by Jennie Lucas
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.
She would not risk losing her child in a custody battle; she would not have her past raked up in the courts—perhaps even the tabloids, considering Rafe’s fame and fortune. If that happened she could only imagine how the courts would decide…and it wouldn’t be in her favour.
No, she knew what she would do—what she had to do, even if it felt like tearing her heart in two. ‘Fine,’ she said, her voice barely audible. ‘I’ll do it.’
She would marry Rafe. Rafe gave her a grim smile of satisfaction, but she knew the bleakness in his eyes mirrored her own. This was not a situation either of them had envisaged—or wanted.
CHAPTER NINE
‘GOOD morning.’ The doctor, a middle-aged woman with a neat bun of black hair, bustled into the examining room in the modern office block in Seville.
Freya murmured a greeting back, conscious of the vulnerability of her situation, of Rafe’s looming presence in the corner of the room, and of the memories.
Oh, the memories.
They crouched in the corners, crowded her. Overwhelmed her. The antiseptic smell, the churning fear, the utter hopelessness. She’d tried to prepare herself for this moment, but the sights and sounds brought it all rushing back so she could barely keep herself from losing her breakfast.
The doctor glanced at her in concern. ‘Are you all right, señora?’
Freya did not bother to correct her. Señorita. Still single. ‘I’m just a little dizzy, that’s all,’ she whispered. She knew she must look deathly pale.
Rafe’s brows snapped together in concern, and to her surprise he brought out a packet of semi-mashed crackers from his pocket. ‘Perhaps you should eat something,’ he said gruffly, then added with a note of apology, ‘That’s all I have.’
Freya murmured her thanks, holding the crackers in one slick fist. She realised he must have brought them for her, and even in the midst of her emotional agony the thought comforted her.
‘So.’ The doctor reached for a clipboard and uncapped her pen. ‘We should start with your history. Is this your first pregnancy?’
Freya stared at her sickly as the question reverberated through the little room. Her fist clenched, crushing the crackers to crumbs. Why had she not thought of this? Of course the doctor would want her history. Of course she needed to know everything.
Of course Rafe would find out.
Had she actually thought she could keep her secrets? Only yesterday she had told him that her secrets had nothing to do with him, yet here they were, filling the room with their malevolent memories, taking all the air. She struggled for a breath, knowing she would never escape her past, or the consequences of her own rash actions.
‘Señora?’ the doctor prompted gently. ‘Would you like a drink of water?’
She flicked a glance at Rafe, who was glowering as he stood by the door, sensing something was wrong. Freya could only imagine how angry he would be. He would feel deceived…again. The injustice of it brought tears stinging to her eyes—because she had not anticipated this, had not wanted it to happen like this. Yet still she accepted the futile inevitability of the moment, of the truth.
The doctor cleared her throat. ‘Would you like to conduct this examination alone?’
Freya shook her head, knowing there was no point. She couldn’t keep the truth from Rafe the way Rosalia had. She would have to reveal her secrets after all. ‘No. It’s fine.’ She cleared her throat. ‘This isn’t my first pregnancy.’
She felt Rafe’s shock as if she were electrically wired to him—felt its painful current pulse through her own body even though he hid his reaction. He didn’t even move. In fact he went very, very still.
The doctor smiled encouragingly, her gaze firmly focused on Freya. ‘When were your previous pregnancies?’
‘There was only one,’ Freya said. She felt numb now, and she faced the doctor directly, refusing to look at Rafe. ‘Ten years ago.’
‘And it went full-term?’
‘No.’ She swallowed, took a breath. ‘I had a termination at eleven weeks.’
Rafe must have made some sound, although Freya wasn’t sure what it was. She didn’t look at him as he murmured his excuses and quietly left the room. She stared down at her lap.
‘I’m sorry,’ the doctor murmured. ‘Was your husband not aware of this?’
Freya shook her head. She didn’t have the strength to say that Rafe wasn’t her husband even though he soon would be. Unless, of course, he’d changed his mind. Bleakly she wondered if she’d just lost her chance at the slender thread of happiness her pregnancy had offered.
Rafe strode through the office corridor and burst through the waiting room doors. The sun was shining, the sky a hard, brilliant blue. People strolled by, enjoying the spring afternoon. Rafe turned down the street, walking quickly, his head down, emotions rolling through him. Shock. Anger. Disappointment. Hurt.
Freya had lied. Lied just like his mother, telling him she didn’t know why his father hated him so much. Like Rosalia, insisting she didn’t know why she couldn’t get pregnant. He’d known Freya had been hiding something—but this?
