‘Once you’d established it was your flesh and blood, which you still haven’t insisted upon doing. Why?’
Rafe released her and stepped away, dragging his hand down his face. ‘Is that what you want me to do? Insist on black and white proof?’
Something flickered in her gaze. ‘I just thought most men would insist on knowing one way or the other, given we were only having a fling.’
‘I like to think I’m not most men,’ Rafe said with a little grunt. ‘I insisted on us being exclusive and I had no reason to believe you betrayed my trust. I still have no reason to believe it.’
Her bottom lip quivered and tears shone in her eyes. ‘Thank you.’
Rafe held out his hands. ‘Come here.’ She stepped forward and placed her hands in his and he pulled her back into the circle of his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head. He breathed in the flowery scent of her, wondering if he would ever walk by a vine of jasmine again without thinking of her. He had to make their relationship work. He had to make up for his mistakes and mishandling of the situation. He couldn’t guarantee the press wouldn’t have a shame-fest if those photos ever surfaced but he would do everything in his power to prevent it.
Everything.
CHAPTER NINE
A FEW DAYS later Isla was still trying to get her head around the fact that Rafe now knew her scandalous secret. But she had felt compelled to bring it out in the open when he’d mentioned the charity dinner in Paris. She’d figured it was far better for him to be prepared for the fallout if there was one than to be caught off-guard. It had been a risk telling him, yet he had surprised her by showing amazing compassion and comfort. And since she had disclosed her secret he had been particularly tender and attentive towards her.
But, with the wedding date looming, it was still hard for Isla to be totally confident she was doing the right thing by marrying him. Even as she was fitted for a wedding dress with an exclusive Italian designer, a ghost hand of doubt tapped her on the shoulder. He doesn’t love you. It was impossible to escape from that one tripwire in their relationship. She could wear the most beautiful wedding dress, have the most wonderful ceremony and honeymoon, and yet, without the assurance of those three little words, what did she really have?
A marriage founded on duty, not love.
A marriage between two people who could never be equals.
Isla went to the kitchen in search of a cool drink, where she encountered Concetta preparing the evening meal. The housekeeper had maintained her distance since their conversation in the studio, and Isla wondered if she had changed her mind about bringing her a photo for her to work from.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ Isla said to test the waters. ‘I’m not much of a cook but I can set the table or arrange some flowers.’
Concetta wiped her hands on her apron, her expression guarded. ‘Signor Angeliri pays me to cook. I do not need help doing my job.’
Isla perched on one of the stools next to the large centre island, deciding for once not to be daunted by the housekeeper’s attitude. ‘Weren’t you going to bring me a photo to work from? Or have you changed your mind?’
Concetta picked up a carrot and began scraping the skin off in swift movements. ‘You have the wedding to see to first. It can wait.’ She picked up another carrot and stripped it as well.
‘Who’s the photo of?’
The housekeeper’s hands stilled for a brief moment, the muscles around her mouth tightening. ‘My daughter.’ Her voice lost its sharp edge and her gaze softened.
‘Oh, lovely. What’s her name?’
Concetta blinked a couple of times and swallowed. ‘Her name was Marietta.’
Was? A prickle of alarm crept across Isla’s scalp like the march of tiny ants. Could the housekeeper’s choice of word simply be a language issue? English was not her native tongue and it was all too easy to misuse words. Or could it mean her daughter was no longer alive? ‘I’m sorry if this sounds intrusive but did you mean—’ Isla began.
‘She is dead.’ The words were delivered in a toneless voice that belied the host of emotions flickering across the older woman’s face.
‘Oh, Concetta... I’m so terribly sorry. I can only imagine the pain you’ve gone through—still going through.’
Concetta wiped across her eyes with her forearm and then continued preparing the vegetables. ‘It was a long time ago but the pain never goes away.’
‘How old was Marietta when she...?’
