping and his thumb hovered near his mouth.

‘Tonight,’ Freya promised. ‘And tomorrow we will go to his other house.’ ‘With the pool?’

‘With the pool,’ Freya confirmed, glad it could be—at least for now—that simple for Max.

She stayed until his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing evened out. In the distance she heard a door open and close, and she knew from the sound—and the plunging sensation in her middle—that Rafe had returned.

Of course she couldn’t avoid him for ever, yet she still dreaded seeing him—had no idea how to handle the moment his coldly assessing gaze met hers.

She stood on the threshold of the living room, watching as Rafe shrugged out of his suit jacket and loosened the knot of his tie. Then he turned to face her, and the very air seemed to freeze. Freya’s mind blanked so she could only stare at him, remember how she’d buried her face in his shoulder, wrapped her legs around his waist. Cried in his arms.

‘Max is asleep?’

Freya nodded. She did not trust herself to speak. Rafe took a breath and let it out slowly. ‘Last night …’

She waited, tensing, knowing she should rush in and fill that silence with words and explanations, but she couldn’t. She’d had plenty of time today to attempt to formulate a coherent reason for what had happened last night, how the darkness and memories and intensity of Max’s terror had conspired to create an impossible, uncontrollable urge in both of them, yet now that seemed just a flimsy excuse for something that had—at least for her—been far deeper, darker, and more damaging. So she simply stared, and watched Rafe’s expression flatten and harden, the suspicion and anger flaring in his eyes.

‘It should not have happened,’ he said after a long, tense moment. ‘At least I did not intend for such a thing.’

The slight stress on I made Freya stiffen. ‘I didn’t either,’ she answered, her voice thankfully cool.

Rafe glanced at her sharply. ‘Didn’t you?’ he said, and Freya recoiled. So he was going to blame her. The realisation did not really surprise her, but it still hurt.

‘Is that what you think?’ she asked levelly. ‘That I seduced you?’

Rafe let out a short huff of sound—something torn between laughter and despair. He hunched one shoulder. ‘God knows what I think,’ he said in a low voice.

Freya sagged slightly in relief. She’d been expecting accusations, harsh and unrelenting. You should know better. What kind of girl are you? Things she’d heard and endured before. And yet despite Rafe’s admission she still felt guilty. She wondered if she would ever be free of that old guilt—that fear—if any relationship she had would be untainted by it. Its leaden weight was why she’d avoided relationships of any kind for so long, and yet somehow with Rafe she’d forgotten. At least for a moment.

And yet that she’d forgotten at all made her feel guiltier than ever.

Rafe gazed at her thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing once more, and Freya felt as if he could see into her soul. Sense her guilt. ‘Did I … hurt you?’ he finally asked, his voice low.

His gaze remained steady on her, colour high on his cheekbones, and Freya looked away. His thoughtfulness both touched and shamed her. The encounter had been so explosive, so urgent; clearly it had shocked him as much as her.

‘No,’ she whispered. Not unless she counted the pain in her heart.

Rafe nodded, accepting. ‘I must ask,’ he continued, his voice still low. ‘Is there any chance you could be pregnant?’

Shock raced through Freya, icy and unpleasant. She had not considered that Rafe would think of such a thing. ‘No,’ she said, her voice even lower than his, barely audible. ‘There isn’t.’

‘You are on birth control?’

She flushed and looked away. ‘It’s taken care of.’

Rafe gazed at her, and Freya felt the weight of his stare. No doubt he was wondering just what that meant. Was she on the Pill? Had she taken emergency contraception? She gave him no answers.

‘That’s good, then,’ he finally said, although he still sounded suspicious. ‘Tomorrow we will travel to my house in Andalusia. Max should get settled there as soon as possible.’

Freya nodded, knowing what he was implying. Settled so you can leave. Her hands clenched, fingers curling into her palms. She forced herself to flatten them out, seem calm. Memories ricocheted through her.

Is there any chance you could be pregnant? No. Never.

The pain of that old loss was magnified by the knowledge that she would lose Max too—in a matter of weeks, maybe months.

Rafe let out a tiny sigh, and Freya couldn’t tell if he was sorrowful or just exasperated. ‘We will put this behind us,’ he said.

