He moved from her mouth down her neck, taking his time over each delicate scaffold of her clavicles, his tongue leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He moved closer and closer to her breasts, his slow pace both pleasure and torture. Then finally, finally his mouth came to her breasts and subjected them to a sizzling caress of teasing lips and gently tugging teeth. Her nipples peaked to tight buds, her sensitive flesh relishing the stroking glide of his tongue. He left her breasts to work down her body, over the mound of her belly and down the other side to the heart of her.
Isla placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait. I want you inside me. Please, Rafe, don’t make me beg.’
He gave her a look so hot it made the base of her spine tingle. ‘I want you too. You have no idea how much.’
She reached for him again, stroking the silk and steel of his body. ‘I think I do.’ Touching him stirred her own need into overdrive. Every throb and pulse of his blood found an echo in her own body. An erotic drum beat that was as old as time.
He made a growling sound of pleasure and settled between her thighs, adjusting his limbs to make sure she wasn’t taking too much of his weight. ‘Tell me if I’m going too fast or too deep or—oh, Dio...’ His words were cut off by another deep guttural groan as she lifted her pelvis to welcome him. His body entered hers in a silken thrust that sent Isla into a spiral of delight, her body wrapping around him as tight as the grab of a fist.
She wouldn’t let him slow his pace. She arched up to meet each downward movement of his body, gripping him by the buttocks to hold him to where she needed him most. The need for release was screaming through her sensitised flesh, a need so urgent, so intense it overtook every rational thought. She was almost to the edge of oblivion, so desperately, agonisingly close, her breath coming in gasps, her body straining for that final blessed friction. So close. So close. So close. It was a chant in her head in time with the throbbing need in her body.
Rafe slipped a hand between their bodies, caressing the swollen heart of her, and finally she flew off into the stratosphere. Waves of pleasure rolled through her, leaving her spinning in a whirlpool of sensation that emptied her mind of everything but a total sense of bliss.
Within moments of her release, Rafe followed with his own and Isla held him through each shuddering second, delighting in the knowledge she had evoked such ecstasy for him. That was what had marked their fling from the moment it started. Making love with Rafe was a mutually satisfying experience that seemed to get better and better the longer they’d stayed together.
Rafe propped himself up on one elbow, his other hand idly stroking the curve of her hip. ‘For the past three months I wondered if I’d imagined how good we were together.’
Isla tiptoed her fingers up and down his sternum. ‘I’m glad there’s been no one else.’
He captured her hand and brought it up to his lips, his eyes dark and lustrous with erotic promise. ‘Me too.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
ISLA WOKE FROM a deep sleep an hour or so later to find the bed empty beside her. She decided not to be disappointed Rafe hadn’t stayed with her. He was a busy man with a global empire to run. She couldn’t expect him to put his career on hold for days or months on end for her. Besides, once they were married, they would have to establish some sort of routine to live together harmoniously. His reason for marrying her might not tick all the romantic fantasy boxes but since when had she bought into the happy ever after fairy tale? Nothing about her life so far had any hint of fairy tale about it.
Life had been one long struggle to survive against the odds.
Isla laid her hand on the swell of her belly, feeling the tiny movements of little feet and elbows inside her womb. At least her baby would not have to face the same relentless struggles. Her baby would be protected from neglect and lack of nurture. It would be surrounded by love from both its parents.
And, no matter what happened between her and Rafe, she knew he would always do the right thing for their child. Always.
Isla had a shower and coiled her still damp hair into a makeshift knot on top of her head. Her hand went to her make-up kit but then she decided against it. Rafe hadn’t mentioned going out and the only person she would possibly encounter apart from him was Concetta. She knew there would be no pleasing Rafe’s housekeeper unless she packed her bags and left.
Isla made her way downstairs to the studio Rafe had set up for her. She sat at the workstation and began some preliminary sketches of his grandmother, now and again referring to the photos on her phone. She lost track of time until her lower back started to protest. She got up from the table, placed both hands at the base of her spine and stretched backwards.
