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Cinderella's Scandalous Secret
MELANIE MILBURNE
The maid has a secret And it’s getting harder to hide! Isla McBain is carrying famous hotelier Rafe Angeleri’s baby! No-one can know—the last thing she needs is for her poverty-stricken past to make the headlines. But when Rafe learns about her pregnancy, he’s intent on sweeping her away to Sicily, and marrying her! Isla is drawn by the exquisite temptation of Rafe’s bed, but dare she step into the spotlight as Mrs Angeleri?


The maid has a secret
And it’s getting harder to hide!
Isla McBain’s affair with Rafe Angeliri was meant to be temporary, a chance to explore their passionate connection—but now she’s carrying the famous hotelier’s baby! This pregnancy will make headlines, but no one can know. Isla can’t risk anyone digging into her heartbreaking past and ruining Rafe’s impeccable reputation.
After learning about her pregnancy, Rafe is intent on sweeping her away to Sicily and marrying her! Isla is tempted beyond desire, but dare she step into the spotlight as Mrs. Angeliri?
MELANIE MILBURNE read her first Mills & Boon novel at the age of seventeen, in between studying for her final exams. After completing a master’s degree in education, she decided to write a novel, and thus her career as a romance author was born. Melanie is an ambassador for the Australian Childhood Foundation and a keen dog-lover and trainer. She enjoys long walks in the Tasmanian bush. In 2015 Melanie won the HOLT Medallion, a prestigious award honouring outstanding literary talent.
Also by Melanie Milburne (#u091f068f-1610-5288-ab9e-bd1d81d7d473)
The Temporary Mrs Marchetti
Wedding Night with Her Enemy
A Ring for the Greek’s Baby
The Tycoon’s Marriage Deal
A Virgin for a Vow
Blackmailed into the Marriage Bed
The Tycoon’s Forbidden Cinderella
Bound by a One-Night Vow
Penniless Virgin to Sicilian’s Bride
The Scandal Before the Wedding miniseries
Claimed for the Billionaire’s Convenience
The Venetian One-Night Baby
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Cinderella’s Scandalous Secret
Melanie Milburne


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08825-1
CINDERELLA’S SCANDALOUS SECRET
© 2019 Melanie Milburne
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Note to Readers (#u091f068f-1610-5288-ab9e-bd1d81d7d473)
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To Liza Fick,
I hope you enjoy this book, dedicated specially to you.
Best wishes,
Melanie Milburne.
Contents
Cover (#u5d4e16e1-e202-51f0-a6b3-74e1d4134436)
Back Cover Text (#u7f43d731-8188-5a90-9a4e-37e308fe5811)
About the Author (#ua74d1acb-61a2-50ac-be13-d0372de00415)
Booklist (#u2f125f4f-8c3b-57f7-a647-e56e84b8c705)
Title Page (#uf36e26a2-f5a4-52c3-940c-c2f9558dc8f0)
Copyright (#u590ad5bd-ec59-50c2-8629-73ce19dd8690)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#u382f964a-4a73-5d60-9bc1-f36233a9961c)
CHAPTER ONE (#uba49cd40-6bc3-5306-9e2a-855dad9935a0)
CHAPTER TWO (#uecd23016-43a6-598c-acba-4431ea28129a)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u091f068f-1610-5288-ab9e-bd1d81d7d473)
THE PENTHOUSE IN the grand old Edinburgh hotel was the last room on Isla’s shift. The irony didn’t escape her that she was now cleaning penthouses rather than occupying them.
She knocked on the door and called out, ‘Housekeeping.’ When there was no answer she swiped her pass key, opened the door and brought her cleaning trolley inside.
It was like stepping into another world—a world she had once briefly visited and fooled herself she could belong to... Had it only been five months ago?
Isla placed a protective hand over the slight swell of her abdomen, where the soft flutter of tiny developing limbs moving in their sac of amniotic fluid reminded her that in another four months her life would change yet again.
For ever.
Isla closed the door of the suite, tried too to close the door on her thoughts, but they lingered, floating around her head like black crows circling above a carcass. The carcass of her short but passionate relationship with her baby’s father.
Rafe Angeliri, who didn’t even know he was going to be a father.
‘Relationship’ was probably too generous a word to describe what she had experienced with Rafe. A fling. An affair. Two months of madness. Magical, mind-altering, body-fizzing madness. Two months where she had forgotten who she was, where she came from, what she represented. They had met in a bar and in under an hour she had ended up in bed with him. Her first ever one-night stand—except it hadn’t been a one-night stand because Rafe had asked to see her again. And again. And again. And within a few days they were enmeshed in a passionate relationship she hadn’t wanted to end.
But it had.
She had made it end.
Isla swept her gaze over the plush furnishings of the suite. During her fling with Rafe, spending a night in a luxury room such as this had become the norm. Sleeping between one thousand thread Egyptian cotton sheets, sipping French champagne from sparkling crystal flutes, eating at Michelin starred restaurants, wearing designer clothes and shoes and glittering jewellery that cost more than a car. Going to charity balls and opera and theatre shows and premiere red carpet events dressed like a supermodel instead of a foster kid from the wrong side of the tracks.
Trailer trash, tarted up to look like royalty.
The penthouse had been slept in the night before—the bed was rumpled on one side, the covers thrown back over the mattress in a way that snagged on her memory like a rose thorn on silk. Even the air smelled faintly familiar—a subtle blend of bergamot and citrus that made the skin on Isla’s arms lift in a tide of goosebumps, the hairs on her scalp tightening, tingling, tensing at the roots. The room seemed to have a strange energy, as if the presence of a strong personality had recently disturbed the air particles and they hadn’t quite yet recovered.
Isla gave herself a concussion-inducing mental slap, strode to the bed and stripped the linen off like a magician ripping a tablecloth from under a full setting of crockery. She had work to do and she couldn’t allow her imagination to get the better of her. She had made her own metaphorical bed and she was happy to lie on it.
Alone.
Telling Rafe about her pregnancy had never been an option. How could it be? She couldn’t risk him pressuring her into a termination. Couldn’t risk him rejecting her and the baby. She had experienced repeated rejections throughout her childhood. Even her own father had sent her back to foster care for others to raise. How could she risk Rafe sending her away? She couldn’t risk him offering to marry her out of a sense of duty. She knew first-hand how duty-motivated marriages worked out—with unwanted, unloved, unnurtured kids ending up in long-term foster care.
Isla remade the bed with the fresh linen from the trolley, stretching it over the mattress and straightening it to perfection, plumping up the pillows and neatly arranging them, along with the navy-blue scatter cushions and throw rug for the end of the bed. She stepped back to admire her handiwork when the door of the suite opened behind her.
Isla turned to face the guest with her best apologetic housemaid smile in place. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not quite fin...’