Freya nodded mechanically. She agreed with him completely, in the rational part of her mind, at least, yet she knew how difficult it could be to put mistakes behind you. Sometimes the only way to do it was to pretend it hadn’t happened at all.

Yet now, with Rafe, she wondered if that was even possible.




CHAPTER SEVEN


‘LOOK, Freya!’

Freya shielded her eyes from the sun as Max jumped into the shallow end of the pool. He squealed in delight as he hit the water, and she clapped her hands. ‘Fantástico, Max!’ They had spoken only Spanish since arriving at Rafe’s villa in Andalusia, and Max had accepted it naturally—just as he had accepted everything about his surroundings.

And why shouldn’t he? It was paradise, after all. Stretched out on a sun lounger, Freya gazed around at the pool, fringed by palm and orange trees, with the rocky, barren mountains a stunning backdrop to the villa’s extensive gardens and grounds. In the three weeks since they’d been there Max had been content to swim and play, to explore the gardens and walk down the dusty country road to a nearby farm where they had just had a litter of kittens.

Rafe had stocked his villa with a variety of shiny new toys and books, and outfitted a bedroom as a nursery, with child-sized beds, tables and chairs. Max had everything he could possibly want. He didn’t even ask about England any more, or his mother. He’d adapted to his surroundings, and to Rafe, with childlike ease and joy.

Freya knew she should be glad he’d adjusted so well. And she was. Yet still she still felt uneasy, restless, because she did not know how long this would last. How long she would last. Every day she waited for Rafe to inform her she was no longer needed.

Rafe had been telecommuting with his office from the villa these last three weeks, with just a few short overnight trips to Madrid. He always made sure to spend time with Max, stopping by the pool or the nursery, and every afternoon playing with Max or reading him a story while Freya made herself scarce by silent agreement. The sight of their dark heads bent together sent a pang through her, a shaft of longing she had no right to feel.

Rafe had been cordial to her these last weeks, and they’d had a few careful conversations. Still, Freya felt as if they were orbiting around each other—Max the pull of gravity that kept them on similar but separate courses. Even so, his presence, his gentleness with his son, the way he’d tousle Max’s hair with a look of longing on his face—all of it made her wish things were different. She was different.

She didn’t let herself daydream beyond that vague thought, for she knew it was too dangerous. The kind of encounter she’d experienced with Rafe was surely nothing to build a relationship on—even if that were something either of them wanted. Which of course it wasn’t.

Yet despite the distance they maintained she couldn’t keep herself from watching Rafe as he spoke with Max, from noticing the almost reddish gleam in his dark hair, the easy grace with which he crouched down to talk to Max. Laughter rang through the house when they were playing together, surprising her because she’d never heard Rafe laugh before, and the sound made her ache. This man was not what she’d expected, what Rosalia had told her he was. At least not with Max.

With her …

‘Buenas tardes.’

Rafe strolled into the pool area, looking cool and casual in a loose white shirt and tan trousers. His feet were bare and tanned, his manner relaxed as he smiled at Max. Freya’s insides clenched with a nameless longing.

‘You are turning into a fish, Max,’ Rafe said. ‘Where are your fins?’

Max splashed in the shallows, grinning. ‘I don’t have fins!’

Rafe crouched down by the side of the pool, a smile softening his features, making him look entirely too approachable. Too wonderful. ‘No? Are you sure?’

Max continued to splash about, and slowly, as if he needed to steel himself, Rafe turned to Freya. ‘You are well?’ he enquired politely.

‘Very well,’ Freya replied, just as politely. She hated how artificial they were with each other, yet she did not know how to change it. She doubted Rafe even wanted to. And she had no intention of boring him with the truth—which was that over the past few days she’d felt a little off … tired and nauseous. It was no doubt some kind of bug, and she’d get over it without any help from Rafe.

‘Damita has prepared lunch,’ Rafe told her. ‘A seafood paella. Are you ready to eat?’

Freya couldn’t quite keep from making a face. Although the housekeeper made delicious meals, the thought of seafood put her right off.

Rafe raised his eyebrows. ‘Does that not suit you?’ he asked mildly.