The door opened and Concetta stood there with a tray carrying a pot of tea and a slice of cake. ‘The signor told me to bring this to you.’ Her tone dripped with resentment, her black button eyes hard.
‘Thank you, Concetta. That was kind of you.’ Isla cleared some space on the worktable and summoned up a smile. ‘Did you make the cake yourself?’
‘But of course.’ The housekeeper placed the tray on the table with a thud and a little clatter of the crockery. ‘No packaged food is served in this house.’
Isla could feel the older woman’s disapproval like a chilly fog that had entered the room with her. ‘For some people, packaged food is a luxury. Or at least it was for me, growing up.’ She didn’t know why she had revealed that little snippet of information about herself or why she added, ‘And sometimes there wasn’t even that.’ But maybe it was because she suspected Concetta had always seen through her to the scared and lonely child she had once been. Which was why Isla hadn’t tried to make more of an effort to get on with her. The housekeeper saw too much. Sensed too much. Knew too much.
The housekeeper’s stiff posture softened—her shoulders going down a notch, her tight mouth relaxing slightly. She glanced at the sketches. ‘So, you have met the signor’s grandmother.’
‘Yes, I like her. She’s feisty and opinionated but I felt drawn to her in spite of that.’ Isla wished she could say the same for Concetta.
Concetta picked up one of the sketches and examined it for a moment. Something passed over her weathered features—tiny flickering shadows as if a painful memory had been triggered. She put the sketch back down and met Isla’s gaze. ‘If I give you a photograph of someone, can you draw a portrait for me?’ There was a different quality to the housekeeper’s voice—a softer, more hesitant quality.
‘Of course. But it would be great if the person could sit for me for an hour or—’
‘Not possible.’ The housekeeper’s tone was sharp enough to sever steel.
Isla blinked. ‘Okay. The photo will have to do then.’
Concetta worked her jaw a couple of times, as if searching for the right words to use. ‘Grazie, signorina. I will bring it tomorrow.’ She turned and walked out without another word, closing the studio door with a resounding click.
Isla sighed and, turning back to the tray set in front of her, poured the tea into the cup and took a refreshing sip. It was too soon to tell if the housekeeper was softening in her icy stance towards her, but not too soon to hope.
* * *
Rafe had been fighting with himself to give Isla some space in her studio. He’d had to tear himself away earlier before he was tempted to spend the rest of the day in bed with her. But his own work had lost its appeal and all he wanted to do was be with her, getting to know her better, peeling back the intriguing layers of her personality. For a hard-nosed workaholic, the change in his motivation was as surprising as it was a little disconcerting. He realised he felt happy for the first time in years. He realised he was starting to relax. He could even feel less tension in his neck and shoulders.
Yes, relax—that word he had erased from his vocabulary.
Rafe found Isla working in the studio. The remains of the afternoon tea he had instructed his housekeep
er to take to her were sitting to one side. Isla’s head was bent over a sketch, the quick-fire movements of her pencil across the sketchpad never failing to impress him. She glanced up as he came in and smiled and something in his stomach toppled over. Would he ever get blasé about her smile and the light in her eyes? Her skin was make-up-free, her curly hair half up and half down in a red-gold cloud about her head. She was wearing dove-grey leggings and an oversized white shirt that skimmed her curves in all the right places. His groin twitched as the memory of her touch rippled through him. He only had to be in the same room as her and it caused a storm in his flesh.
‘You look hard at work.’ He came over to inspect what she was doing but it wasn’t a sketch of his grandmother she was working on but one of him. She had drawn him sleeping, covered at the waist by a sheet that clung to his contours like a drape across a marble statue. He had never seen himself asleep before and it felt strange that she had captured that period of vulnerability. ‘It’s a good likeness.’
Isla placed another piece of sketch paper over it, her cheeks a faint shade of pink. ‘It’s just a flash sketch from memory.’