Her smile faded along with her apology and her heart leapt like a ping-pong ball and lodged high and tight in her throat. She couldn’t find her voice, couldn’t stop her heart from thudding against her chest wall like it was trying to punch its way out. Bumph. Bumph. Bumph. Her skin tightened all over her body, pulling away from her skeleton in panic. She ran her eyes over her baby’s father before she could stop herself, her gaze drawn to him by a force the passage of time hadn’t changed. There should be a law against looking so good, so fit and healthy and virile. So very irresistible.
Unlike her, Rafe Angeliri hadn’t changed in the three months since she had seen him last. His dark blue designer business suit and crisp white shirt paid homage to the superior athletic build it covered. Long muscled legs, broad chest and toned arms and an abdomen so hard and flat you could have cracked open a coconut. The open neck of his shirt revealed the tanned column of his throat and a tiny glimpse of masculine black chest hair. Aftershave-model-handsome, tall and lean with a clean-shaven, take-no-prisoners jaw, he commanded a room just by entering it. His slightly wavy black hair was neither long nor short but somewhere stylishly in between, brushed back from his intelligent forehead and curling against the edges of his shirt collar. The loosely casual hairstyle belied the relentless drive and meticulous focus of his personality.
However, his hazel eyes were even more cynical and there were vertical lines running down each side of his mouth that hadn’t been there before.
But there was one other difference Isla detected before he quickly masked it—shock. It rippled across his features, sharpened his gaze, froze his movements until he was as still as a marble statue. But only for a microsecond. He had always had far better self-control than anyone she knew, certainly better than her, and yet she had always prided herself on her ability to mask her feelings. How else had she survived all those childhood foster home placements with perfect strangers?
‘Isla.’ Rafe gave a nod that somehow managed to be both formal and insulting. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of finding you waiting beside my bed?’
Isla stepped away from the bed as if it had suddenly burst into flames. Being anywhere near a bed when Rafe was within touching distance was a bad idea. A very tempting but bad, bad, bad idea. They had spent more time in bed than out of it during their short and volatile fling. Sex had brought them together in a thunderclap of attraction at their first meeting in a bar—an explosion of lust that had sent shockwaves through her entire body. She hadn’t really enjoyed sex until she experienced it with Rafe. It had been out of this world sex and even now she could feel the memories of it coursing through her body. Little pulses and tingles in her flesh—the flesh he had awakened with his lips and tongue, as if being in the same room as him triggered her body into remembering, longing, wanting.
Isla snatched up some fresh towels from her trolley, desperate to hide the slight bulge of her belly. No one was going to be cracking coconuts on her abdomen any time soon. She had never had a particularly flat stomach, which made her hope Rafe wouldn’t notice the slight change in it now. It had always surprised her that he had found her so attractive. She was nothing like the super-slim and glamorous women he normally dated. She was desperate to occupy her hands in case they were tempted to slap that imperious look off his too-handsome face. Or worse—pull his head down to crash his mouth against hers to make her forget everything but the heat and fire of his masterful, mesmerising, bone-melting kiss.
‘I work at this hotel. Now, if you’ll let me finish your room, I’ll get out of your way and—’
‘I thought you were going back to London to resume your Fine Arts degree?’ A frown tugged at his brow, his green and brown flecked gaze holding hers with the force of a searchlight. ‘Wasn’t that the plan?’
‘I...I changed my mind.’ Isla swung away and strode into the bathroom with the towels. She placed the new ones on the towel racks and then gathered up the damp ones, bundling them against her body like a barrier. Her plans had changed as soon as she found out she was pregnant.
Everything had changed.
Rafe followed her into the palatial bathroom, his presence shrinking it to the size of a tissue box. Isla caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the twin basins and inwardly groaned. She had never been more conscious of her lack of make-up, the dark circles under her eyes, the lankness of her red-gold hair under her housemaid’s cap. Or the secret swell of her belly beneath her housemaid’s white frilly apron. Was he comparing her to his latest lover? She had seen photos of him with numerous women in the time since she had brought their relationship to an end. She wondered if it had been deliberate on his part—to be seen out and about with as many women as possible as an I’ll show you how quickly I can move on from you slap to her ego. After all, Isla had been the one to end their fling, which clearly wasn’t something he was used to. Women were queuing up to be with him, not rushing to leave.
‘That was rather sudden, was it not?’ His voice contained a note of scepticism that matched the piercing focus of his gaze. ‘I thought you liked living in London?’
Isla sucked in her tummy to her backbone. She straightened the toiletries on the marble counter for something to do with her hands, annoyed they weren’t as steady as she would have liked. ‘I felt ready for a change of scene. Anyway, I could no longer afford living in London.’
His top lip curled and his glittering eyes pulsated with barely controlled anger. ‘Is there someone else? Is that why you called time on us?’
Isla met his gaze in the mirror, her stomach freefalling at the bitterness shining in his eyes. ‘Us? We weren’t an “us” and you know it. It was a fling, that’s all, and I wanted it to end.’
‘Liar.’ The word came out like a bullet. Hard. Direct. Bullseye. ‘At least have the decency to be honest with me.’
Honest? How could she be honest about anything about herself? About her background. About her shame. It didn’t matter if she was wearing haute couture or hand-me-downs, the shame burned like a flame inside her. ‘There’s no one else. I told you in my note—I simply wanted out.’
Finding out she was carrying Rafe’s baby had thrown Isla into a terrifying world of uncertainty. The thought of him rejecting her, throwing her and their baby out of his life like her father had done to her had been too painful. She couldn’t think of any way she could tell him about her pregnancy that wouldn’t cause irreversible destruction in his life. She hadn’t known him long enough or well enough to trust he wouldn’t try and pressure her into having an abortion. Not that she would have allowed him or anyone to do that. She had enough doubts about her own mothering ability. She had been in and out of foster care since she was seven; her memories of her own mother were patchy at best, painful at worst. What sort of mother would she make? It was a constant nagging toothache type of worry that kept her awake at night. The doubts and fears throbbed on the inside of her skull like miniature hammers.
‘Ah, yes. Your note.’ There was a disparaging bite to Rafe’s tone.
Isla forced herself to hold his searing gaze. She put on her game face, the one she had perfected over the years. The face that had helped her survive yet another placement with strangers. The mask of cool indifference that belied the churning, burning, yearning emotions fighting for room in her chest.
‘You’re the one who needs to be honest. You’re only angry because I was the one to leave you. But you would’ve called time sooner rather than later. None of your flings last longer than a month at the most. I was already on borrowed time.’
A muscle worked in the lower quadrant of his jaw, his eyes still brewing and boiling with bitterness. ‘Couldn’t you have waited until I got home from New York to speak to me face to face? Or is that why you didn’t come with me on that trip while I negotiated that deal? Because you’d always planned to leave while I was away. You didn’t want to risk having me try to change your mind.’
