by Abby Green
She opened her eyes to see swirling green oceans. Rafaele pulled away jerkily and Sam could hear nothing but the thunder of her own heartbeat and her ragged breathing. She was still clutching his jacket and she let go, her hands shaking.
‘You’re bleeding...’
The fact that Rafaele’s voice was rough was no comfort. He was just angry, not overcome with passion.
Sam reached up and touched her lip and winced when it stung slightly. Her mouth felt swollen. She knew she had to get out of there before he saw something. Before he saw that very close behind her anger in that exchange had been an awful yearning for something else.
‘I have to go. They’ll be wondering where we are.’ Her insides were heaving, roiling. She was terrified she might be sick again, and this time all over Rafaele’s immaculate shoes. She couldn’t look at him.
‘Sam—’
‘No.’ She cut him off and looked at him. ‘Not here.’
His jaw tightened. ‘Fine. I’ll send a car for you this evening. We’ll talk at my place.’
Sam was too much in shock to argue. Too much had happened—too much physicality. Too much of a reminder that he aroused more passion in her just by looking at him than she’d ever felt in her life with anyone else. She simply didn’t have it in her right then to say anything other than a very reluctant, ‘Fine.’ She needed to get away from this man before he exposed her completely.
* * *
That evening, Sam waited for Rafaele in an exclusive townhouse in the middle of Mayfair, demesne of the rich and famous. Anger and an awful sense of futility had simmered in her belly all day as she’d had to put up with her colleagues excitedly discussing the great opportunity Rafaele Falcone had presented them with while knowing that it was only to ensure he gained as much control of her life as he could.
She was afraid of the volatility of her emotions after what had happened in that bathroom earlier and, worse, at the thought of working for him again. She forced herself to take deep breaths and focused on her surroundings. Luxurious sofas and chairs, dressed in shades of grey and white and cream. Low coffee tables and sleek furnishings. Seriously intimidating.
She felt very scruffy as she was still in her work uniform of narrow black trousers, white shirt and black jacket. Flat shoes. Hair pulled back. No make-up. These surroundings were made for a much more sensual woman. A woman who would drape herself seductively on a couch in a beautiful silk dress and wait for her lover.
It reminded Sam painfully of Rafaele’s palazzo on the outskirts of Milan, where sometimes she had fooled herself into believing nothing existed beyond those four walls. And that she was one of those beautiful seductive women.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’
Sam whirled around so abruptly when she heard his voice that she felt dizzy. She realised she was clutching her leather bag to her chest like a shield and lowered it.
She really wasn’t prepared to see Rafaele again so soon, and that swirling cauldron of emotions within her was spiked with a mix of anger and ever-present shame. And the memory of that angry kiss. Her lips were still sensitive. He looked like the Devil himself, emerging from the shadows of the doorway. Tall, broad, hard, muscled. And mean. His face was harsh, his mouth unsmiling. Making a mockery of his apology for keeping her waiting.
Nothing had changed from earlier. But despite her anger Sam’s conscience stung. Tightly, she said, ‘I’m sorry...for hitting you earlier. I don’t know what came over me...but what you said...it was wrong.’
Liar. She burned inside. She might as well have held her tongue. She was lying to herself as much as to him.
Rafaele came further in. Grim. ‘I deserved it. I provoked you.’
Sam blanched and looked at him. She hadn’t expected that, and somewhere treacherous a part of her melted.
He walked past her and over to a drinks board, helping himself to something amber that swirled in the bottom of a bulbous glass. He looked at her over his shoulder, making heat flood her cheeks. She hadn’t even realised that she’d been making a thorough inspection of his broad back, tapering down to lean hips and firm buttocks.
‘Drink?’
She shook her head hurriedly and got out a choked, ‘No. Thank you.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He gestured to a nearby couch. ‘Sit down, Sam—and you can put down your bag. You look as if your fingers might break.’