He stood behind her, lifted some of her fragrant hair off the back of her neck and planted a soft kiss to her skin. ‘I have a charity dinner to attend in Paris next week. I’ve been invited to chair one of my favourite children’s charities. It’s a huge honour and I’d like you to be with me—it will be an excellent way to introduce you in public as my wife-to-be.’
Her body visibly tensed under the gentle press of his hands resting on her shoulders. ‘I...I thought we were staying here until...until the wedding?’
He turned her around on the swivelling chair to face him. Her periwinkle blue eyes were troubled, her teeth sinking into the softness of her bottom lip. ‘You’ve attended public dinners with me in the past. What’s the problem with doing so now? Especially as you’re wearing my ring.’
She glanced down at the glittering diamond ring on her left hand, before coming back to meet his gaze. ‘No one knew who I was before. I was just one of your casual lovers.’ A shadow passed through her eyes. ‘I’m not sure I can handle the press attention. It’s...daunting.’
Rafe gently squeezed her shoulders. ‘It is daunting but I’ll be with you. I’ll do everything in my power to protect you. You know that, surely?’
Isla slipped off the chair and from under his hold, moving behind the worktable as if in need of a barricade. Her arms were tight around her body, her eyes flicking out of reach of his. ‘Why don’t you go alone? I can stay here and work on your grandmother’s portrait as well as rest.’
Rafe wondered what was causing her to react so negatively to a trip abroad. ‘Isn’t Paris one of your favourite places in the world? What’s the sudden aversion to going there with me?’
She sucked in a breath, unfolded her arms and steepled her fingers over her nose and mouth. She closed her eyes in a wincing movement, then lowered her hands from her face to glance at him, the colour in her cheeks darkening to crimson. ‘Rafe...there’s something I need to tell you. I...I was hoping I wouldn’t have to but—’
Rafe’s stomach pitched. ‘What?’ His guts roiled with the possibilities. The horrendous unthinkable possibilities. Another man in the background? Was she already married? His chest was suddenly so tight he couldn’t take a breath. Mio Dio, don’t let her be already married to someone else.
She bit her lip again. ‘A long time ago...I made a stupid error of judgement. I was desperate for employment and agreed to work in a...in a—’ she swallowed and did that little wincing eye movement again ‘...a gentlemen’s club.’
Rafe’s scalp prickled. There were clubs and there were clubs. Some were waiting list exclusive. Some were sleazy. Had someone abused her? Hurt her? Sexually harassed her or worse? The thought of anyone touching her inappropriately sent a wave of fury through his body. ‘Cara, if anyone hurt or threatened you in any way then there are avenues to press charges. I can help you seek justice and—’
Isla bent her head to her chest and sighed, her hands gripping the edge of the worktable. ‘I was a lingerie waitress, Rafe. I served businessmen drinks in my underwear.’ Her tone was as flat and listless as if she were confessing to an unconscionable crime.
Rafe came over to her and took her stiff little hands in his, stroking the backs of them with his thumbs. ‘Look at me, Isla. It’s in the past. Lots of people loathe their first job. Not everyone has the luxury of choosing a job that looks good on their CV.’
Her gaze slowly crept up to his, shadows of worry still swimming in their blue depths. ‘You don’t understand... I agreed to have photos taken.’ She gave a gulping swallow and continued. ‘A portfolio of photos, some of them topless. I don’t know why I agreed to it. I was naïve and too frightened I might not keep the job if I didn’t do what the boss said. I was in arrears with my rent, I hadn’t eaten for three days, and I was so worried I just did what he said. I’ve regretted it ever since.’
Rafe wasn’t one to resort to violence, but right then he wanted to find the man and rearrange his face so that even the world’s best reconstructive facial maxillary surgeon would throw their hands up in defeat. He wanted to find those photos and tear them up and force feed them down the sleazy creep’s throat. He wanted justice. He wanted Isla to feel safe. He wanted to protect her so she never had to worry again. Ever. It reminded him of his father’s scandal and the impact it had on him as a young teenager. The shame that clung to him like sticky mud. It had taken a lot of strength and willpower and growing a thick skin to move beyond it.