Isla pressed her lips together, struggling to keep her own temper in check. She had known how important that deal was to him. The biggest of his career. The man he was negotiating the deal with was a deeply religious family man who might not have signed off on the deal if news broke about Rafe’s pregnant lover with the salacious background. She had started to feel nauseous just before he’d suggested she come with him to New York. Thinking at first it was a mild stomach bug, she had decided to stay at his villa in Sicily while he went abroad. She had gone everywhere else with him during their two months together, slotting into his life without giving too much thought as to why she shouldn’t be subsuming her life so readily, so recklessly into his. But then a wriggling worm of suspicion about the possibility of pregnancy had tunnelled into her brain to such a degree it was all she could think about. She’d had to know one way or the other. And she’d wanted to be alone when she did. She hadn’t wanted him finding her with a test wand in her hand, or finding her bent over the toilet heaving her insides out.
Once she’d seen the test was positive, she’d known what she had to do.
End it.
End their fling and get the hell out of his life before more harm was done. Because she would have brought him harm. Great harm. Harm from which there would be no easy recovery. The Pandora’s Box of her past would have created havoc and mayhem in his well-to-do circles. The New York deal would have been compromised—the deal he had worked on for months and months. One leaked photo of her in lingerie, dancing in that sleazy gentlemen’s supper club, and Rafe’s desire to chair a prominent children’s charity would be destroyed. Future business deals of his would be jeopardised from the stain of her background.
Isla had pictured the headlines—Exotic dancer pregnant with billionaire Italian hotelier Raffaele Angeliri’s love-child! He would not have come back from that easily, if at all. Scandals stuck to high-profile people, sometimes for the rest of their lives. She couldn’t do it to him; she couldn’t do it to their child. To have it surrounded by shame from the moment it was born, even before it was born.
Isla raised her chin and chilled her gaze to freezing. ‘You wouldn’t have been able to change my mind.’
His eyes went to her mouth and then back to her gaze. ‘Are you sure about that, cara?’ His voice was a deep gravelly burr that was as wickedly sensual as a slow stroke of one of his hands between her legs. And his smouldering gaze threatened to scorch her eyes out of her head and leave two smoking black holes in their place.
Isla swung away from the marble counter, grabbing the used towels from the rack. She had to get away from him before she did or said something she would regret. Like, Guess what I’m hiding underneath this apron? Your baby. Of course, a part of her—a huge part—believed he had a right to know he was to become a father. And if she had come from a similar background to his she would have told him upfront—no question about it.
But they came from different worlds and there was no way she could see to bridge the deep chasm that divided her world from his.
‘Leave that.’ He gestured with his hand at the towels she was carrying, a frown etched between his eyes. ‘Why are you cleaning hotel rooms? Surely you could have picked work more in line with your artistic aspirations?’
Isla kept the towels against her body. She needed whatever armour she could use against his disturbingly potent presence. Damp towels were hardly going to cut it, but still. ‘I’m working for a friend, helping her out. She runs a cleaning agency—Leave It to Layla and Co. You might have heard of it?’ She knew she was rambling, sounding as flustered as she felt. It annoyed her to be so on edge because she had always prided herself on her acting ability. Hadn’t she spent most of her life pretending to be someone she wasn’t?
Rafe’s gaze was unwavering. ‘I haven’t but I’ll keep the name in mind. I’m thinking about buying this hotel. That’s why I’m staying here under an assumed name to see how things work behind the scenes.’
‘Don’t you have enough hotels by now?’ Isla didn’t hold back on the sarcasm in her tone. ‘I mean, you nailed that New York deal, didn’t you? One of your biggest, right?’
If he was proud of his achievements he didn’t show it in his expression. She might as well have been commenting on how many shirts and ties he’d collected since their breakup. One side of his mouth lifted in a smile that wasn’t quite a smile. ‘Nice to know you’ve been taking a keen interest in my business affairs.’
Argh. Why had she made it sound as if she was poring over the newspapers for every little snippet of information about him? Isla affected a bored expression to make up for lost ground, moving past him to go back to the main part of the suite. ‘Look, I really need to finish this suite. My shift ends in a few minutes.’
He caught one of her arms on her way past, his fingers a deceptively gentle bracelet around the fine bones of her wrist. Her skin reacted to his touch, every nerve standing up to take notice—remembering, wanting, needing. ‘Stay and have a drink with me.’ His voice had dropped to that same low deep burr that made the base of her spine fizz like thousands of bubbles in top shelf champagne.
‘No can do.’ Isla pulled her wrist away, pointedly rubbing at her skin. ‘I have another engagement.’ The lie slipped so easily from her lips, but then she had a Master’s degree in face-saving deceit.
Something moved at the back of his gaze as quick as a camera shutter click. Disappointment? Pain? Anger? She couldn’t quite tell. ‘I’m sure they won’t mind waiting.’
Isla lifted her chin, locking her defiant gaze on his. She could feel the tug-of-war between their two strong wills prickling and pulsing in the air like soundwaves. The push and pull of their personalities had more or less defined their whirlwind fling. ‘You can’t force me to do anything any more, Rafe.’
His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly above his hazel eyes. And his cynical half-smile was back. ‘When did I ever force you, cara mia? You were with me all the way, sì?’ His voice was so low and deep it sounded like it was coming through the floorboards. Deep enough to strike a chord in the secret core of her being, reverberating like the sound of a struck tuning fork.
Isla tried to block the storm of erotic memories that flooded her brain. Memories of her limbs entangled with his, her body singing with delight and satiation and super-heightened sensuality. The taste of him, the musky scent of their coupling in the air, the feel of his hands lazily stroking the flank of her thigh, so close to the pounding heart of her need. She drew in a sharp breath and went back to her trolley, grasping the handle to stop herself from touching him. Surely she was immune to him by now? She hadn’t felt a flicker of lust for anyone since they’d broken up.
She wondered if she ever would again.
‘I have to go.’ Isla pushed the trolley towards the door but before she could get any distance his voice stalled her.
‘One drink. In the bar downstairs. I promise I won’t keep you long.’ A tiny pause and he added, ‘Please, cara?’
Isla should have walked out without saying another word but something in the quality of his tone stopped her. If she refused it would make her look churlish. After all, she had been the one to end their relationship. If anyone should be feeling churlish it should be him. She had left a note at his home rather than tell him face to face. The most telling thing about their breakup was that she’d only received one phone call from him where he’d left a stinging voicemail. One final call that had allowed him to vent his anger and thus confirming to her she had done the right thing. If he had truly cared about her, wouldn’t he have called multiple times? Wouldn’t he have done everything in his power to find her? To meet with her in person and beg her to come back to him. Except men like Rafe Angeliri didn’t beg. They didn’t have to. Women never left him in the first place. They were the ones who begged to stay.
