by Jennie Lucas
“I will always take care of you both,” he’d said. “Your happiness is more important to me than anything. More important than my own.”
She slowly opened her eyes.
Théo hadn’t wanted to let her go. He’d sacrificed his own wants for hers.
Why?
With a ragged intake of breath, she stared out at the magical landscape around her. Provence was full of color again—color so vibrant and rough and bright it hurt her eyes.
Théo did love her. He’d proved that with his actions. He loved her more than she’d ever even imagined.
“Carrie?” Lilley called, peeking around the doorway of the jet with the baby in her arms. “Everything all right?”
In the far distance Carrie thought she saw the Mediterranean. The sun was just starting to lower in the sky like a ball of golden fire against the sapphire sea.
“Yes,” she whispered. She exhaled, and as she looked up a slow-rising smile lit up her face brighter than Christmas morning. “Everything is going to be all right.”
From his study, Théo had watched the black sedan disappear down the avenue of trees from his château. He’d stood by the window until he couldn’t even see the cloud of dust.
Carrie and Henry would be happy in Seattle. He knew it.
But he…
Théo looked around at his study. The castle felt empty as a tomb. No laughter. No warmth. No baby. No family. No Carrie.
Wearily, Théo sat back in his chair and rubbed his forehead with his hands. He felt a strange pressure in his chest, right above his solar plexus—a tightening of his heart that was about as tiny and suggestive as cardiac arrest.
He felt…
Nothing, he told himself fiercely. He felt absolutely nothing. He’d left women before. He’d even left Carrie before.
But he hadn’t felt remotely like this. When he’d left Carrie last year he’d been angry and regretful, like a child forced to surrender a favorite toy.
This was different. What had changed?
Théo folded his arms, staring out the window. Carrie meant more to him now than just incredible sex, more than soul-searing passion. He knew her. He cared for her. Admired her. Respected her. And more…
Infatuation, he told himself furiously. Illusion. He could have another beautiful woman at the castle within the hour. He could replace Carrie easily.
But his soul felt the lie.
He took a shuddering breath, his hands tightening into fists as he stared out at the distant horizon toward the airport he couldn’t see beyond the southern hills.
He knew he could never replace Carrie. The mother of his child. The woman he’d gotten to know outside of bed. Kindhearted, idealistic, romantic, passionate. No woman alive could compare to her. Her innocent faith had made him into a better man. Made him want to be the man she’d thought he was.
She’d brought him to life. And he’d let her go.
For her own good, he told himself fiercely. She deserved a man who could love her. A man who would put her needs above his own. A man who would always seek to protect her.
Even from himself.
For several seconds blood roared in his ears as he stared blindly through the window. He was willing to suffer anything, endure any pain, in order to secure Carrie’s happiness. Did that mean he loved her?
He felt like all joy had died, vanished from the earth in a puff of smoke, from the instant she’d left. Did that mean he loved her?
He felt like he’d give up his billion-dollar business, lose his fortune, his status, his homes—if he could only have Carrie and his son at his side.
She’d seen him at his worst, but still found it in herself to forgive, to love him. He couldn’t quite understand the miracle of her heart.
For him, loving her was easy.
His eyes widened.
He loved her.
He was completely, totally, insanely in love with her. It wasn’t illusion. It wasn’t fantasy. It was the most real thing in existence. The only thing that would live after death. He loved her.
His heart expanded in his chest, then suddenly constricted. He sucked in his breath, then narrowed his eyes.
He had to catch that plane.
Flinging back the door of the study, Théo raced down the hallway, his footsteps pounding heavily against the marble floor. Grabbing a key in his garage, he jumped into his fastest car and roared down the road so fast he almost flew.
He arrived at the private airport, sliding to a stop with a scatter of gravel. He ran through the cavernous, empty hangar out onto the tarmac.
But he was too late.
He watched his plane take off and soar into the sky.
“No,” he whispered, his breath coming hard. He covered his face with his hands. “No.” “Théo?”
He whirled around. Carrie stood quietly by the wide open door of the hangar, holding their baby in her arms.
“You ran right by me,” she said awkwardly. “You went so fast I couldn’t—”
Théo didn’t wait. He didn’t think. He just went straight to her and took her in his arms.
Entwining his hands in her hair, he kissed her with all the passion and love he’d kept hidden in his heart for thirty-six years. Waiting for her. Only for her.
As he felt her kiss him back the frozen wall inside him finally broke, allowing life and sun inside his soul. He pulled away, stroking her cheeks as he looked down into her eyes.
“I love you, Carrie,” he whispered. “I love you.”
His kiss was gentle, deep and true. It was a promise.
When he finally pulled away, his voice was low and rough as he spoke words of love like a prayer.
She looked up at him, blinking through the tears of joy that filled her eyes. “I knew it.”
“You knew?”
“I—hoped.”
Passionately, Théo kissed her again, and it took several minutes and a baby’s protest about being squashed before they remembered to come up for air.
He leaned his forehead against hers, holding the baby tenderly between them. “Thank you,” he said in a low voice. “Thank you for believing in me.” He looked back at the sky. The plane was long gone—nothing more than a black speck in the sky. “But who is on my plane?”
She shook her head with a laugh as tears streamed unchecked down her face. “Lilley. She’s quit her job, by the way, and gone to see her boyfriend in San Francisco.”
“She has a boyfriend?”
Carrie struggled to remember what Lilley had said. “A sort-of one, I think.”
“He can’t possibly deserve her.” Théo looked at her with an intake of breath. “Just as I don’t deserve you. But I’m asking for you to give me one more chance.” His dark eyes searched hers. “Let me try to be the man of your dreams. I swear to you I will love and cherish and protect you for the rest of your life—”
She pressed a finger to his lips, stopping him. For an instant his handsome, hard-edged face fell into an expression of despair.
“You already are the man of my dreams. I’ve always known that.” She looked up at him. “Even when I hated you I dreamed of you.”
He cupped her cheek. His face shone with adoration.
“You don’t just see the best in people, Carrie,” he said quietly, looking deeply into her eyes. “You see the truth of what they most wish they could be.”
Wrapping his arms around her, he kissed her with intensity and fire, causing her to utterly melt against him. It was, she thought afterward, dazed, the best kiss of her whole life.
Or so she thought until two days later, when he kissed her at their wedding in a beachside park in West Seattle. Her friends and family applauded wildly after the simple outdoor ceremony, with the backdrop of Seattle’s skyscrapers across the bay. A moment before it had been merely misty, but the second they spoke their vows the lowering clouds broke at last, pouring showers of rain.
As Carrie looked at her new husband, both of them utterly soaked, she helplessly tried to use
her small bouquet of sunflowers as an umbrella over their heads. They both laughed.
Smiling, Théo lowered his head to kiss her, whispering, “Je t’adore, Madame la Comtesse.”
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with all her heart. And then they gathered their baby son—in his little suit, with his ring-bearer’s pillow—in their arms, to kiss his chubby cheeks and protect him from the rain.
As she watched her new husband shake the hands of her soaked, smiling family and friends, Carrie had never been so happy.
Life was full of color, she realized. Even on the grayest day, love was all around her—like rainbows in a storm. And now she was Théo’s wife, Carrie knew her life would always be full of vibrant reds and yellows and violets and bright blue skies. No matter what rains might come.
THE SANDOVAL BABY
Kate Hewitt
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.