Rafe pulled Isla against his chest and stroked the back of her silky head. ‘I’m disgusted with that man for exploiting you. Disgusted and appalled. But I won’t allow you to run yourself down because of the sleazy actions of some lowlife creep.’ He held her away from him to meet her gaze. ‘Where are the photos now? Does he still have them? Has he blackmailed you or made any threats to—’
‘No, nothing overt but he hinted at it when I left the job after he came on to me.’ Her expression was a landscape of pain, regret and lingering shame. ‘He wouldn’t have deleted them. And they’ll never go away if he puts them online.’ Fear and defeated resignation coloured her voice.
Rafe’s insides twisted into knots that felt as big as tree stumps. ‘I want to fix this for you. I will fix this for you.’ His hands tightened on hers in determination.
‘You can’t fix this, Rafe.’ Tears welled in her eyes and her voice caught and she pulled out of his hold, putting distance between them again. ‘You can’t fix me. I’m a liability. I have a target on my back and as soon as you announce you’re going to marry me, I know what will happen. Those photos will be on every platform, bringing shame and humiliation to me but also to you.’
An ice-cold trickle of realisation went through his mind. ‘Is that why you left me the way you did three months ago? Because of this?’
Regret and pride flickered across her expression and through her eyes. ‘I panicked when I suspected I was pregnant. You were negotiating that huge deal in New York. I knew how important it was to you and I didn’t want to be responsible for jeopardising it. You’d told me a little about Bruno Romano, how conservative he was. I thought it was best if I just disappeared out of your life. Easier for you. Easier for me. But then you found me in that Edinburgh hotel and here we are.’
Rafe speared his fingers through his hair with a hand that was visibly shaking. Emotions he had no name for, no time for, rose in him like a foaming, boiling liquid. He didn’t know whether to be angry at himself, or sad for her that she had felt she had to keep the knowledge of the pregnancy to herself. That she had trusted him so little. That somehow his career-driven focus had made it impossible for her to tell him.
That he had caused her to run away.
He went to her and gathered her close, hugging her, reassuring her with soothing strokes of his hand on her slim back and
murmurings of comfort while he tried to get his emotions in order. If he hadn’t run into her at that hotel in Scotland, he might never have known about his child. His gut tightened with an invisible fist. He might never have known his own flesh and blood. And the child would have known nothing of him. It was painful to accept he was partly, if not fully, responsible for her decision to keep quiet.
He had set the rules for their fling.
He had insisted on short-term.
He had made her no promises of a future with him.
He had held her close physically but at arm’s length emotionally. He had cordoned off his feelings because he never wanted to give someone the power to hurt him, and yet he had hurt her and himself in the process.
And even more distressing—potentially hurt their child.
Rafe eased her back from him to mesh his gaze with hers. ‘I don’t know how to make it up to you. It pains me to think you felt you had no other choice but to leave the way you did. But we can put that behind us now. We have to put it behind us and move forward.’
She gave him a world-weary smile tinged with sadness. ‘You’re being very generous about this. But if I had told you at the time, do you think you would have been as understanding?’
Rafe’s conscience was having a tug-of-war. He liked to think he would have been generous and accepting but how could he be so sure? He might have created even more harm by refusing to believe the baby was his or by insisting on a paternity test on the spot, offering her a conditional relationship on the result. Guilt crept over him like a dark accusing shadow, colouring, questioning everything he had once believed about himself. He hoped he was better than that imagined version of himself.
Hoped, but suspected he wasn’t.
‘Thing is...I’m not sure.’ Somehow, he got his voice past the tightness in his throat. ‘One thing I do know for sure—I would not have turned my back on my own flesh and blood.’
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