But spending time with Rafe was dangerous for her now. Dangerous on so many levels. She was only just starting to show her pregnancy; her bump was still in that is-she-or-isn’t-she? phase. A quick drink might be just enough contact to assure him she had well and truly moved on with her life. Moved on from him. Surely she owed him a few more minutes of her time? He was the father of her baby, even if she’d vowed never to let him know it. She would look upon having a quick drink with him as a fact-finding mission. She needed to know what his plans were so she could adjust her own. If he was going to spend time here in Edinburgh then she would have to leave. To disappear and hope he wouldn’t come looking for her.
Isla turned to face Rafe, her heart and mind still at war. When had she ever been able to resist him? A big fat never. Which was why she had to be careful around him now. ‘Okay. One drink.’


Once the door closed behind Isla, Rafe let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Five months had passed and he still couldn’t be in the same room as her without wanting her. The lust hit him like a sucker punch. Seeing her standing beside his bed had brought back so many memories. Memories he had never been able to erase from his mind, much less his body. It was as if Isla McBain had imprinted herself on his flesh. No one else could satisfy the burning, aching need she aroused. He had dated other women since but each time he had thought about sleeping with them something had made him pull back. He was turning into a damn monk and he had to sort it out so he could move on with his life.
Move on from her.
Rafe was annoyed at himself for still being bitter about their breakup. But usually it was him who called time on his relationships. He was the one who set the agenda and changed it when it suited him. It had been a new experience—an uncomfortable experience—to have Isla leave him, especially when he was out of town working on the biggest and most important deal of his career. And especially when he had taken her home to Sicily—the first lover he had ever taken to his private sanctuary.
His villa in Sicily was normally out of bounds for casual lovers. It blurred the boundaries to have lovers sleep over too many times, but for once he had relaxed his guard. He had taken Isla there for weeks on end, cancelled important work meetings just so he could spend time with her without the press documenting every moment. Something about their relationship had made him want to keep it out of the public eye. Not because he didn’t like being with her but because he did. A lot. A lot more than he had enjoyed being with other lovers.
But somehow he had read her wrong and that bothered him. Big time. What niggled him the most was that he suspected she had waited until he was preoccupied with that deal so she could maximise the impact.
Coming home to an empty villa and a note from Isla propped up on the mantelpiece had blindsided him. And if there was one thing he detested more than anything else it was being blindsided. Hadn’t his duplicitous father set the bar for blindsiding? With his father’s two families operating simultaneously—two wives, two families, who each thought they were Tino Angeliri’s entire world until Rafe had discovered the truth when he was thirteen. A phone call from one of his father’s staff had changed everything. Revealed everything. When his father had been critically injured in a car crash while away on business, the staff member had felt compelled to inform Rafe and his mother of Tino’s life-threatening injuries. But when he and his mother flew to Florence to be by Tino’s bedside they discovered Tino already had visitors. Four of them. His other family. His wife and two sons. His father’s first family. His father’s official family. His father’s other life. Rafe had stood by the hospital bed and recounted every one of his father’s blatant lies. Years and years of bold-faced blatant lies.
Rafe was his father’s dirty little secret. His illegitimate son.
Coming home to that damn Dear John letter from Isla had enraged Rafe so much he had torn it into confetti-like shreds. It had reminded him of walking into that Florence hospital when everything he believed about himself and his family was found to be false. A pack of lies. Secrets and lies. He hadn’t realised he was capable of such anger until it hit him in sickening, gut-shredding waves. Why hadn’t he seen it coming? Surely there must have been a sign. Or had Isla deliberately misled him, lulling him into a false sense of security just as his father had done for all those years? Pretending, lying, misleading—the three deadly sins of any relationship.
He had called Isla as soon as he’d read the note and left a message. It wasn’t a message he was particularly proud of, but he was not one to hand out second chances. She hadn’t called him back and, in a way, he had been glad. Clean breaks were always to be advised. But nothing about their breakup felt clean to him. It felt rough around the edges, torn instead of neatly cut, ripped and raw instead of resolved.
Rafe paced the floor of the penthouse until he was sure he would wear his way through the carpet to the suite below. Something was off about her now. Her body language, her averted gaze, her caginess. Why had Isla had given up her Fine Arts degree and moved back to Scotland? She had been so passionate about her art and had said how much she enjoyed living in London. He had seen some of her drawings and he’d been amazed at her talent. What had made her turn her back on her dreams and work for a friend in a job that didn’t maximise her creativity? Had something happened in the time since their breakup? Something that had poisoned her artistic aspirations. But what?
He turned and looked at the neatly made bed, picturing her in it with her slim limbs wrapped around his. He let out a filthy curse and swung away, his guts twisting and tangling in disgust. Disgust at himself for allowing her to still get under his skin.
Isla was by far the feistiest and most fascinating woman he had ever been involved with and he couldn’t help wondering if that was why no one else since had measured up. He had found Isla’s quick wit and hair-trigger temper entertaining as well as frustrating. So few people stood up to him. So few women treated him as an equal instead of a meal ticket.
Isla had been different. She had made it virtually impossible for him to be satisfied by anyone else. He had enjoyed their heated debates, enjoyed how all their fights were settled between the sheets. He’d enjoyed goading her to get a rise out of her just so he could have her quaking and shuddering in his arms.
She looked the same but different somehow. Her figure was still slim but some of her curves had ripened, making him ache to touch her, to feel her, to smell and taste her. Her breasts were a little fuller. Dio. He had to stop thinking about her gorgeous breasts. How soft they felt in his hands, under his lips and tongue. How it felt to have her moving, thrashing beneath him as he took her screaming all the way to paradise.
The new energy that surrounded her now intrigued him. Her gaze blazing with defiance one minute and skittering away from his the next. Her skin paling and then flushing, her body turned away when before it had always turned towards him like a compass point finding true north.
Isla’s rejection was like a scabbed-over sore. Seeing her again had ripped off the scab and left the wound smarting, stinging, festering. He had to expunge her from his system so he could finally move forward. One drink with her and he would walk away without a backward glance. He owed it to himself to leave what they’d shared in the past where it belonged.
It was over and the sooner he accepted it the better.

CHAPTER TWO (#u091f068f-1610-5288-ab9e-bd1d81d7d473)
ISLA CHANGED OUT of her work uniform and back into her street clothes. Gone were the designer threads Rafe had bought her. She had left everything behind, wanting no reminders of their fling—other than the one she carried within her body. These days she wore practical and cheap off-the-peg casual outfits.
She stepped into her black leggings and pulled on her long-sleeved jersey top, but rather than disguise her shape, her clothes drew attention to it. She stroked her hand over the bulge of her belly. Surely the baby hadn’t grown in the last few minutes? She pulled the garment away from her abdomen but as soon as she let it go it lovingly draped across her body as if to say, Look at my baby bump!