‘Four. She had not even started school.’ Her lower lip trembled and she pressed her mouth flat to control it. ‘She caught a...a disease. I am not sure how to say in English. Mena...meni...’
‘Meningitis?’
‘That is the one’ She shook her head sadly. ‘My husband started to drink after we lost her. It changed him. We were not able to have any other children—I had an emergency hyster...whatever it is in English, after her birth.’
‘Hysterectomy?’
‘Sì.’ She sighed and picked up a courgette and sliced off the top and the tail. ‘My future died with her. I will never see her married, never hold my own grandchild. There is no end to the pain of losing a child.’
Isla blinked back her own tears and reached across the workbench for the housekeeper’s hand, squeezing it in comfort. ‘I’m so sorry.’ No wonder the older woman was so prickly and unfriendly. She was suffering unimaginable sadness.
Concetta looked down at their joined hands and, after the briefest of pauses, laid her own on top of Isla’s. ‘Grazie.’ She gave a back-to-business flicker of a smile and moved to the other side of the kitchen where she had laid her purse and keys. She opened the purse and took out a small photograph, brought it back and handed it to Isla.
Isla looked at the image of a dark-haired smiling child and her heart gave a painful spasm. The little girl was wearing a pretty pink dress and had a matching bow in her hair. ‘She’s gorgeous, Concetta. Absolutely gorgeous.’ She glanced at the housekeeper. ‘Do you have other copies of this? I don’t want to take the only one off you.’
‘I have made many copies. It is my favourite picture of her. She was so excited about going to a birthday party.’ Concetta’s expression was etched with sadness. ‘The friend whose party she went to is married now with children of her own.’ She gave a wistful sigh. ‘But I only have memories.’
‘I will enjoy doing her portrait for you. It will be an honour.’
‘It can wait until after the wedding. A bride has many things to see to.’
Isla lowered her gaze a fraction. ‘Yes, well, Rafe is doing most of the organising. I just have to show up on the day.’ She couldn’t quite remove the dejection in her tone.
‘Do not marry him if you do not love him.’
Isla met the housekeeper’s frowning gaze. ‘But that’s the problem, you see. I do love him but he doesn’t love me. Not in the way you’d expect a man to love someone they’re about to marry.’ It was a relief to finally admit how she felt but she wasn’t sure if she had chosen the right person to confess it to.
Loving Rafe had crept up on her, or maybe it had been there all the time as her friend Layla had suggested. Now that she recognised the emotion for what it was, she realised it had been there right from the start. As soon as she’d met him she had felt a seismic shift in her body. It had been like two planets colliding and she hadn’t been the same since. And not just because of the pregnancy. She had lied to herself, convincing herself she didn’t really like him other than sexually. But he was exactly the sort of man she had dreamt of finding—strong, self-sufficient, hard-working, trustworthy and honourable. She knew deep down he was capable of love; she just didn’t know if he was capable of loving her. The armour around her heart had been gradually dismantled by each one of his smiles, his touches, his kisses, his compassionate acceptance of her background and the shame of her past.
Concetta wiped her hand
s on a tea towel. ‘Love can grow over time. Do not underestimate him. He is not like his father. He is a good man.’
Isla gave a half-smile. ‘I know he is. A wonderful man who has so many amazing qualities.’
But he doesn’t love me.
How long could she live on the hope he might one day do so?
* * *
Rafe and Isla were having dinner out on the terrace that evening. The weather was perfect for alfresco dining and Concetta had accepted Isla’s help in setting up the table with a large scented candle and some flowers from the garden.
Rafe picked up his water glass, having thoughtfully decided to refrain from drinking alcohol during the rest of her pregnancy—a gesture Isla found incredibly touching. ‘You seem preoccupied tonight, cara. And you haven’t eaten much. Are you not feeling well?’
Isla put down the fork she’d been using to shift her food about her plate without getting much to her mouth. ‘I was thinking about Concetta.’