She looked down stupidly to see white knuckles through the skin of her fingers where they gripped the leather. Forcing herself to take a breath, she moved jerkily over to the couch and perched on the edge, resisting the design of it, which wanted to seduce her into a more relaxed pose.
Rafaele came and sat down opposite her, clearly far more relaxed than her as he sank back into the couch, resting one arm across the top. Sam fought the desire to look and see how his shirt must be stretched across his chest.
‘What kind of a name is Milo anyway? Irish?’
Sam blinked. It took a minute for his words to sink in because they were so unexpected. ‘It’s...it was my grandfather’s name.’
Sam was vaguely surprised he remembered that detail of her heritage. She was one generation removed from Ireland, actually, having been born and brought up in England because her parents had moved there after her brilliant father had been offered a job at a London university.
Sam sensed his anger building again. ‘I did intend to tell you...some day. I would never have withheld that information from Milo for ever.’
Rafaele snorted a harsh laugh. ‘That’s big of you. You would have waited until he’d built up a childhood full of resentment about his absent father and I wouldn’t have even known.’
Rafaele sat forward and put down his glass with a clatter. He ran his hand impatiently through his hair, making it flop messily onto his forehead. Sam’s insides clenched when she remembered how she’d once felt comfortable running her hands through his hair, using it to hold him in place when he’d had his face buried between—
Shame flared inside her at the way her thoughts were going. She should be thinking of Milo and extricating them both from the threat that Rafaele posed, not remembering lurid X-rated memories.
In a smaller voice she admitted, ‘I’ve been living day to day...it didn’t seem to be urgent right now. He...he doesn’t ask about his father.’
Rafaele stood up, towering over her. ‘I’d say it became urgent about the time you gave birth, Sam. Don’t you think he must be wondering why other kids have fathers and he doesn’t?’
Words were locked in Sam’s throat. Milo mightn’t have mentioned anything yet, but she had noticed him looking at his friends in playschool when their fathers picked them up. It wouldn’t be long before he’d start asking questions.
She stood up too, not liking feeling so intimidated.
Rafaele bit back the anger that threatened to spill over and keep spilling. Looking as vulnerable, if not more so than she had earlier, Sam said tightly, ‘Look, I can’t stay too long. My minder is doing me a favour. Can we just...get to what we need to discuss?’
He’d been unable to get Sam’s pale face out of his mind all day. Or the way he’d hauled her into his arms like a Neanderthal, all but backing her up against that sink to ravish her in a tacky bathroom. The feel of her against him, under his mouth, had dragged him back to a place he’d locked away deep inside, unleashing a cavalcade of desire more hot and urgent than anything he’d ever encountered.
He struggled to curb some of the intense emotion he was feeling.
‘What’s going to happen is this: I am going to be a father to my son and you will do everything in your power to facilitate that—because if you don’t, Samantha, I won’t hesitate to use full legal force against you.’
Rafaele delivered his ultimatum and Sam just looked at him, trying not to let him see how his words shook her to
her core. ‘I won’t hesitate to use full legal force against you.’
‘What exactly do you mean, Rafaele? You can’t threaten me like this.’
Rafaele came close to Sam—close enough for his scent to wind around her, prompting a vivid memory of how it had felt to have her mouth crushed under his earlier that day. He looked at her for such a long, taut moment that she stopped breathing. And then he moved back to the couch to sit down again and regarded her like a lounging pasha.
‘It’s not a threat. It’s very much a promise. I want to be in Milo’s life. I am his father. We deserve to get to know one another. He needs to know that I am his father.’
Panic boosted Sam’s adrenalin. She couldn’t have sat down if she’d wanted to. Every muscle was locked. ‘You can’t just barge in and announce that you’re his father. He won’t understand. It’ll upset him.’
Rafaele arched a brow. ‘And whose fault is that? Who kept this knowledge from him and from me? One person, Sam. You. And now you have to deal with the consequences.’