Isla picked up her jacket even though it was a little warm to wear it inside. She fed her arms through the sleeves and tied the waist ties around her middle. She glanced at herself again in the changing room mirror, doing her best to ignore the niggling of her conscience over the lengths she was going to in order to keep her pregnancy concealed from Rafe.
She took out her small make-up kit from her tote bag and did what she could to freshen up her features. Concealer—her new best friend—was first, followed by a tinted moisturiser and some strategically placed eyeshadow to bring out the blue in her eyes. She followed that up with bronzer, highlighter, lip-gloss and a decent coat of mascara, a part of her wondering why she was going to so much trouble. But, in a way, make-up was another form of armour and, God knew, she needed a heck of a lot of armour around Rafe Angeliri.
Isla released the ties of her jacket and skimmed her hand over her belly again. Was it her imagination or was her baby more active than usual? She was so used to calling it her baby but it was Rafe’s baby too. The prod from her conscience was like the stab of a dart to the heart. Rafe’s baby. Of course, he had a right to know. Hadn’t she always believed that to be the case? His New York deal was finalised now, so why shouldn’t she tell him about the baby? There was a risk he might reject the child, but she wouldn’t insist on his involvement if he didn’t wish it.
The thought of her baby being rejected by Rafe made her heart tighten. The last thing she wanted for her child was a reluctant father. Isla had experienced one of those and look how that had turned out. Rejection. It might as well have been her middle name instead of Rebecca. Years and years in and out of foster homes, never belonging to anyone, never being chosen for an open adoption. Never feeling loved.
No. Her baby deserved better and she would do everything in her power to give her child the best upbringing she could, with or without Rafe’s support.
Isla drew in a shuddering breath and retied her jacket around her waist. She would look for an opportunity to tell him during their catch-up drink rather than dump it on him straight away. She knew that much about him—he didn’t like surprises.
The hotel bar was downstairs on a mezzanine level and Isla walked in with a tight band of tension around her head and her stomach like a nest of agitated ants. Rafe was seated in a quiet corner on one of two burgundy-coloured leather chesterfield tub chairs and, as if he sensed the precise moment she arrived, he looked up from his phone and locked gazes with her. A zap of awareness shot through her body. They might as well have been the only people in the bar—the only people on the planet. The only people in the universe. She couldn’t look away if she tried. Her gaze was tethered by his, her body under his command as if he had programmed her to his particular coordinates.
He was still wearing the dark blue business suit and white shirt but he had since put on a silver and black striped tie. That small gesture had a strange effect on her, momentarily ambushing her feelings. Feminist she might be, but she had always admired his attention to the old-fashioned manners of dating. During their fling, she hadn’t opened a single car door for herself. He had always walked on the road side of the footpath...he had never sat down before she was seated. It was so starkly different from the way other men in her past life had treated her and she had lapped it up, enjoying every moment of feeling like someone of value.
Rafe rose from the chair as she approached, his gaze sweeping over her in an assessing manner. ‘You look very beautiful but I quite liked you in that sexy housemaid outfit.’ His voice had a rough edge and his rich Italian accent seemed even more pronounced.
Isla had always been a sucker for his accent. She had worked on her regional Scottish accent for years, doing all she could to rid herself of any trace of her chaotic and underprivileged childhood. These days, no one would ever guess she hadn’t been educated at an exclusive fee-paying Edinburgh school and that was the way she wanted it.
Isla gave him a stiff-lipped, no-teeth smile and, finally tearing her gaze away, sat in the chair beside his, placing her tote bag on the floor next to her chair. ‘I hope there isn’t a policy about hotel cleaning staff fraternising with guests but here goes.’
‘If there is any issue I will deal with it,’ Rafe said and then frowned. ‘Don’t you want to take off your coat? It’s warm in here.’
‘No. Not yet.’ Isla couldn’t meet his gaze and picked up the cocktails menu and pretended an avid interest in the selection.
‘What would you like to drink?’ Rafe signalled the drinks waiter.
‘Something soft—lemonade.’
His ink-black eyebrows rose. ‘What about some champagne? Or a cocktail? You used to love—’
‘You know that saying: when life hands you lemons?’ Isla sent him a wry look and leaned forward to place the cocktail menu back on the table between them. ‘Suffice it to say, I’ve developed quite a taste for lemonade.’
Rafe gave the order for drinks to the waiter, who had just then approached, and once the young man had left Rafe turned back to study Isla’s expression for a long moment. ‘You don’t seem yourself. Does my company distress you that much?’
Isla could feel the heat crawling into her cheeks and right now the last thing she needed was more warmth on her person. Her jacket was making her feel as if she were sitting in a sauna. ‘It was quite a shock running into you like that while I was doing your room. I...I haven’t quite recovered.’ She was pleased with her response. It sounded reasonable and it was more or less the truth. She would probably never recover.
‘Yes, indeed it was.’
The silence contained an undertow of tension that tugged at Isla’s already fraught nerves.
The waiter came over with their drinks, setting them down in front of them and discreetly melting away.
Rafe watched Isla take a generous sip of her lemonade with a slight frown between his eyes as if he couldn’t quite understand why she wasn’t sipping a Bellini instead. The lemonade was cold and sweet but it did nothing to reduce the tide of colour she could feel in her cheeks. Beads of perspiration formed under her hairline and between her shoulder blades but the thought of removing her jacket and letting her body deliver the message for her was suddenly too daunting.
Isla put her glass back on the table and forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘You’re not happy.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Isla pushed a strand of sticky hair back off her face, uncomfortable with his probing scrutiny. Uncomfortable that he could see things she had fought so hard to conceal. ‘I hardly see why that is any business of yours.’
‘I could have made you happy, cara.’ The pitch of his voice lowered to a low growl of bitterness.
She crossed one leg over the other and moved her top foot up and down in jerky movements. ‘How? By dressing me up like some sort of doll? A toy you played with only when the fancy took you. No thanks.’
A brooding frown entered his gaze. ‘I told you how important that deal was to me. Bruno Romano was a nightmare to negotiate a coffee date with, let alone a hotel chain that size. I’m sorry if you read that as neglect.’
Isla picked up her glass of lemonade again, the ice cubes rattling against the glass betraying her nervousness in Rafe’s presence. She had to find a way to tell him about the baby, but how? Meeting him like this was crazy, but hadn’t she always been a little crazy where he was concerned? Her feelings for him were so confusing. There were times when she didn’t even like him and yet her body adored him. Her body craved him like a powerful drug. Damn it, her body even recognised him. She could feel the tingles and fizzes moving through her flesh just by sitting within reach of him, every cell of her body vibrating.
