by Lynne Graham
‘And what makes you think I want a divorce?’
Lottie looked down, picking at the skin around her fingernails. ‘Because it’s been two years.’ She could feel his eyes boring into the crown of her bent head and forced herself to look up and confront him. ‘And two years is the legal time necessary to apply for a consensual divorce.’
‘And you think that is why I have brought you here?’ His words were mocking, biting.
‘Well, isn’t it?’
‘Believe me, Charlotte, if and when I want a divorce it will happen. The vagaries of English law are of no interest to me.’
Of course, Lottie corrected herself, how foolish of her. She should have known that as far as Rafael was concerned laws were something other people abided by. He had the power and the cunning to circumnavigate them, adapt them to his own needs.
Quickly she scanned the face of the man opposite her, afraid to let her eyes linger in any one spot for fear of being unable to drag them away again. He presented a cold, harsh picture, with the damaged skin pulled tight across the sculpted planes of his cheeks and jawline.
Why was he denying it? Did he get some perverse pleasure from watching her squirm? If so, that pleasure had to be locked deep inside him, for she had never seen him look more severe, more forbidding. She knew he wanted to divorce her; receiving that email had only confirmed the bleak realisation that had been silently gnawing away at her for nearly three weeks now. Ever since she had innocently stumbled across that online newspaper article.
Rafael Revaldi, Conte di Monterrato, cheats death in terrifying skydiving accident.
The words of the headline had made the cappuccino shake in her hand, the bite of sandwich turn into a ball of concrete in her mouth. Gripping the computer mouse, she had frantically read on, desperate to find as much information as she could, as fast as she could, her hitherto steadfast vow not to type Rafael’s name anywhere near the search engine box vanishing like vapour in the air.
But there had been way too much information. The Italian celebrity magazines were positively bursting with sensational details about the daredevil Conte who had plunged twelve thousand feet to earth and miraculously lived to tell the tale. Any legitimate concern had soon morphed into a gluttonous feeding frenzy to find out every little bit of gossip about him that she could. And what she’d discovered—apart from the predictable images of him scaling mountains or kayaking over waterfalls—were women. Beautiful, eligible women. Glued to his side as they smiled at charity galas, shook hands with dignitaries, walked beside him on the red carpet. And all of them had one thing in common: a vice-tight grip on his arm and a look in their eye that said, Tonight he’s mine and I intend to keep it that way.
Any fanciful ideas Lottie might have had about jumping on a plane to be with him, to make sure for herself that he was really okay, had been wrenched away from her there and then as she’d stared at the frozen smiles of those women. They were all the proof she needed that Rafael had moved on. That she had no place in his life any more.
Which was fine. Even if being here with him now, talking about severing all ties with him, sliced through her like a cold blade. She just needed to remind herself how far she had come. Yes, her life was finally back on track, and that realisation stiffened her resolve.
Pushing back her shoulders, she attempted a haughty glare to match his sullen one. She needed an explanation.
‘So if, as you seem to be implying, I’m not here because you want a divorce, perhaps you would do me the courtesy of telling me exactly why I am here?’
A heavy silence hung between them, marked out by the weary ticking of a long-case clock somewhere in the shadows.
‘You are here because I have something to ask of you.’ He paused, a muscle twitching beneath the hard, tight mask of authority.
Lottie watched as he uncharacteristically twiddled a gold pen between strong, tapered fingers so that it tapped—first one end, then the other—lightly on the desk before him. She found she was holding her breath at the absurd realisation that Rafael was nervous.
‘I think we should try again.’
Shock ricocheted through Lottie’s body. And despite herself—despite everything—the see-saw carrying her heart flew into the air.
‘Try again?’ Her mouth was so dry the words sounded shrivelled.
‘Yes. I think we should try again. For a baby.’
The see-saw crashed down to the ground with a shuddering thump.
‘A baby?’ She hadn’t meant it to sound so sneery, so nasty, but incredulity had taken her words and twisted them with bitterness.
‘Yes, a baby, Charlotte. I see no reason why we shouldn’t at least consider the idea.’
No reason at all, Lottie reasoned numbly, other than the fact that their marriage had been a disaster, he hadn’t spoken to her for two years and he obviously still hated her guts. ‘Why would you even think...?’
‘I have found a new IVF specialist—someone in Iran,’ Rafael continued with baffling logic. ‘He knows the situation—that we still have one frozen embryo. He is very confident that this time it will work, that this time we will succeed.’
An Iranian IVF specialist? What on earth was going on here? Despite the controlled voice, the even tone, the powerful sense of conviction running through him was clearly, disturbingly unmistakable.
She had seen it before, of course. Rafael’s determination to get her pregnant. But that had been in a previous life, before they had split up. After Seraphina had died.
Born at just twenty-five weeks, their daughter had only lived for a few precious hours. The trauma of the accident, followed by premature labour and a complicated birth was now little more than a foggy blur—almost as if it had happened to somebody else. But the pain of watching their tiny daughter’s vain struggle for life would stay with Lottie for ever.