Why? Her lie was as senseless as Rosalia’s. Why tell him she was infertile when she’d fallen pregnant before? Why had his wife told him she would fall pregnant when she’d been on birth control the entire time? Why was he deceived again and again? What was wrong with him?
A coldly logical part of his mind told him that Freya had not lied the way Rosalia had. In fact she’d told the truth as soon as she’d been asked; there really hadn’t been a moment to volunteer such painful, personal information before. He did not know when she’d been told she was infertile; most likely it had been after the last pregnancy. He knew that. And yet he could not keep himself from feeling tricked. Betrayed.
Hurt.
He walked all the way to the Alcazar Gardens, behind Seville’s ancient Moorish palace. He strode past pavi
lions and fountains, oblivious to their beauty and history. Finally he sat on a stone bench and stared blindly in front of him. He realised, distantly, that he must have been gone for half an hour or more. Freya might be waiting for him, wondering where he was. Stranded. Still he didn’t move.
His body and mind ached with this new knowledge. He understood, at least in part, that this wasn’t even about Freya—not completely. Her admission had brought all his own painful memories to the fore. His mother’s deceit. His father’s rejection. His wife’s betrayal.
‘You should have taken care of it rather than live with the shame.’
His father’s hissed voice, in an argument with his mother, burst into his brain. He hadn’t even realised he’d remembered it. Only later had he understood what his father meant—that he’d been talking about Rafe. The unwanted child.
And Rosalia’s lies—over and over again. ‘I don’t know why I can’t fall pregnant. I don’t want to see a doctor.’ And finally, before she’d left, ‘I never wanted your baby, Rafe.’ And she’d been pregnant at the time. What burning need for vengeance had driven her to deceive him so terribly, for so long?
And what of Freya? He thought of her pale, stricken face in the doctor’s office. Ten years ago she’d been no more than a teenager. What had happened? Had she loved the father? Jealousy twined around his heart, his lungs, stealing his breath. He had never felt it so fiercely before, for a man who was no longer in Freya’s life. The realisation was shaming. Yet that man had been the father of her unborn child.
He stood up suddenly, needing to move. The thought of Freya loving someone, losing him, losing her baby, filled him with an unreasonable fury. It had happened ten years ago, and yet the knowledge was fresh. It hurt him, and he did not like to think why. Her past actions surely shouldn’t affect his feelings now. Their marriage was to be a business arrangement, not a love-match. It had to be.
Freya sat hunched on one of the chairs in the waiting room, looking at no one, feeling nothing. Or trying to. When she’d come out of the exam room Rafe had been nowhere in sight. She’d realised she wasn’t even surprised. She wondered if he’d left her here for good, cut her out completely. Her unexpected news would not have been received well by a traditional, family-centred man like Rafe. And of course he would have expected her to tell him yesterday, when he’d demanded to know her secrets. Well, now he knew. The question was, what was he going to do about it?
She’d wait an hour, she decided. And then she’d take a taxi back to his villa. After that, she couldn’t think what she’d do. What Rafe would demand.
Things really didn’t change, she thought grimly. Ten years ago she’d been hunched in an office like this one, the knowledge of her pregnancy like a stone inside her, with nowhere to go, no hope at all.
‘We don’t want to see you again. Don’t attempt to contact us.’
She forced it back—all of it. At least she was older, wiser, and she was keeping this baby…if Rafe let her.
‘Are you all right?’
Freya looked up to see Rafe standing there, his hands shoved in his pockets, his face pale and grim. She nodded, then stood. She felt as fragile as glass, as insubstantial as a breath of wind, but she would not let him know. He held out his hand, and after a second’s hesitation Freya took it. The contact surprised her; she hadn’t expected Rafe to reach out to her at all. She hadn’t expected to take his hand. Yet the feel of it encasing hers was like being thrown an anchor in a drowning sea. She clung to it.
Silently they walked to the car. Rafe opened the passenger door and Freya slid in with murmured thanks; she sounded normal. She sounded fine. It amazed her, because she felt as if she were falling apart, as if she were nothing but fragments.
Rafe got in the driver’s side. He sat there for a moment, silent, unmoving, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel. ‘The pregnancy?’ he finally asked. ‘Is everything…?’
‘Fine.’ Freya turned her face to the window. ‘Everything’s fine.’
They didn’t speak all the way back to the villa.
Freya went directly to Max as soon as they returned; Damita had been looking after him, but he threw himself happily into her arms and asked if they could go swimming.
‘Of course we can,’ Freya said, hugging him back, grateful for his easy joy and childish warmth. She needed that respite now.
‘And Rafe? Will he come too?’
She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. ‘I think Rafe might be busy this afternoon, cariño.’
Max’s face fell for a moment, but then he shrugged and tugged on her hand. ‘Oh, well. He’ll come later. He always does.’