She took another sip of her lemonade. ‘So, why are you interested in this hotel? I didn’t realise Scotland was on your radar.’
‘It wasn’t until I met you. You awakened my interest.’ Rafe lifted his small dram of whisky to his mouth and took a measured sip, savouring the taste for a moment before he swallowed. Isla couldn’t tear her gaze away from the up and down movement of his tanned throat, her eyes drifting to the dark stubble around his mouth and jaw. She tightened her hand around her glass, remembering how it felt to run her fingertips over that sexy regrowth, remembering the way it felt grazing against the soft skin of her breasts. On her inner thighs...
She glanced at him again with her making-polite-conversation expression in place. ‘So, are you going to buy it?’
He cradled the whisky glass in two hands, his long strong fingers overlapping. That was another thing she remembered—how those clever fingers could wreak such havoc on her senses when they got down to business on her body. His gaze tethered hers in a lock that made her inner core contract like the tightening of a small fist. ‘I like what I’ve seen so far.’ Somehow, she didn’t think he was still talking about the hotel.
Isla released a shuddery breath and took another sip of her lemonade, acutely conscious of his probing gaze. She was too warm from still wearing her jacket, or maybe it was being within touching distance of the man who had scorched every inch of her body with his touch.
Rafe leaned forward and put his whisky glass on the small table between their chairs and then sat back, his hands resting on his thighs. ‘Tell me why you quit your Fine Arts degree.’
Isla shrugged one shoulder and rolled one of her ankles to burn off restless energy. You should have told him by now. Her conscience was jabbing at her but she couldn’t work up the courage. ‘I lost interest after I came back to the UK. I’d already missed half of one semester by staying in Italy with you. I only planned on going for a two-week sketching holiday if you remember.’
‘But you could have made it up, surely?’
‘I couldn’t be bothered.’ She looked into the contents of her glass rather than hold his gaze. ‘It was a pipe dream to think I could make a career out of painting portraits. I decided it wasn’t worth the effort of trying.’
His frown deepened. ‘But surely cleaning hotel rooms isn’t going to satisfy you long-term?’
Pride stiffened Isla’s shoulders and sharpened her gaze. ‘Careful, Rafe. Your privileged upbringing is showing. Anyway, my friend Layla has made a career out of it—or is starting to.’
‘But you’re an artist, not a businesswoman.’
Isla affected a laugh. ‘You make it sound like you know me. You don’t.’
‘I know you well enough to know you will not be satisfied unless you express your creativity.’ Rafe leaned forward so his forearms were resting on his thighs, his gaze trained intently on hers. ‘I have a proposition for you. Business, not personal.’
Isla raised her brows. ‘Oh? Let me guess... You want me to paint your portrait?’
He gave a twisted smile. ‘No. My grandmother, actually. My mother’s mother. She’s about to turn ninety. She’s difficult to please. I don’t think she’s liked a single thing I’ve bought for her. But I thought a portrait would make a nice birthday present for her.’
Isla chewed at one side of her mouth. How ironic her first ever commission offer came from Rafe. Of course, she couldn’t accept. But the thought of the money he might be prepared to pay her gave her pause. Why would he want to commission her, though? Did he think he could talk her into another fling with him? But, even so, she couldn’t help feeling intrigued about his family. He had rarely mentioned anything about his background and she’d been deliberately evasive about hers. They had somehow come to a tacit agreement to leave the topic of families alone.
‘Surely there are other artists, much more established artists, you could commission?’ she asked.
‘I want you.’ His eyes glittered with something that seemed to suggest it wasn’t just her artistic ability he was solely interested in.
The thought of resuming their affair was strangely exciting. Thrilling and exciting and dangerous.
But completely and utterly out of the question.
Isla leaned forward to put her drink on the table and began to rise from her chair. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not available.’
Rafe placed a hand on her knee before she could stand, locking his gaze with hers. ‘Think about it, Isla. You can name your price.’
She was close enough to him to smell his citrus-based aftershave. Close enough to see the flecks of brown and green in his eyes that made his irises look kaleidoscopic. The warm press of his hand on her knee sent a wave of heat straight to her core, stirring wickedly erotic memories in her flesh.
The air seemed to vibrate with energy. Sexual energy so powerful she could feel its tug-tug-tug on her insides, reminding her of the wickedly erotic delights she had experienced in his arms. Delights she had not been able to erase from her memory. They were seared into her brain and body so that every time he was within reach of her, her flesh tingled and prickled with excitement.
Isla knew she had to put a stop to this. Right here. Right now. She couldn’t agree to spending time with Rafe—not under any circumstances. He’d said she could name her price but wouldn’t she be paying the biggest price in the end? She pushed his hand off her knee. ‘Rafe, there’s something I need to tell you...’
‘What?’
She brought her gaze to his and swallowed against the restriction in her throat. ‘The reason I left you so abruptly...’ Oh, God, why was this so difficult? ‘I was scared about how you’d react and I—’
A frown carved into his forehead. ‘Did you cheat on me? Tell me, Isla. Were you unfaithful?’ His tone contained more hurt than anger. It seemed to bruise the atmosphere like mottled clouds.
Isla had a strange desire to laugh at the absurdity of the notion of her being unfaithful. He was the most amazing, exciting, thrilling lover and she had missed him every day since. And probably would for the rest of her life. No one would ever rise above the benchmark he had set. ‘No, of course not. No, it wasn’t anything like that.’
‘Then what was it?’
She took a deep breath and slowly released it. ‘I’m...pregnant.’
He looked at her blankly as if he hadn’t registered what she’d said.
‘Rafe, I’m having a baby.’ She undid the ties from around her waist, gradually revealing the swell of her abdomen. His eyebrows drew together as realisation slowly dawned on his features, leaching him of colour, stiffening every muscle on his face.
‘You’re...pregnant?’ His voice sounded nothing like his. Locked. Tight. Strangled. His Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, a host of emotions flickering over his face—shock, horror, anger. And, yes, hurt. Waves of it rippling like an eddying tide.
Isla pressed her hands together in her lap. Here it comes. The rejection. Cold dripped into her stomach, the icy shards slicing at her insides. I’m so sorry, little baby. This is all my fault. ‘I didn’t want to tell you because—’
He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times as if his voice had momentarily deserted him. ‘Is it...mine?’
‘I...’ Her voice deserted her for a moment as the pain of his question hit home. Of course, he had every right to ask but it hurt to think he thought her capable of such betrayal. She might not have been honest with him about her background but she would never cheat on a partner. It went against her moral code.
His eyes drilled into hers. ‘Answer the question, damn it.’