‘Yes,’ Sam admitted bitterly, ‘I recognise that, and you’ve already made your sphere of influence obvious—but not at the cost of my son’s happiness and sense of security.’
Rafaele leant forward. ‘You have cost our son his happiness and security already. You’ve wilfully cost him three years of knowing he had a father. You’ve already irreparably damaged his development.’
Our son. Sam’s insides contracted painfully. She was feeling shocked again at the very evident emotion on Rafaele’s face. Quickly masked, though, as if he was surprised by his own vehemence.
‘So what are you proposing, Rafaele?’
A part of Sam, deep down inside, marvelled at that moment that there had ever been intimacy between them. That she had ever lain beside him in bed and gazed deep into his eyes. On their last night together...before he’d gone on his business trip...she’d reached out and touched his face as if learning every feature. He’d taken her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, and there had been something she’d never seen before darkening his eyes, making her breath grow short and her heart pound...
‘What I’m proposing is that, as I’m due to be here in England for the foreseeable future, I want to be a part of Milo’s daily life so that he can get to know me.’
Sam struggled to take it in. ‘“The foreseeable future”? What does that mean? You can’t get to know him and then just walk away, Rafaele, when your business is done.’
Rafaele stood up and put his hands deep in his pockets, as if he was having second thoughts about physical violence. Silkily he replied, ‘Oh, don’t worry, Sam, I have no intention of walking away—ever—no matter where my business takes me. Milo is my son just as much as he is yours. You’ve had unfettered access to him for over three years of his life and you will never deny me access again. I want him here—with me.’
Sam’s mouth opened and closed again before she could manage to articulate, ‘Here with you? But that’s preposterous. He’s three!’
Rafaele clarified with clear reluctance, ‘Naturally you would also have to come.’
Sam emitted a scared laugh, because even though what Rafaele was saying was insane he sounded eminently reasonable. ‘Oh, thanks! Should I be grateful that you would allow me to stay with my son?’
Rafaele’s face darkened. ‘I think any judge in any courtroom would look unfavourably upon a mother who kept her son from his father for no apparent good reason.’
Sam blanched and tried to appeal to him. ‘Rafaele, we can’t just...uproot and move in with you. It’s not practical.’ And the very thought of spending any more time alone with this man than she had to scared the living daylights out of her.
His voice sounded unbearably harsh. ‘I am going to be under the same roof as my son, as his father, and I will not negotiate on that. You can either be part of it or not. Obviously it will be easier if you are. And, as we’re going to be working together again, it can only be more practical.’
Anger surged again at Rafaele’s reminder of that small detail and his intractability. ‘You’re being completely unreasonable. Of course I need to be with my son...that’s non-negotiable.’
Rafaele took a step closer, and even though his hands were in his pockets Sam felt the threat reach out to touch her.
‘Well, then, you have a measure of how I’m feeling, Samantha. I will expect you back here with your bags and Milo by this time tomorrow evening or else we take it to the courts and they will decide how he will divide his time between us.’ He added, ‘You’ve proved that you believe one parent is dispensable—what’s to stop me testing out the theory with you?’
Sam gritted out, ‘I do recognise that you’ve missed out on time with Milo...and I should have told you before now. But I had my reasons and I believed they were valid.’
‘Very noble of you, Samantha,’ Rafaele mocked, with an edge.
Trying to concentrate and not be distracted by him, she said, ‘It’s just not practical for us to come here. This might be your home, and it’s beautiful—’
‘It’s not mine,’ Rafaele bit out. ‘It belongs to a friend. I’m renting it.’
Sam lifted her hands in an unconscious plea for him to listen. ‘All the more reason why this isn’t a good idea—it’s not even your permanent home. Milo is settled into a good routine where we are. We have a granny flat attached to the house and that’s where Bridie lives.’
Rafaele arched a brow. ‘His minder?’