‘I’m sorry. I have been feeling a bit nauseous these past few days. Probably some sort of stomach bug.’ She swung her legs off the lounger and turned to Max, intending to call him out of the water.

‘Nauseous?’ Rafe repeated. ‘How long has this been going on?’

‘A few days, that is all. It goes away by dinnertime.’

Rafe had stilled, tensed.

‘If you are worried that it might interfere with my care of Max—’

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I am not concerned about that.’

He paused, and Freya saw him looking at her with that narrow, assessing gaze that had been thankfully absent these past few weeks. He looked suspicious—but of what? A bout of stomach flu? Uneasily she turned back to Max.

‘Max, get out of the water. It is time for lunch.’ She waited for Rafe to say something, but he remained standing there, silent, as Max scrambled from the pool, and Freya held up a towel, bundling him into it with a smile and a ruffle of his wet hair.

It could not be. Surely it could not be. Rafe watched Freya as she dried off Max, cuddling him a bit, and his insides tightened.

Nauseous. Tired. He knew the signs; God only knew he’d been looking for them for the five years of his marriage—hoping, praying that Rosalia would fall pregnant, that they would have a family. The family he’d always wanted. The family he’d never had as a child.

Their marriage had ended when she’d revealed to him that it hadn’t been possible, that she’d never wanted it to be possible. With a flash of ever-present anger Rafe remembered the swamping sense of betrayal.

the hollow sensation of realising he’d been waiting and hoping in utter futility.

Yet even that had been a lie. Had Rosalia ever told him the truth? Had any woman?

And was Freya lying to him now? Had she lied to him when she told him it was ‘taken care of’?

Could she be pregnant?

Rafe turned away from the sight of her, her dark red hair falling forward to hide her face as she towelled Max dry. In the heat she wore just a tee shirt and shorts, and he could see the curve of her shoulder, the thin fabric pulling taut over the bone. Even that simple sight caused desire to tug deep inside his belly. Was he imagining that her curves were looking lusher and fuller?

He’d spent the last three weeks trying not to notice her, trying to ignore the lust that fired his body and something different and deeper that touched his heart. Although he pretended not to notice, he couldn’t quite keep his gaze from her as she played with Max, or read him a story, her lovely features softened and suffused with love. He’d fully intended packing Freya back off to England by now, yet when he saw the bond she shared with his son he knew he could not—and not just for Max’s sake. Not even for Freya’s.

For his own.

Despite the distance they’d silently agreed to maintain, he was not ready for Freya to leave. It was unreasonable—idiotic, even—yet it was there all the same: a deep and desperate need for a woman he knew was completely off-limits. And who might be pregnant with his child.

‘Come along, Max,’ he said, his voice coming out a little rougher than he’d intended. The thought that Freya might be pregnant, might know she was pregnant, made fury pulse through him. Lied to. Again.

He didn’t talk to Freya until that evening, when Max was settled in bed. He waited outside the doorway until she’d said goodnight and clicked off the light. ‘I need to talk to you.’

Freya gasped aloud, one hand flying to her chest. ‘Oh! You startled me.’

He watched colour flare in her face, her grey eyes wide, and realised he hardly ever saw her discomfited or surprised or anything but coolly rational. Perhaps that was why her response in his arms had been so unsettling and explosive. It had not been at all expected.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Do you have a moment?’ He’d adopted that cool, polite voice, and Freya took it as her cue to match it.

‘Yes, of course.’ She followed him downstairs into the living room. The room was huge and formal and Rafe hardly ever used it.

He paced to the window, conscious of her standing in the doorway, slight and uncertain.

‘Is something wrong?’ she finally asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Rafe said. He’d wanted to sound calm, measured, but he heard coldness and even anger creeping in. You tricked me. Betrayed me. The accusations clamoured in his throat. Would he ever know a woman who was honest? Yet even now, as he turned to face her, saw her eyes widen and her face pale, he wanted to trust her. Stupidly, perhaps, but he could not deny that basic craving.

He saw Freya swallow, lift her chin. ‘Is there something you want to say?’ she asked evenly, and despite her level tone he knew she was frightened—saw the pulse flutter in her throat.