Isla gave a single nod. ‘Yes. Of course, it is. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before—’
Rafe shot to his feet like his chair had exploded. ‘Wait—I’m not having this discussion in a freaking wine bar. Upstairs. Now.’ His voice had that commanding edge that never failed to put her back up like a cornered cat.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea right now—’
‘You will do as I say. You owe me that, surely?’ His mouth was pulled so tight his lips were almost bloodless, his eyes flashing with livid sparks of anger.
Isla put up her chin. ‘You can tell me to get out of your life here. You don’t need me to go up to your room.’
He flinched as if she had struck him. ‘Is that how poorly you think of me?’
Isla no longer knew what to think. He wasn’t acting the way she’d expected. He was angry, yes, but for some reason she sensed he was angrier with himself than with her. She didn’t want to create a scene in a public place so gave in with as little grace as possible, not wanting him to think he could boss her around like one of his employees. She rose from her chair like a sulky teenager being sent to her room, her mouth set in a stubborn line. She hoisted her tote bag strap onto her shoulder and sent him a mutinous glare. ‘You can cool it with the caveman routine. You should know by now it doesn’t work with me.’
‘Nothing seems to work with you, does it?’ Rafe’s tone was so cutting it shredded her already frayed nerves like a sword slashing satin ribbons. He led her to the private elevator that went to his penthouse, his fingers firmly cupping her elbow. He stabbed at the call button, his expression thunderous, but underneath that dark brooding tension Isla could see tiny flickers of hurt. And it shamed her. She hadn’t thought in any detail about how he would feel if he ever found out about the pregnancy. Or at least she had tried not to think about it. She had been too concerned about protecting him from her past, protecting herself from the shame of it being splashed over every newspaper or online news or gossip outlet. She had fooled herself into thinking Rafe would be better off not knowing about his love-child—that it was easier for her to disappear than to risk him demanding she marry him or insist she have an abortion.
The elevator trip to the penthouse was conducted in a silence so thick Isla could feel it pressing against her like a dense invisible fog. Every breath she took in caught at the back of her throat, every second that passed heightened the tension in her body until she thought she would snap. The mirrored walls reflected Rafe’s demeanour—the tension rippling across his features as if he was recalling every moment of their fling and wondering how it had come to this point.
‘Rafe, I—’ she began.
‘Wait until we are inside.’ His tone was as commanding as a drill sergeant and the elevator doors whooshed open as if they too were frightened to disobey his orders.
Isla followed him into the penthouse, the door closing behind him with a resounding kerplunk that set her stomach churning fast enough to make butter. She let her bag drop to the floor with a thump, her legs feeling so feeble that they might go from beneath her. Tension was building behind her eyes and she worried she might be getting another one of the debilitating headaches that had plagued her during early pregnancy.
He came to where she was standing, his gaze focused, direct, searching. ‘So, let me get this straight. You knew you were pregnant before you left?’
Isla drew in a shaky breath. ‘Yes...’
His own inward breath sounded sharp and painful and he swallowed a couple of times, the tanned column of his throat moving up and down in an almost convulsive manner. ‘How did it happen?’
‘The usual way...’
He made an impatient sound in his throat. ‘You told me you were on the Pill and I always used condoms. You can’t get much safer than that.’ His gaze sharpened with accusation. ‘Unless you lied to me?’
‘I was on the Pill but I might have compromised its effectiveness that weekend we went to Paris. I got a stomach bug, if you remember? And you didn’t always use a condom.’ She lifted her chin and forced herself to hold his gaze. ‘We made love in the shower a couple of times without.’
Something passed through his gaze, as if he was recalling those passionate lovemaking sessions in intimate detail like replaying an erotic film. Images of them locked together with steamy shower water cascading over their rocking bodies. Images of him with his mouth sucking on her breast or her sucking on him, drawing his essence from him until he groaned out loud, his legs buckling at the knees. Or her with her hands flat against the marble walls of the shower with him driving into her from behind, her cries of earth-shattering pleasure filling the air. The warm cascading water. The slick press of their bodies. The need. The need. The need. The explosion of release that left them both gasping under the spray of the shower...
‘And do you have a good reason for not telling me you were pregnant before now?’ His voice sounded as intimidating as a headmaster admonishing a recalcitrant student, but his eyes still pulsed with waves of hurt.
Isla hugged her arms around her middle, trying to keep control of her escalating emotions. ‘I was worried you might pressure me into having a termination and—’
His frown was so deep it closed the space between his eyes. ‘Do you really think I would do something like that? For God’s sake, Isla. Surely you know me better than that?’ His ragged tone contained deep notes of anguish along with the chord of anger.
Guilt rained down on her like hail, making her huddle further into herself, her gaze lowered from his. Had she made a mistake? Had she seriously misjudged him? Would it have been better to be honest with him from the outset? Hindsight was all very well, but she had thought she was doing the right thing at the time. The shock of finding out she was pregnant had thrown her completely. In her panicked state, it had felt safer to leave than have him send her away.
Hadn’t she been sent away too many times in her childhood to count?
‘I didn’t know what to think,’ Isla said, slowly raising her gaze back to his. ‘I wasn’t prepared to hang around long enough to risk you doing something radical like asking me to marry you or—’
‘Well, at least you do know that much about me, because that’s exactly what I plan to do.’ The stridency in his voice was matched by the glint of determination in his gaze. ‘I’m not having any child of mine grow up illegitimate. I want it to have my name and my protection. I can’t—won’t—accept any other alternative. We will be married as soon as it can be arranged.’
Isla’s mouth dropped open and her stomach turned over. ‘You can’t be serious? We’re practically strangers who—’
‘We spent two months living and sleeping together. That’s hardly what I’d call the action of strangers. We’ve made a child together. That’s not something that I can approach in a casual manner. Formalising our relationship is the next step. The only step.’ He walked over to the minibar and took out a bottle of mineral water, holding it up. ‘Drink?’
Isla nodded; her mouth was so dry it felt like she had been licking the plush carpet at her feet. ‘I can’t marry you, Rafe. I won’t marry you.’
‘You can and you will.’ His mouth had a stubborn set to it, his eyes now as hard as lichen-covered stones. ‘I am not taking no for an answer.’ He unscrewed the top of the mineral water with a loud hiss of released effervescence and poured it into two glasses and then turned back to hand her one.
Isla took the glass from him with a hand that was visibly trembling. ‘Rafe...be sensible about this. Marriage between us would never work.’
Lingerie waitress weds Sicilian hotel billionaire? How would she cope with the shame of her past splashed over every paper and news outlet?
‘We will make it work for the sake of our child.’ His jaw was set in an intractable line. ‘How far along are you? Are you feeling well?’ His tone softened a fraction, his eyes losing their hard glitter to be replaced by a shadow of concern. ‘I’m sorry, I should have asked earlier.’
Isla put her glass down on a nearby table and then placed a hand on her small baby bump. ‘I am now... I was more or less constantly sick for a couple of months. I’m five months into the pregnancy. I’m due around Christmas.’
