‘About what?’
‘William had known since the time when my parents died that I would inherit from him. He also knew that I had been sent off to live with another obscure uncle but, because he didn’t want the responsibility of a child cluttering up his reclusive life, he chose to ignore my existence until I was—old enough to be sensible, as he put it.’ Her mouth took on a bitter twist now. ‘But he didn’t get a sensible person. He got an angry one who was heavily pregnant and with no sign of a man to make her respectable.’
Rafiq flinched. ‘I can do simple arithmetic.’
‘William called me a few unpleasant names that you would recognise,’ she said, retaliating to his bite. ‘And I called him a few names in return. I went to leave. He stood up to stop me, tripped over his walking stick and would have fallen if I hadn’t grabbed him. It—it was like holding frail skin and bone in my arms,’ she recalled, not seeing the way Rafiq stiffened in recognition of that sentiment. ‘H-he asked me to stay,’ she went on. ‘He was lonely. I was—in need of a roof over my head, so I stayed.’
Her accompanying shrug said, End of story. But as far as Rafiq was concerned it was only the beginning of it. ‘So you allowed William Portreath to become both father to my son and a grandfather in place of my own father!’
‘Am I supposed to feel guilty for allowing William to give Robbie something no one else would?’
‘Yes…’ He moved restlessly. ‘You should be feeling as guilty as hell.’
Melanie was not impressed. ‘You can say that now,’ she mocked. ‘But we both know you didn’t feel like that eight years ago. You just walked away.’
‘I did not know I was leaving a son behind.’
‘You didn’t want to know.’
‘How can you say that? How dare you say that when you never gave me the opportunity to make that decision?’
‘A decision?’ she flicked back at him, and was suddenly lurching away from the door to come and stand directly in front of him. ‘You think it required a decision as to whether you condescended to want Robbie or not? How dare you stand here and be so conceited?’ she said angrily. ‘How dare you be so bloody superior that you can even put up such an argument? You threw me out without a hearing!’ Her golden eyes flicked the accusation at him. ‘That was your decision, Rafiq. Anything at all that came after that was my decision! And I did not decide to love Robbie. I just do love him. Can you possibly understand the difference?’
‘Jamie,’ he installed into the argument. ‘As a mother you love without question, no matter who is the father of your child. But a father needs to trust he is the father before he can dare to love! You slept with Jamie within a week of sleeping with me.’ His hand flicked out to toss that claim at her. ‘You cannot possibly have known, therefore, which of us was his father until the boy was born.’
‘Is this leading somewhere?’ she demanded coldly.
Was it? Rafiq asked himself. ‘Yes,’ he hissed. ‘Once you knew for sure that I was Robert’s father you had a moral duty to get in touch with me.’
Nothing—he received absolutely nothing back from that final accusation. Her rebellious eyes held his steady; her mouth remained defiantly shut. She had planted her hands on hips and was taking him on as if she was easily up to his weight in a battle. Frustration attached itself to his ribs and his fingers. He wanted to reach out with those fingers and shake her into talking—and he wanted to wrap her to his aching ribs and just kiss her senseless!
He sighed, wishing he knew what it was that was actually driving him here, but he didn’t. There were so many feelings trampling around inside him that he couldn’t distinguish one from the other. His gaze shifted around a room that was not dissimilar to a room his father had in Rahman. He looked at the map again and saw the years he’d been robbed of by his own blind stubbornness represented on the desk, and also in the sound of his son’s voice unwittingly telling him how William Portreath had attempted to give them to the child.
It hurt. This house hurt. This room, the dead man who still lingered inside it—this woman and her refusal to admit that she owed him something for what she’d taken away!
‘I need to get out of here,’ he decided suddenly. It was that quick, that desperate, and he just stepped around her and walked away.
As he made for the door Melanie felt the bitterness rise up and try to strangle her. ‘So you still walk away from promises you make.’ She slid the words deridingly after him. ‘What happened to your “united we stand” speech, Rafiq?’ she taunted. ‘Or the promise you gave to your son that you would still be here when he comes downstairs?’