What was she afraid of? What was she hiding? If she knew she was pregnant, surely she would tell him, trap him? Keeping it from him—just as Rosalia had—made no sense. Rosalia had acted out of spite and hurt, but surely Freya did not harbour such motives? For a moment Rosalia’s last words to him rang through his head, obliterating all rational thought:

‘I never intended to fall pregnant. I’ve been on the Pill, Rafe, since our honeymoon. I don’t want your baby.’

‘Rafe?’ Freya spoke quietly, her forehead furrowing in concern.

Rafe let out a slow breath, forced the memories to recede. Freya was not Rosalia. He still didn’t trust her, didn’t know what secrets she hid, but she was not his ex-wife. She was not, please God, deceiving him the way his ex-wife had. She might not even be pregnant. A little nausea could be explained away, surely? He was simply being overly alert. Paranoid. Hopeful.

The word caught him on the raw. Did he want another child? The child of this near-stranger? The thought made no sense, yet he could not keep that tiny tendril of hope—or something close to it—from unfurling inside him. He’d wanted a family for so long—had dreamed of the day he would have a child, a wife. And now he found he could picture Freya as a mother all too easily, her slender arms cradling a baby—their baby. With a jolt he realised he did not want just the child, the way he had with Rosalia. He wanted the woman too.

Freya.

What was it about this woman that called out to him, made him want in a way he never had before? Made him feel in a way he never had before? Was it the glimpse of passion underneath that cool exterior? Or the gentleness and kindness she showed to Max? Or was it simply the whole person—beautiful, alluring, kind, secretive?

He still didn’t know what secrets she hid.

Freya simply stared at him, her face pale and beautiful, her eyes wide. She looked heartrendingly beautiful.

‘Freya,’ he said, and when she blinked in surprise he realised it was the first time he’d used her Christian name. ‘Have you considered that you might be pregnant?’




CHAPTER EIGHT


‘PREGNANT?’ Freya repeated numbly, for of course the possibility had never once—not even remotely—crossed her mind. She shook her head, suppressing the sudden, bizarre blaze of hope Rafe’s words had caused to streak through her. ‘No.’

Impatience flashed across his features. ‘Why not?’

‘It’s impossible,’ Freya told him flatly. It hurt to say it.

Rafe shook his head, nonplussed. ‘I’m infertile,’ she elaborated. His expression did not change.

‘Are you certain?’

Anger spiked through her, firing her words. ‘Am I certain?’ she repeated, her voice rising, giving way to the ocean of emotion underneath. She strove to temper it, to keep herself as calm and remote as always. She could not give in to the emotions and memories now. If she did, she might drown in them. ‘Of course I am.’

Rafe shrugged. ‘It is perhaps possible, though?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Freya said coldly. She hated that he was pressing her, giving her hope. She’d lived with her infertility for ten years. Had accepted it … almost.

Perhaps this is your punishment. A girl like you …

‘It is not possible. And I’m surprised you’d even think of it, based on such little evidence. A little nausea—’

His mouth compressed into a thin line. ‘I looked for pregnancy symptoms in my wife for five years. I know the signs.’

His admission caused shock to slice through her. Five years? ‘And she never fell pregnant?’

‘No,’ Rafe told her flatly. ‘Because she was on the Pill the entire time and didn’t tell me. She never wanted children, even though I—’ He stopped, his lips pressed firmly together, his body taut with suppressed emotion.

‘But then she did become pregnant, and kept it from you?’ Freya filled in slowly.

‘Exactly.’ Rafe turned back to her with a grim smile. ‘By accident, I must suppose. She deceived me twice—first by taking birth control when she knew how much I wanted a child, and then by keeping her pregnancy secret from me.’

‘I suppose I can understand why you wanted a paternity test,’ Freya said quietly, and Rafe’s features twisted.

‘I did not realise she hated me so much.’ He raked a hand through his hair, then let it fall. ‘I think you should take a pregnancy test. Just in case.’

‘It’s not—’

‘I know,’ he cut across her. ‘But at least it will rule out the possibility.’

This was what Rosalia lived with for five years, Freya supposed. The pressure, the tension, and then of course his disappointment. By the time Freya had met her Rosalia had surely hated Rafe. Yet what had caused that hate? Five years of expectation and disappointment could not have helped. Had she ever loved him? Freya thought she must have. Her hatred had seemed fuelled by disappointment and despair. Had Rafe ever loved his wife, Freya wondered, or just the idea of a child?