His eyes went to where her hand was resting, his throat moving up and down over another swallow. He stepped closer, coming to stand in front of her. ‘Can you feel the baby moving?’
‘I started feeling it moving around the sixteen-week mark. Here—’ She reached for his hand and laid it on the swell of her abdomen, watching his face as their baby gave tiny kicks. ‘Can you feel it kicking? There—feel that?’
Rafe was standing so close she could see the dark and generous spray of stubble around his mouth and jaw. She could smell the sharp notes of citrus in his aftershave, redolent of sun-warmed lemons. She could feel the magnetic pull of his body making her ache to close the small distance to mesh her body to his—thigh to thigh, pelvis to pelvis. Why couldn’t she be immune to him? Why did her body have to betray her? Could he sense the storm of hungry need he caused in her flesh? A need he had awakened.
His gaze softened in wonder as the baby moved against the press of his hand. ‘That’s amazing...’ His voice became husky. ‘Do you know the sex?’
‘No. I didn’t want to find out until the birth.’
The baby quietened and Rafe removed his hand and stepped back, his expression hardening once more. ‘Were you ever going to tell me?’ The note of accusation in his voice was sobering.
Isla moved to a little distance away so he wouldn’t see how much she ached for him to hold her, to comfort her, to reassure her. I was only trying to protect you. The words were assembled like soldiers on the back of her tongue but she couldn’t give the command for them to march forward. What good would it do? The less he knew about her reasons for not telling him the better. ‘I decided it was better for both of us if I just quietly disappeared from your life.’
‘You decided.’ He spat the words out like bullets. ‘You had no right to decide for me.’ He thumped his fist against his chest for emphasis. ‘I had a right to know I was to become a father. And my child has a right to know me. To have me in its life.’ He swung away with a muttered curse, his hand scraping through the thickness of his hair so roughly she was surprised some of it didn’t come out at the roots. He turned back and glared at her. ‘For God’s sake, Isla. Do you know how it feels for me to find out like this?’
Isla bit her lip, the tension in her head now feeling like needles poking into the back of her eyeballs. ‘Look, I know it must be upsetting but—’
‘Upsetting?’ He gave a rough humourless laugh. ‘Now that’s an understatement. You denied me knowledge of my child. You planned to keep my child away from me indefinitely. Don’t you think I have the right to be a little upset?’
Isla closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to quell the stabbing pain behind her eyes. ‘I was worried you would do exactly what you’re doing. Barking commands at me as if I have no will of my own.’ She dropped her hand from her face and sent him a defiant look. ‘I will not marry you just because you insist on it. Lots of couples have babies together without marrying. And yes, even couples who are no longer together.’
His eyes clashed with hers in a battle she fought not to lose, but in the end, Isla was the first to look away. She couldn’t cope with him when she was feeling so fragile. She couldn’t cope with him, full stop. He was too commanding. Too directive. Too everything.
‘You will marry me, Isla.’ His voice had a steely thread that sent a chill rolling down her spine like a runaway ice cube. ‘For, believe me, you might not like the alternative. If there were to be a custody battle between us, I can assure you I will win it.’
The pain behind Isla’s eyes intensified to a piercing drill that felt like it was burrowing deep into her brain. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. He was threatening to take her baby off her once it was born? He would be able to do it too. It wouldn’t take too much digging into her background to cast doubt on her suitability as a mother. Those topless photos she’d stupidly been talked into doing for her ‘portfolio’, for instance. Who would ever believe she hadn’t done them willingly? That she had been duped into making those shamelessly provocative poses, never realising how they might come back to haunt her. The photos alone might not be enough in a court of law to take her baby off her, but the thought of having those lewd photos out in public, splashed over newspapers and gossip magazines, was too much to bear.
Rafe’s veiled threat only confirmed why she hadn’t told him she was pregnant in the first place. He could be coldly ruthless when he needed to be. How else had he accumulated the amount of wealth he owned?
Her vision became blurred and the room began to tilt and sway as if gravity had been removed. She reached out her hand for the nearest solid object to stabilise herself but misjudged the distance. Her hand patted at mid-air and then a tide of nausea swept over her in an icy wave that prickled her scalp and sent pins and needles to her fingertips.
‘Isla?’
She was vaguely conscious of Rafe’s concerned tone but she couldn’t get her voice to do anything much past a mumble. And then she folded like a ragdoll and slumped to the floor and everything faded to black...


Rafe rushed to Isla’s slumped figure on the floor, his heart thumping in dread. ‘Isla? Are you okay?’ He was shocked at her pallid complexion—shocked and shamed that he had caused her to drop down in a faint.
He put her in the recovery position and then took her pulse, finding it more or less normal. A tornado of guilt assailed him, hammering into him with the force of knockout blows. He brushed the hair back from her clammy forehead, willing her to open her eyes. ‘Come on, cara. Talk to me.’
What sort of man had he become in the last hour? It was unforgivable to harangue a pregnant woman into a state of collapse. Sweat broke out over his own forehead, remorse like bitter bile in his mouth. He was disgusted with himself, furious he had been so intent on communicating his ire that he hadn’t considered her mental and physical state. She was pregnant, for God’s sake—with his child.
He realised with a jolt of remorse that he hadn’t even asked her how she felt about being pregnant. Whether or not the news had pleased her or shocked her. Had she considered other options? He would not have criticised her for considering a termination. He would not have criticised her for having one because he firmly believed it was a woman’s choice what she did with her body. But there was a place deep inside his heart that felt relieved she hadn’t chosen that path. He was going to be a father. It was still hard to get his head around but the evidence had kicked against his hand only minutes ago. ‘Come on, mio piccolo. Talk to me.’
Isla slowly opened her eyes and groaned. ‘My head aches...’
Rafe gently placed his palm on her forehead. ‘I’ll call an ambulance. I need to get you to hospital.’ He reached for his phone in his trouser pocket but she placed a hand on his arm.
‘No, please don’t. It’s just a tension headache. I’ve been getting them now and again. I don’t need to go to hospital... I think it’s because my blood sugar is a bit low.’
He helped her into a sitting position, cradling her around the shoulders with his arm, his other hand gently stroking the red-gold curls of her hair off her forehead. ‘When did you last have something to eat?’
She gave a weary-sounding sigh. ‘I don’t know...a few hours ago. I skipped lunch as I was running late and—’
‘Right, well, that makes me all the more determined you’re coming back with me to Italy,’ Rafe said. ‘You have to think about the baby. You can’t go skipping meals and working long hours in a physically demanding job. Not when I can more than adequately provide for you.’
Isla gave him one of her combative looks but it didn’t have its normal heat and fire. ‘Must you be so bull-headed? I’ve told you I don’t want to marry you.’

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