They spent most of the afternoon outside, and just as always Rafe appeared towards the end of the day. He wore swimming trunks, and Freya’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of his bare chest, at the broad golden expanse of his back tapering down to trim hips. He didn’t even look her way as he swam towards Max and began to play with him, tossing him up in the air much to the little boy’s delight.
Freya sat on the edge of the pool, her arms crossed in front of her breasts, trying to look relaxed and unconcerned, as if Rafe’s nearness didn’t cause an ache of longing to go through her. As if she wasn’t waiting for her world to implode when Rafe turned to her and said there would be no marriage. No family. He would retain custody of their child.
She feared the worst; of course she did. The worst had happened before.
She closed her eyes, swamped with sorrow. She’d kept herself apart for so long, buried herself in mathematics and the cool logic of numbers as a way to distance herself from any kind of relationship at all…until she’d seen that advert for a nanny for Max and hadn’t been able to resist the thought of finally caring for someone. For a child. Yet look where it had got her. Once again she’d succumbed to temptation. Once again she’d fallen into that old trap.
She would never find happiness or love—not with guilt eating away her insides, sorrow heavy inside her like a stone. ‘Freya?’
Her eyes flew open. Rafe stood in front of her, Max clinging to him like a monkey.
‘You look pale. Perhaps you should get out of the pool. I’ll get Max ready for dinner.’
He kept his voice neutral, but his eyes were dark…with coldness or with concern Freya couldn’t tell. She did not want to know.
She nodded, too weakened by her own misery even to attempt to pretend to pull herself together.
Back in her room she fell into a restless doze, waking to find the hour late. Dinner had passed and Max was most likely asleep. Freya slipped out to the garden, wandering the stone paths that wound through orange and olive trees, clumps of broom and prickly pear, softened by the climbing honeysuckle, its sweet scent drifting on the night breeze.
She ended up in an enclosed garden, with a magnificent mosaic-tiled fountain its centerpiece. The burbling sound of the water was soothing in the silence of the night.
Freya didn’t know how long she sat there, her knees curled up to her chest, her chin resting on top. She let the sounds of wind and water fill her mind, empty it out. Then she heard another sound—the crunch of feet on gravel—and turned to see Rafe standing in the entrance to the garden, no more than a shadow in the darkness.
Neither of them spoke. The silence felt heavy, weighted with expectation. Freya turned her head away from Rafe.
‘I wondered where you’d gone,’ he finally said.
‘I just wanted some air.’ Her whole body tensed for the hammer blow.
I’ve decided not to marry you after all. I’ll take custody of our child. You’ll never see Max again.
Rafe didn’t speak, and Freya was wondering if he’d actually turned around and left when she felt him sit next to her on the bench. Awareness and shock rippled through her; he was close enough that his hip nudged her own. She kept her face averted, afraid of what he might see there.
The moon emerged from behind a cloud, and in its silver wash Freya knew her face was illuminated.
Her breath came out in a rush of surprise when Rafe’s thumb touched her cheek.
‘You’re crying.’
‘Am I?’ Humiliation flowed through her. She hadn’t even known she had tears streaking down her face. She dashed at her cheeks with her palms, still trying to keep her face turned away from Rafe.
‘Freya…’ He spoke softly, his tone quiet, serious, perhaps even sad.
Freya tensed. She didn’t think she wanted to hear what he had to say.
In the end he didn’t say anything at all. His hands stole around her shoulders and he pulled her into his arms. It took Freya a stunned moment to realise what was happening: he was hugging her.
Her body resisted, tensing, trying to pull away, but her mind and heart needed this contact, this comfort, too much. She could hardly believe it was coming from Rafe.
After a second when neither of them moved Freya relaxed into Rafe’s embrace, her head against his shoulder, her cheek on his chest, and as Rafe stroked her hair the tears she’d been trying to suppress for ten endless years finally came in a hot, healing rush.
CHAPTER TEN
ONCE the tears came, it felt impossible to stop them. Freya’s shoulders shook and her breath came in hiccuppy gasps as Rafe stroked her hair. Distantly she realised he was murmuring endearments: cariña, querida, mi corazón. My heart.
She’d expected condemnation, not comfort. Rejection instead of acceptance. And yet he still didn’t know the whole truth.
And when he did…
She pulled away, wiping her cheeks, trying desperately to pass off this moment as a temporary weakness rather than a life-shattering event. ‘I’m sorry,’ she finally managed in a wobbly voice. ‘You probably weren’t expecting that.’
‘I’ve come to realise I don’t know what to expect,’ Rafe said.
He didn’t sound condemning, yet she still heard a thread of steel in his voice. He wanted answers.