‘I’ll buy a test tomorrow,’ Rafe told her.

Freya shrugged her acceptance. If it eased Rafe’s mind, she would take the test. She knew what the result would be.

Positive. Two pink lines. Freya sat on the edge of the bath and stared disbelievingly at the test stick. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. She knew it was.

Yet the evidence was right there in her hand—two blazing pink lines that meant she was pregnant. She scrabbled for the leaflet that had come with the test, checked again. Yes. Pregnant. And what about false positives? Very rare, the leaflet said.

And yet.

It couldn’t be.

Even so an incredulous hope was filling her up inside, buoying her heart. She felt a sudden fierce joy—a joy she’d never thought to experience. A child. Her child. A miracle.

‘Freya?’ Rafe stood outside the bathroom door, impatience sharpening his voice.

The disbelieving joy of seeing the test results gave way to a greater shock. She was pregnant … with Rafe’s child. It was a miracle, but it was also a mess.

‘Just a minute.’ From somewhere Freya found her voice. Fumbling with the lock, she opened the bathroom door. She had no words—she felt suddenly near tears—so she simply handed the test stick to Rafe. He took it automatically, then stared down at those two lines.

For a split second, no more, Freya thought he looked almost—happy. He didn’t smile, but his features softened in a way that made her yearn for this moment to be so different from what it was. Then his expression was ironed out and he tossed the stick in the bin.

‘You’re pregnant.’ He spoke levelly, without any inflection.

Freya nodded. ‘Yes, it would seem … I thought it was impossible. I was sure.’

‘Were you?’ Rafe enquired coolly.

Freya’s gaze flew to his face. She saw his eyes had narrowed, his lips pursed. She was starting to know that look so well.

‘What are you suggesting?’ she asked, her voice as cool as his. ‘That I tricked you somehow? That I planned what—what happened and thought I might get pregnant that one time? You still suspect some kind of seduction?’ Even though she kept her voice level and expressionless, she knew Rafe could hear the scorn.

‘I don’t know what to think,’ he said evenly. ‘You told me it was taken care of. I assumed you were on birth control—’

‘I am infertile.’ Freya cut across him, the words raw and wounded. ‘I was told I was infertile. I had no reason to doubt it.’ She swallowed convulsively, unable to say more. Rafe’s narrow gaze took in her sudden silence, and she knew he was not satisfied with her answer.

He nodded towards her still-flat belly. ‘Obviously the person who told you was mistaken.’

Freya placed her hand on her middle, as if she could somehow sense the tiny life within. Pregnant. A child. A chance she’d never, ever thought to have. Rafe raised his eyebrows, and suddenly, fiercely, Freya said, ‘I’m keeping it.’

Rafe drew back, clearly startled by the fierceness of her tone. ‘I was not suggesting otherwise.’

‘Good.’ She let out a harsh breath. ‘This baby is a miracle. I never thought I’d fall pregnant.’ Repercussions were slamming through her mind. This baby was not hers alone. ‘You’ve said you wanted children …’ she began hesitantly, not even sure what point she meant to make.

Rafe’s mouth thinned. ‘I have a child.’

The words hurt even as Freya lifted her chin. ‘Fine. If you think I’m asking for help, or money, or something like that—’

‘I don’t know what you want.’ Rafe cut across her, his tone suddenly savage. ‘I’ve never known what you wanted.’ He took a step closer to her, the action seeming both menacing and desperate. His eyes flashed blackly. ‘But I know you are hiding something from me, and when I find out what it is …’

It wasn’t quite a threat, but close enough that Freya felt a shiver steal straight through her, all the way to her soul.

‘Whatever secrets I have,’ she whispered, ‘have nothing to do with you.’

Rafe’s mouth curved in a humourless smile. ‘I knew from the moment I met you that you were hiding something from me. You still are. I’ve been deceived enough before to know the signs.’

Freya felt her heart start to beat with fast, fearful thuds. She could not deny that she was hiding something; she’d been hiding something for ten years. Yet neither could she confess. The thought of facing Rafe’s sure scorn and disgust was more than she could bear. Besides, it was her secret and hers alone. It had nothing to do with their baby. Their baby.