Rigid back, rigid shoulders; he went still by the door. ‘I am finding it impossible to justify that for seven years my son has been deprived of his right to know a father’s love,’ he said harshly. ‘And that William Portreath stole something from my father that did not belong to him!’
‘William didn’t steal anything from anyone. I did.’
He turned to look at her. Pale but still perfect, Melanie thought painfully. Still loftily superior, but struggling with it. ‘William Portreath aided and abetted you to keep my son hidden away from me!’ He stated it clearly.
Melanie pulled in some air, then made herself say what she knew she didn’t want to say. ‘On the day Robbie was born William begged me to tell you about our son and offered me any money I might need to fight you in court,’ she confessed. ‘I refused.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I don’t care what you believe,’ she returned. ‘I know it is the truth. This has never had anything to do with money. It was to do with a man who could walk away from his promises and never—ever—look back! Now here you are, intending to do the same thing again. Only this time you’re going to break a small boy’s heart instead of a stupid young woman’s!’
‘You never loved me,’ he said, denouncing that claim. ‘It was always the money! You were always only looking for a rich man to take you out of the hole you lived in!’
‘And I chose you?’ Melanie gasped out. ‘Think back, Rafiq, and tell me who it was that did the chasing! Because I recall you virtually laying siege to me!’
‘Tactics,’ he said cynically. ‘You played the game perfectly.’
‘No.’ Melanie denied that. ‘If I’d been playing the tactical game I would have made you wait for sex until the ring was safely on my finger. But not me—not this gullible fool!’ A shudder of self-disgust ripped through her. ‘I gave you it all—just as I gave it to you again today—and if you think I am proud of myself for that, then think again, because you have a real knack for making me despise myself!’
She turned away from his stunned expression, despising herself all the more for letting fly at him. What was she trying to do here? Bury her pride completely? She lifted a hand to cover her mouth with it, caught the glitter of a diamond and with tears suddenly burning in her eyes she wrenched the ring from her finger and stepped up to hand it back to him.
The swine took it—he took it! ‘Now you can leave,’ she whispered shakily.
Footsteps suddenly sounded on the upper landing, then came clattering down the stairs. Both stopped breathing and went perfectly still. It lasted only a couple of seconds and Rafiq was the first to recover. His eyes gave a flash like lightning—the only warning Melanie received before she was being crushed in his arms. Heat drenched her body from the burn of the kiss; tension ricocheted through her muscles as she tried to fight him. In a single smooth movement he’d caught her mouth and was lifting them both out of the way from the door as their son pushed it open. Robbie just stood there, staring at the fascinating sight of his mother kissing his newly found father.
Deliberate. The whole swift, nerve-shaking move had been a deliberate one aimed to make a particular impression on their highly impressionable son. When Rafiq finally released her mouth Melanie found herself staring at the hand she had splayed out against his snow-white shirt front. Somewhere between the grab and the kiss Raf
iq had also slid the ring back onto her finger. It was now sparkling at her in much the same way as her son was sparkling.
‘You were kissing my mum,’ Robbie accused.
‘Mmm,’ Rafiq agreed. ‘I like kissing her, and she likes me doing it…’
Melanie’s gaze jumped from the ring to his face. Those devil-black eyes were glinting down on her with lazy triumph. Deny it if you can, that mocking glint challenged. She was breathless—helpless—literally stewing in her own foolish response. And what made it all so much worse was that Rafiq knew it. He released a low, soft, throaty laugh, caught the hand wearing the ring, then swung them both to face their small witness. ‘We have been talking about what to do about us,’ he informed his son smoothly. ‘How would you feel about us becoming a proper family, Robert?’
Robert. Melanie blinked at the Robert she’d only ever heard William use. Then she blinked again at her son, who was suddenly wearing a smile that lit his whole face. ‘Will you come here and live with us?’ Robbie demanded in breathless excitement.