He frowned and put his glass back down on the table. ‘Has she been difficult again? I’ll have a word with her. I know she can be touchy but she hasn’t had the easiest life.’
‘I know. She told me today about her daughter, Marietta.’ Isla’s eyes watered up just by saying the wee girl’s name. ‘She gave me a photo of her so I can do a portrait. Did you know about Marietta? I wish you’d told me earlier. I would have made more of an effort to get on with Concetta. The loss of a child is the worst possible experience.’
His expression was rueful. ‘Yes, perhaps I should have told you. But she’s a very private person and she doesn’t like talking about it. I’m surprised she told you, actually.’
‘Yes, well, we didn’t get off to the best start but that was probably more my fault than hers,’ Isla said. ‘I guess I didn’t try too hard back then because I knew I was only going to be a temporary fixture in your life.’
He rolled his thumb over the diamond ring on her hand. ‘But you’re not now.’ His gaze was warm, his tone deep and reassuring. But not reassuring enough for her lingering doubts.
Isla turned his hand over and traced her finger down the middle of his palm. ‘This charity dinner next week...’ She looked up to meet his gaze. ‘Aren’t you worried about the effect it will have on the people closest to you if those photos were to surface?’
He curled his fingers around hers, his expression grim. ‘There aren’t too many people particularly close to me so it won’t matter what people think.’
‘What about your grandmother? Aren’t you close to her?’
He released her hand and leaned back in his chair, his features set in intractable lines. ‘You have to remember I didn’t meet her until I was a teenager. Nonna refused to have anything to do with my mother because she was a married man’s mistress. Her lifestyle clashed with Nonna’s strict religious beliefs. When my father dumped my mother, Nonna still refused to have any contact with her.’
‘It seems stubbornness is a genetic trait in your family.’
He gave a grunt of assent and picked up his water glass and drank a mouthful before placing it back on the table. ‘That and pride. My mother discovered she had cancer a few months after my father deserted her. She kept the knowledge to herself, refusing treatment that could have saved her. I think she just gave up because she felt so rejected and ashamed of what her life had become. And because she was too proud to beg to be taken back into the arms of her family.’
Isla frowned in empathy. ‘Oh, that’s awful, Rafe. And how terrible for you. You must have felt so alone when she died.’
He gave a crooked movement of his lips that wasn’t anything near a smile. ‘I made the choice back then to make my own way in life and rely on no one.’
‘Is that why you’ve only ever had short-term relationships?’
Rafe rested one forearm on the table and draped the other arm over the back of his chair—a casual pose that was at odds with the shadows in his eyes. ‘It worked back then but I’m ready to settle down now.’
‘But only because of my pregnancy. Not because you fell madly in love.’ Isla couldn’t quite remove the note of despondency in her voice.
His gaze searched hers with an intensity she found distinctly uncomfortable. It was as if he could see I love you written across her eyeballs, even though she desperately tried to hide it.
‘Isla.’ His tone reminded her of a lecturer about to deliver an important message. ‘How many gossip magazines have you seen featuring big celebrity weddings? The couples all claim to be madly in love but half, if not most, end in divorce. What happened to the once-in-a-lifetime love they were raving about? Did it die or wasn’t it there in the first place?’ His mouth twisted in a cynical grimace. ‘I tend to believe the latter.’
Isla placed her napkin on the table for something to do with her hands. ‘So...you don’t believe there’s such a thing as romantic love? Love that lasts for ever. Not for anyone?’
‘Maybe for a few lucky people. But you’ll usually find one person loves more than the other, and there’s your problem right there—almost certain heartbreak.’
‘Like your mother?’
He gave a grim nod. ‘She gave up everything for my father but he kept her dangling on a string for years and then cut the string. She could have had a different life. A more satisfying and fulfilling one.’
Isla could see why he was so cynical about love but it didn’t stop her hoping he might change his mind and experience it for himself with her. Was it too much to ask that he fall in love with her? The woman he was marrying in two weeks, the mother of his child? ‘At least she had you,’ she said. ‘You must have given her much joy and she would be so proud of you now.’