When Seraphina had finally died, and the clips and wires had been removed from her perfect, breathless body, Lottie had gazed at the still warm bundle in her arms, brushed an oversized finger against the soft down of her cheeks, convinced that nothing could be worse than this, that this was the bottom of the blackest pit. But fate had had one more arrow in its quiver. It seemed that the accident meant she would never be able to conceive naturally again—that IVF was their only hope of ever having another child.
Rafael had set about making it happen with a tenacious stubbornness that had bordered on obsession. They had embarked upon a series of IVF treatments, none of which had worked, and after each crushing disappointment it had seemed he was more obstinate, more insistent that they would not fail, that nothing was going to prevent him from achieving his goal. It had taken over their lives and eventually destroyed their marriage.
Lottie pushed the blonde hair away from her face with a hand that shook slightly in the way that the memory of Seraphina always weakened her limbs. She needed to put a stop to this madness now.
She drew in a sharp breath. ‘Well, you have wasted this man’s time. The idea of us having a baby is totally ridiculous. Why would we even consider it now? After all this time? When our marriage is obviously over?’
Rafael stared across at the wide violet-blue eyes that were searching his face for an explanation. Certamente, their marriage was over, all right. It had ended the day Lottie had walked out on him. The day she had told him that she didn’t love him. That she had never loved him.
He cursed silently, struggling to keep his frustration inside, rein in the storm of his feelings. He had to remain calm. Not let himself be riled by her fake show of concern or her harsh dismissal of their shared past. He was already a hair’s breadth from totally screwing this up, and he knew it.
But what he hadn’t known was the way his heart would start pounding in his chest the second she walked into the room, as if jolted from a dormant slumber or poked into life by the jab of a stick. What
was that? Anger? Betrayal? Lust? Whatever it was, it was damned annoying.
He’d been so sure that the two years they had been apart would have killed any desire he might have had for her. Now he knew that was not the case and he cursed her for it. She had no right to look like that—all heart-shaped face and soft pink lips, her slender body clad in skinny jeans and a plain white shirt, demurely buttoned almost to the top but still failing to conceal the unconscious jut of her breasts as she squared up to him.
Scowling, he raked a hand through his hair.
‘Because an accident like this makes you think, Charlotte—that’s why. Makes you realise that you are not invincible, that you need to plan for the future—a future when you are no longer around. Ten days in a hospital bed focusses the mind, believe me, and it gives you plenty of time to work out what’s important.’
‘Go on...’
The gentle probing of her voice was threatening to undo him, unleash a side of him that had nothing to do with the purpose of this meeting.
‘What is important is this place.’
Roughly gesturing around him, he was rewarded with a sharp stab of pain that shot through his shoulder, mocking him with its power. He would not let it show. Whatever else, Lottie must not see his weakness. He knew she was watching every movement of his lips, analysing every syllable of his words. Grimly he carried on.
‘The principality is my number one priority. Generations of Revaldis have held the title of Conte di Monterrato. Now it is my turn and I will do everything within my power to ensure its protection and prosperity.’ He paused, conviction pushing back his shoulders, swelling his chest. ‘As you well know, Charlotte, I am the last in line...’ he shot her a piercing stare ‘...and as such it is my duty to provide an heir.’
Monterrato. An heir.
Lottie felt the cold fingers of the past reach out to grasp her. So nothing had changed. It was still all about Monterrato, about providing for its future, continuing the line. The place was like an obsession with Rafael—everything to him; his life, his blood. She was also the last in line, as it happened—the sole daughter of John Lamb, deceased, and Greta Lamb, now Lawrence, remarried and living in South America. But you didn’t hear her banging on about it.
‘Well, if you are so keen to have a child I suggest you find someone else to have one with.’ Twisting her bottom on the seat, she sniped back at him, chin high, chest forward. She knew she sounded like a bitter old crow but she couldn’t help herself. ‘Judging by the number of women that seem to constantly surround you, I’m sure you could have the pick of party socialites only too happy to produce endless beautiful Monterrato heirs for you.’
Thunder rolled across Rafael’s face.
‘For God’s sake, Charlotte.’ His fist banged down on the desk, rattling the ormolu inkstand on its lion’s paws feet. His eyes were glaring wildly with some unseen force as they locked with Lottie’s, now saucer-shaped with alarm. ‘Why can’t I make you understand? It is our baby I want.’
Lottie’s mouth fell open, soft with astonishment. This was not the calm, composed Rafael that she knew. The man who was so totally in control of his emotions that she had never seen him break down—not even when their baby had died. He was certainly not the kind of man to lose his temper. At least he never had been.
A thought suddenly occurred to her. He had been in a terrible accident—an accident that had resulted in injuries to his head. Was it possible that he was suffering from some sort of post-traumatic mood disorder? Would that explain the jumpy, volatile, almost out of control man before her?
‘You are right, Rafe, I don’t understand.’ She lowered her voice to try and coax the truth out of him. ‘Is it something to do with the accident? Has it affected you in some way?’
The scrape of his chair across the polished parquet floor made Lottie start as he lunged to his feet, leaning forward across the desk with the stillness of a viper about to strike.