Rafiq’s brief moment of stillness was Melanie’s only reward for the web she was allowing herself to be wrapped in. He hadn’t thought as far on as where they were going to live. Then he said, ‘Yes. Tonight, I think. What do you think?’ he deferred to his star-struck son.
‘Oh, yes!’ Robbie exclaimed, as if he’d just had his dearest wish granted.
’Good,’ Rafiq murmured. ‘Then you may show me to the room in which I am to sleep…’
‘Rafiq…’
Her one burst of protest was denied by a man intent on getting his own way. Lifting the hand wearing his ring to his mouth, he kissed it and murmured, ‘Hush,’ then gently let her go so he could turn his full attention on Robbie. His hand was offered to his son. Watching through a daze, she saw Robbie’s smaller hand disappear inside it. As the long fingers closed she felt something clutch at her heart. The pair began to move out of the room, man and boy linked by their hands and a genetic influence that was so strong it hurt.
Maybe she even groaned at the recognition, she wasn’t sure, but something made Robbie stop and turn his head to look at her. ‘Is something the matter?’ he asked frowningly.
‘No, of course not.’ She smiled. ‘I am just trying to decide whether to eat in the kitchen or go all posh and use the dining room.’
The diversion was an inspiration. Robbie’s eyes widened in dismay. ‘Not the dining room, Mum!’ he protested. ‘It’s all big and cold in there.’ His hand gave a tug at his father’s hand. ‘We can eat in the kitchen, can’t we?’
There’s your choice, big man, Melanie thought cynically. The boy, the trusting hand, the kitchen and the house. The arc of his silky black lashes curled against his high cheekbones as he looked down at his son.
‘The kitchen sounds perfect,’ Rafiq agreed.
‘Good.’ Robbie beamed. ‘I knew you’d want to. William liked the kitchen the very best—and this room, of course. Come on, let’s go upstairs to my room. You’ll like it…’
Robbie didn’t see his mother wince at his mention of William. He didn’t see Rafiq’s fleeting glance her way before he allowed himself to be pulled towards the stairs.
Later they sat at the scrubbed kitchen table, eating pasta turned to rubber, pretending to enjoy it. Rafiq had probably never eaten in a kitchen in his life before, Melanie mused. He had probably never eaten from anything but the best bone china, nor been forced to sleep in a draughty old bedroom.
Then she took that last thought back with an inner snatch when she recalled her bedroom at the farmhouse. It had been cold and draughty. The bed had been an ancient metal-sprung affair with a deep feather mattress and a propensity to creak when they…
She got up from the table in an agitated flurry, bringing two pairs of matching eyes shooting questions her way. She ignored them, moved to the sink with her plate, then just stood there driven into remembering the man and the bed and the way he had drawn her down upon it, his dark face wearing the intensity of what had taken him over. He had touched and tutored her, had slowly brought her to a yearning pitch at which she would rather have died than drawn back from accepting him.
But the bed—the bed had creaked and groaned like a guilty accomplice. The room had been so cold he had pulled the heavy eiderdown over them, cocooning them in warmth and the soft, heaving rush of their own sensual breathing. Flesh moving against flesh, scents stirring the senses. They’d remained there throughout a whole afternoon while her uncle and Jamie had been out in the barn, and the old farmhouse had rattled against an icy storm hitting its outer walls—while another storm beneath the eiderdown had been hot and sultry.
Someone touched her shoulder. She almost jumped in the air. It was Rafiq. She jerked away. He released a small sigh and turned her to face him.
Big; his chest was big, wide and deep and beautifully masculine. Her breasts sprang to life, tightening and tingling and sending messages down to other parts of her that droned with an ache she did not want to feel.
‘Where’s Robbie?’ she murmured, vaguely aware that they were alone in the kitchen.