Rafe smiled and pushed back his chair and stood. ‘Why don’t you go up and prepare for bed? Concetta will clear this when she comes first thing in the morning.’
Isla rose from her chair and began to gather the plates. ‘I can do it now. It won’t take me long.’
His gaze smouldered with a promise that made her shiver in anticipation. ‘I’d much rather you save your energy for what I have planned for you.’
Rafe might not claim to love her but his desire for her was unmistakable. A desire that had been there right from the beginning, from the first moment their eyes had met. It gave Isla hope that out of his desire would come a love that defied the odds, love that blossomed and grew deep and secure roots into their future as a family.
CHAPTER TEN
A FEW MINUTES later Isla turned her back to Rafe in the master suite for him to unzip her dress. He lowered the zip but an inch at a time, planting a soft kiss to each knob of her spine. She shivered in reaction, her need for him already sending her pulse skyrocketing. Her dress slipped from her shoulders and then from around her hips, landing in a pool at her feet. Rafe unhooked her bra and turned her to face him, his eyes feasting on the ripeness of her curves.
‘Your body is getting more and more beautiful. I had no idea pregnancy could be so sexy.’ His voice was thick with lust, his hands reaching for her breasts, cradling them, touching them with exquisite expertise.
Isla’s legs were trembling from the assault on her senses. She felt drunk on his touch, dizzy with longing. She gave a wry smile. ‘I might not look so sexy to you in a few weeks’ time.’
He cupped her face in his hands and pressed a firm kiss to her lips. ‘You will always be sexy to me. I have never had a more exciting lover. You stir in me desires I didn’t even know I had.’
His words created a warm glow through her body. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret.’
His hands stilled on her hips. ‘Another one?’
Isla smiled and wound her arms around his neck, pressing her naked breasts against his chest. ‘Not that kind of secret. I’ve never been able to orgasm with a partner before. Only with you.’
He frowned. ‘Really? Why didn’t you tell me be
fore now?’
She shrugged one shoulder and began to undo the buttons on his shirt. ‘Too embarrassed, I guess.’
He placed his hands over her hands working on his buttons, a frown still creasing his forehead. ‘You have no need to be embarrassed, cara. Ever. Not with me.’
Isla gave a rueful smile and looked at their joined hands. ‘I thought I was hopeless at sex but now I realise I didn’t have the right chemistry with other people.’
‘How many people?’ His expression was dark and brooding, as if he was sickened by the thought of her with other men.
Isla raised her brows. ‘I hope you’re not going to go all double standards on me. You’ve had plenty of lovers. Why shouldn’t I?’ Not that she’d had anywhere near ‘plenty’. Her number of lovers didn’t even go into double figures.
His mouth tightened for a moment and then he let out a breath, his hands going to rest on her hips. ‘You’re right. I have no right to be jealous.’
Isla gave him a teasing smile. ‘You’re jealous? You’re actually admitting it?’
A dull flush appeared high on his aristocratic cheekbones but his expression was still brooding. ‘I hate the thought of other men touching you the way I touch you.’ His voice was a deep growl that made her insides quiver.
She pressed a soft kiss to his tight mouth and smiled. ‘Stop glowering at me. I’ve only had two lovers and neither of them were as amazing as you.’
His hands on her hips drew her closer, the ridge of his erection sending a shockwave of need through her entire body. ‘What’s wrong with those men that they didn’t satisfy you? You’re the most responsive lover I’ve ever had.’
She planted another kiss on his lips. ‘They weren’t you—that’s what was wrong.’
He returned the kiss with a low deep groan, his tongue thrusting between her lips to tangle with hers in a sexy duel that sent fireworks fizzing and whizzing in her blood. She felt his sensual excitement running through him, the probe of his aroused flesh and the erotic flickers of his tongue in her mouth making her inner core clench.
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