‘Why would you say that?’
‘I don’t know. I just wondered...’ And, judging by his attitude, she had hit the nail squarely on the head. ‘Do you want to talk about it? You never know—it might help.’
Turning his back Rafael strode towards the windows, the floor creaking beneath his forceful steps. ‘There is nothing to talk about. It happened. That’s all there is to it.’ He all but growled the words over his shoulder.
Maledizione. Talking about it was the very last thing he wanted to do. He felt his breath heaving in his chest with the wretched frustration of it all, felt the unfamiliar sense of powerlessness fuelling his temper.
But what had he expected? That Lottie would agree, with no further explanation, to bear him a child just like that?
He could have lied, of course. Wooed her back until he’d achieved his goal, then told her it was all a sham. Just the thought of the challenge heated the blood in his veins. He could feel her eyes scanning his rear view, sense her biting the inside of her cheek as she waited, the rise and fall of her breasts with each shallow breath, the way she slid her hands between tightly pressed thighs as she perched on the edge of her seat. All of which sent hot waves of desire through his body that would make taking her to his bed—hell, taking her across the desk there and then, for that matter—the easiest thing in the world. And who would blame him, after the way she had treated him, if he used her for his own pleasure? But, no, sex wasn’t the answer—no matter how tempting it was.
Outside the light was starting to fade, and with the lamps still not lit the room had taken on a grey, almost smoky hue. Lottie feasted her eyes on the proud silhouette, tall, muscular, brooding against the dying light, committing the image to memory before wrenching her gaze away again.
‘Well, in that case there is nothing more to be said.’ Her breath juddered and she rose to her feet. ‘There is no point in my being here.’
‘No! Stop!’ Despite his injuries he was beside her in a couple of long strides, grabbing hold of her arm as she reached down to pick up her handbag.
There was a frozen second of astonishment as they stared at each other, then Lottie’s eyes moved from the hand that gripped her forearm to the darkening face of the man it belonged to. Instantly dropping her arm, Rafael stepped back, pushing the ruffled hair away from his forehead.
‘I’m sorry. Forgive me.’
‘Rafe? Whatever is it?’
Throwing back his shoulders, he fixed her with a penetrating stare.
‘Okay, Lottie, if you must know I will spell it out for you.’
His voice was harsh, but the anguish and pain held deep in his eyes sent a shiver of alarm through Lottie.
‘The fact is that, as of four weeks ago, I am no longer able to father a child. You and our frozen embryo are my only chance of ever producing an heir.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘YOU CAN’T EVER have children?’ Lottie stared at him, her face a picture of horror.
‘Correct.’ Rafael remained where he was, his feet firmly planted, his arms behind his back.
‘You are...infertile?’
‘I think we’ve established that.’ He glowered at her. ‘And, before you let your imagination run away with you, that’s all it means. Everything else is working quite normally, thank you.’
Lottie flushed. He had, of course, read her mind perfectly.
‘But why? How?’
‘I’ll spare you the details, but basically the tree that saved my life prevented me from being able to produce another. A bizarre twist of fate, I think you’ll agree.’
The flush turned into an exaggerated wince. Lottie simply didn’t know what to say. She could only imagine the devastating effect this must have had on Rafael. Not to mention the physical pain at the time.
‘But is it permanent? I mean, won’t it heal? Or isn’t there some medical procedure that can make it right?’
‘It would seem not.’ Rafael shifted his position, alerting Lottie to the fact that she was staring at his groin. ‘Believe me, I have explored every avenue.’
‘Oh, Rafe.’ Suddenly Lottie was rushing over to him, flinging her arms around his neck and hugging his unyielding body. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Picking her arms from around his rigid neck with a look of distaste, Rafael let them drop by her sides and took a step back. ‘It’s not your sympathy I am looking for. It is an arrangement of a much more practical kind.’
Lottie gazed up at him, eyes wide with concern.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated, her mind still struggling to take in this shocking disclosure. ‘This must be very difficult for you to come to terms with.’
She put a hand out to touch him but he moved out of her reach, crossing his arms in front of him to form a barrier.
‘Have you talked this through with anyone? Had any counselling? You mustn’t keep it all bottled up inside.’
‘Pah!’ Rafael gave a derisive snort. ‘I do not need counselling, thank you, what I need is a solution to the problem.’
No change there, then; Lottie didn’t know why she had even asked the question. She stared at the proud, haughty man who stood stubbornly a few feet away from her. Here was someone who would rather die than give in to his emotions, whose approach to any problem was to get it fixed and move on, rather than take time to grieve or heal.
‘Sometimes there is no solution, Rafe. You just have to accept it.’
‘Of course there is a solution,’ he bit back, ‘and it lies with you.’
So this was it, then. The reason she was here. Not to sign divorce papers, to end their marriage, but as part of a last desperate attempt by Rafael to provide a Revaldi heir. Lottie bent her head, covering her eyes with her hand as she tried to order her thoughts, formulate some sort of response, explain to him that, no matter how deeply she felt for his predicament, she simply couldn’t do it.