‘Gone to find a video I am to watch,’ her son’s father replied, with just a hint of huskiness that told her he was touched by his son’s desire to share everything with him. ‘But I wanted to take this moment to apologise for my remarks earlier. You were right: William Portreath is not to be blamed. He was a good man. He loved my son. I can only thank him for taking care of Robert as wisely as he did. It is no wonder Robert misses him.’
She nodded, unable to speak. He believed she had been standing here thinking of their argument when in reality her thoughts had been lost in a different kind of place entirely. She ought to be ashamed of herself, but oddly she wasn’t. She was hot and hungry struggling not to close the two-inch gap between his chest and the tingling tips of her eager breasts.
‘Y-you can’t stay here. It wouldn’t be right.’ She managed the sensible sentence.
‘The decision has been made. I do not back down on my promises.’
‘To your son.’ It was bitter. ‘You are cynically using him to get your own way where I am concerned.’
‘To both of you,’ he insisted. ‘And cynical I may be, but the sooner we place this relationship on a permanent footing, the sooner we can give Robert what he needs.’
‘Stop calling him Robert,’ she snapped out impulsively.
‘It is his name,’ he insisted. ‘And why are you trembling?’
Melanie almost laughed out loud at the question. ‘Because I think I am going to fall into a flood of tears,’ she lied, instead of telling the truth—that she was longing to fall on him like a ravenous fool!
Though the tears weren’t that far away, she realised. Tears and desire. What a combination. Both ate away at self-control. She tried to move away; his hands pressed her closer. Two inches became a half an inch. Her trembling became a fine shimmer. Could he feel it? Yes he could feel it; his fingertips were moving lightly against her spine, as if to encourage it.
‘Please let me go now,’ she said a little desperately.
‘When you look at me.’
‘No.’ She didn’t want to look at him so she turned her face and looked at the kitchen, with its old-fashioned familiarity, and wondered why he didn’t look utterly out of place in here.
‘Why not?’ he challenged, and his voice was like a quiet rumble, vibrating all around her, husky, sexy.
Don’t give in to it, she told herself, then tipped her head back, made contact with eyes like the darkest brown velvet set between ebony lashes. They drew her in as she’d known they would. They sent messages she’d already read via a body language that was threatening to pull her apart inside.
‘I didn’t betray you with Jamie,’ she whispered.
On a growl of anger he swooped with his mouth and captured her throbbing declaration, captured and returned it to her with the furious flick of his tongue. He didn’t believe her. He didn’t want to believe her. Because to believe me
ant he would have to place himself so much in the wrong that his ego wouldn’t cope with what that would brand him.
Bitterness welled again, scouring out the desire that had held her in his arms so long. She broke away from the kiss, moved away from his body, and turned away from the whole tempting package being sold to her.
A man with no mercy. Sex without respect. It hurt. She was never going to repeat that denial, she promised herself grimly as she began picking up plates from the table.
‘Which bedroom did you choose? I need to go and make up the bed.’
There was a silence behind her; it trickled down her spinal cord like the scrape of a fingernail warning her that danger lurked behind.
It took the form of silk-like satire. ‘Our son assures me that all his friends’ parents sleep in the same bed.’
She spun back to find him leaning casually against the sink with his hands resting in his pockets. He was enjoying this, she realised. ‘You’re joking!’ she insisted.
A single eyebrow mocked her horrified look. ‘I was very impressed with his forward thinking,’ Rafiq answered lightly. ‘He gave me a choice. His room or your room. And since his room has only one small single bed in it and yours has a very large divan, I took the advice I was being offered and agreed to share—as parents do.’
‘Well, I don’t share!’ She itched to swipe that mocking smile from his face. ‘Never. Do you understand?’
‘Not even when we are man and wife?’
‘I’ve changed my mind; I don’t want to marry you!’ she said. ‘We—we will have to come to some other arrangement about sharing Robbie.’
‘Now, that is one area in which I don’t share,’ he warned.
‘And I won’t marry a man who feels as bitter about me as I feel about him!’
Hot-Blooded Husbands Bundle Page 45