‘I think you must be paranoid,’ she told him coolly. ‘I am not Rosalia. I am not lying to you. I genuinely believed myself to be infertile.’

‘I believe you,’ Rafe returned, yet his tone suggested that was just about all he believed.

Freya could not keep herself from looking away, and Rafe noticed.

His mouth thinned once more. ‘I will make an appointment at the doctor’s in Seville.’

Freya swallowed. Tasted bile. Memories came rushing back—memories of pregnancy tests and doctors’ offices, of disappointment and despair. She’d been eighteen years old, alone in Barcelona. It had been different, and yet so much the same. She looked away, blinking hard.

‘What is wrong?’ Rafe asked.

Freya drew in a deep breath. She could not let memories claim her now—not when Rafe was already so suspicious.

‘Nothing. That is.this is a lot to take in.’

‘So it is.’ Rafe paused, and Freya tensed. He looked so serious, and so very determined. ‘If the doctor confirms this pregnancy, and it is viable,’ he said, his gaze dark and steady, ‘you will marry me.’

Even though she’d strangely half expected it, Freya still felt an icy ripple of shock douse her senses. ‘That isn’t the only solution.’

‘It is for me.’

She raised her chin. ‘You want to get married after your first experience?’

He flinched, and she realised she’d hurt him. ‘At least with this marriage we’ll both go in knowing the circumstances—and the limitations.’

‘Which are?’

‘It will be a marriage of convenience—one that is best for the child.’

He made it sound so simple, Freya thought. So obvious. ‘And a loveless business arrangement is best for a child?’ she asked, a revealing catch in her voice.

‘Knowing both your parents is best for a child,’ Rafe returned harshly.

‘That doesn’t require marriage—’

‘My child will not grow up a bastard.’ She flinched, and he gave a hollow laugh. ‘I would not wish that on any child. I’m speaking from experience.’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘You—’ Rafe slashed a hand through the air. ‘Marriage is the only option.’

Freya felt a hollow sensation in her chest, as if she had emptied out. She had not expected such a demand so soon, so suddenly. ‘And if I don’t agree?’ ‘Don’t go there, Freya.’

The words were a warning, given with the kind of cold control that reminded her she was speaking to El Tiburón. The shark of the business world who devoured what he wanted and discarded what he didn’t. And right now, Freya thought, he wanted her child.

He didn’t want her. Not the way she wanted to be wanted, anyway. To be cherished, loved. Not that she’d even dared to hope for it, but to sign her entire life away to a man who didn’t love her, didn’t trust her—

A man who was gentle with his child, whose smile made her ache. A man whom she knew, terrifyingly, she could fall in love with if she let herself. And who would never love her.

‘Are you threatening me?’ she asked, her voice still thankfully level and even cool.

‘See it as you like,’ Rafe replied. ‘You are carrying my child. I missed the first three years of my son’s life. If you think I am going to allow—’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Then I will do everything in my power to ensure I retain custody,’ Rafe said.

The words fell like stones into the silence, creating irrevocable ripples. They were words that could not be unsaid, with implications Freya did not want to envisage.

She swallowed, pushed past the bitterness and bile that crowded her throat. She’d thought Rafe was a good, gentle man, and he was—with Max. With her he was something else entirely. With her he was El Tiburón. Was this what Rosalia had faced? This heartless ambition, this single-minded determination to provide and care for his child? Was this why she had stopped loving him? Why she had left?

‘Why?’ she asked when she finally trusted her voice. ‘Why would you threaten to take my child away from me?’ Her voice trembled, broke. ‘Why would you blackmail me into marriage?’

Surprise and perhaps even regret flashed across Rafe’s face, and then his expression hardened. ‘I simply want what is best for our child,’ he told her flatly. ‘Isn’t that what you want?’

‘I want …’ Freya stopped, for she knew what she wanted wasn’t possible. Had never been possible since she’d last given in to temptation, wrecked three lives and destroyed another. Love. Happiness. A family. None of those were possible for her—except, amazingly, the last. Yet not in a way she had ever envisaged or would have chosen. Still, she acknowledged bleakly, it was the only option. Her only chance at some kind of happiness.




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