Sam nodded. ‘She was my father’s housekeeper since I was two, after my mother died. She cared for me while I grew up and she stayed on after my father passed away two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Rafaele offered stiffly, ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Thank you...’ Sam acknowledged. ‘The thing is,’ she continued while she had Rafaele’s attention, ‘Bridie has known Milo since he was born. She...helped me.’
Sam coloured as she imagined the acerbic retorts going through Rafaele’s mind and she rushed on. ‘We have a good arrangement. Regular affordable childcare like I have is gold dust in London.’
Rafaele asserted, ‘I don’t think I need to point out that affording childcare would be the least of your worries if you let me organise it.’
Sam was tense enough to crack, and all of a sudden she felt incredibly light-headed. She must have shown it, because immediately Rafaele was beside her, holding her arm and frowning.
‘What is it? Dio, Sam, you look like death warmed up.’
His use of Sam caught her somewhere vulnerable. She cursed herself inwardly. She was no wilting ninny and she hated that Rafaele was seeing her like this. She pulled away from his strong grip jerkily. ‘I’m fine...’
Rafaele all but forcibly manoeuvred her to the couch and made her sit down again. Then he went to the drinks cabinet and poured some brandy into a glass. Coming back, he handed it to her.
Hating herself for needing the fortification, Sam took it.
She took a sip, and as the pungent and strong alcohol filtered down her throat and into her belly, felt a bit steadier. She put the glass down and looked directly at Rafaele, where he too had taken his seat again, opposite her.
‘Look, you’ve said yourself that you’re just renting this place. It would be insane to uproot Milo from the only home he’s known since he was a baby.’ She pressed on, ‘My father’s house is perfectly comfortable. Bridie lives right next door. His playschool is at the end of the road. We have a nearby park. He goes swimming at the weekends to the local pool. He plays with the children from the surrounding houses. It’s a safe area. Everyone looks out for everyone and they all love Milo.’
Rafaele’s face was unreadable. Sam took a breath. She’d just spoken as if in a lecture, in a series of bullet points. Never more than right now did she appreciate just how much Rafaele could upset their lives if he
wanted to. And it was entirely her fault.
He drawled, ‘The picture you paint is positively idyllic.’
She flushed at the sarcasm in his voice. ‘We’re lucky to be in a good area.’
‘How have you managed financially?’
Rafaele’s question blindsided Sam for a minute. ‘It...well, it wasn’t easy at first. I had to defer my PhD for a year. My father was ill... But I had some savings to tide us over. And he had his pension. When he died the mortgage was protected, so that was paid off. Bridie looked after Milo while I did my doctorate and I was lucky enough to be taken onto the research programme soon afterwards. We get by. We have enough.’
Unmistakable pride straightened Sam’s spine. Rafaele could see it in the set of her shoulders and he had to hand it to her—grudgingly. She hadn’t come running to him looking for a hand-out as soon as she’d known her pregnancy was viable. He didn’t know any woman who wouldn’t have taken advantage of that fact. And yet Sam had been determined to go it alone.
‘Would you have come to me if you’d needed money?’
Rafaele could see her go pale at the prospect and something dark rushed to his gut. She would have preferred to struggle than to see him again. Since last Saturday’s cataclysmic revelation Rafaele had been avoiding looking at the fact that he’d felt so compelled to see Sam again he’d ignored his earlier warning to himself to stay away and had gone to her house with more than a sense of anticipation in his belly. It had been something bordering much closer to a need. He’d tried to ignore it, but he’d been incensed that she’d been so dismissive. Uninterested.
Rafaele stood up. ‘I fail to see what all this has to do with me getting what I want—which is my son.’
Sam stood up too, her cheeks flushing, making her eyes stand out like glittering pools of grey. Desire, dark and urgent, speared Rafaele.
‘That’s just it. You don’t get it, do you? It’s not about you or me. It’s about Milo and what’s best for him. He’s not a pawn, Rafaele, you can’t just move him around at will to get back at me. His needs must come first.’