When Falcone's World Stops Turning

by Abby Green

  Rafaele felt stung at her tirade. She had the right to maternal indignation because she’d experienced the bonding process. He hadn’t. But he knew that she was right. He couldn’t just waltz in and pluck his son out of his routine, much as he wanted to. But he hated her for this.

  Tightly he asked, ‘So what is your suggestion, then?’

  The relief that moved across her expressive fine features made him even angrier. Did she really think it would be this easy?

  ‘We leave Milo where he is, at home with me. And you can come and see him...we’ll work something out while you’re here in England...and then, once we see how it goes, we can work out a longer term arrangement. After all, you won’t be here for ever...’

  He could see her spying her bag nearby and she moved to get it. His eyes were drawn against his will to her tall, slim form as she bent and then straightened, her breasts pushing against her shirt, reminding him of how badly he’d ached to touch them for the first time, and what it had felt like to cup their firm weight, made perfectly to fit his palms. The fact that the memory was so vivid was not welcome.

  Sam was the only woman who’d ever had this ability to make him feel slightly out of his comfort zone. Coasting on the edge of extreme danger. And not the kind he liked, where he ultimately had control, say in a car.

  Danger zone or no danger zone, something primal gripped Rafaele deep inside at seeing Sam preparing to leave, looking so relieved—as if she could just lay it all on the line like this and he’d agree.

  She was backing away, tucking some loose hair behind her ear, and it was that one simple familiar gesture that pushed Rafaele over an edge. ‘Do you really think it’s that easy? That I’ll simply agree to your terms?’

  She stopped. ‘You can’t do this, Rafaele—insist on having it your way. It’s not fair on Milo. If he’s going to get to know you then it should be in his own safe environment. He’s going to be confused as it is.’

  Rafaele moved closer to Sam, almost against his will. ‘And whose fault is that?’ he reminded her, as an audacious plan formed in his brain. ‘What do you hope for, Sam? That after a couple of visits I’ll grow bored and you’ll be left in peace?’

  She swallowed visibly and looked faintly guilty. ‘Of course not.’

  But she did. He could tell. She hoped that this was just a passing display of anger and might. She was probably congratulating herself on the fact that he now knew and that she and her son—his son—would be left in peace to get on with their lives once he’d lost interest.

  Suddenly Rafaele wanted to insert himself deep into Sam’s life. Deep into her. He remembered what that had felt like too—that moment of exquisite suspension when neither of them could draw in a breath because he was embedded so deep inside her—

  ‘This will work my way or no way,’ he gritted out, ruthlessly crushing those incendiary images, exerting a control over his body he rarely had to call on.

  ‘Rafaele—’

  ‘No, Samantha. I will concede that you are right that Milo must come first, so I agree that he should stay where he is most secure.’

  ‘You do?’

  Rafaele didn’t even bother to agree again, he just continued, ‘So, with that concern in mind, I will compromise.’

  She swallowed again. Now she looked nervous. Good. She should. Rafaele smiled and got a fleeting moment of satisfaction from the way her eyes dropped to his mouth and flared with something hot.

  ‘I’ll move in with you.’

  Sam’s eyes met his and grew wider. He saw her struggling to compute the information. She even shook her head slightly.

  ‘I’m sorry... I don’t think I heard you properly... You said you’ll what?’

  Rafaele smiled even more widely now, enjoying himself for the first time in days. ‘You heard me fine, Samantha, I said I’ll move in with you. Then you will have no reason to deny me access to my son as I’ll be doing everything in my power to accommodate you—isn’t that right?’

  Sam felt as if she was suspended in time, disbelieving of what she’d just heard. But then the smug look on Rafaele’s face told her she hadn’t misheard. Twice.

  ‘But...you can’t. I mean...’ Her brain seemed to have turned to slush. ‘There’s no room.’

  Rafaele quirked a brow. ‘It looks like a decent-sized house to me. I would imagine there’s at least three bedrooms? All I need is one.’

  Sam cursed his accuracy and diverted her thoughts away from remembering Rafaele’s palatial bedroom in his palazzo, with the bed big enough for a football team. They’d covered every inch of it.

  Stiffly she said, ‘It’s not a good idea. You wouldn’t be comfortable. It’s not exactly up to this standard.’ She gestured with her arm to take in the surrounding opulence.

  Rafaele grimaced. ‘This place is too big for just me.’ And then his eyes glinted with sheer wickedness. ‘I find my preferences running to much more modest requirements all of a sudden.’

  Sam felt old bitterness rise. No doubt he meant much in the same way his preferences had become more ‘modest’ when he’d found himself briefly in thrall to her. Seduced, presumably, by her complete naivety and innocence because he’d become momentarily jaded by the far more sophisticated women he usually went for. This had been evidenced by the fact that he’d never even taken her out in too public a social setting, preferring to keep their dates secluded and secret.

  Sam shook her head, the mere thought of Rafaele in her house for an extended period making her seize inwardly. Not to mention the fact that he expected her to work for him.

  ‘No. This is not going to happen. Maybe if you moved closer—’

  Suddenly Rafaele was far too close and Sam’s words faltered. Any hint of wickedness was gone.

  ‘No, Samantha. I am moving in with you and there is nothing you can do or say to put me off this course. I’ve missed important milestones already in my son’s life and I’m not about to miss another moment.’

  Shakily Sam said, ‘Please, there must be another way to do this.’

  Rafaele stepped even closer. Sam could smell him now and see the lighter flecks of green in his eyes. See the dark shadowing of stubble on his jaw. He’d always needed to shave twice a day. Her insides cramped.

  ‘The reason you don’t want me to stay, Sam... It wouldn’t be because there’s still something there...would it?’

  Had his voice grown huskier or was it her imagination? Sam just looked at him and blinked. His eyes were molten green, hot. And she was on fire. It was only when she saw something very cynical and dark in their depths that she managed to shake herself free of his spell. She was terrified he’d touch her again, like earlier, and stepped back, feeling cold all over.

  The thought that she’d given herself away, that he might analyse her reaction and suspect that there had been something deeper there than anger made her sick with mortification and shame.

  In as cool a voice as she could muster, Sam said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rafaele. I’m no more attracted to you any more than you are to me. That died long ago.’

  His eyes flashed. ‘So there should be no problem with my sharing your house to facilitate me getting to know my son, who you have kept from me for the last three years?’

  It wasn’t really a question. Much as in the way he had ridden roughshod over her department at work, ensuring she would be under his control. With a sinking sense of inevitability Sam knew that if she fought Rafaele further he’d only dig his heels in deeper and deeper. And perhaps he’d even feel like toying with her again, proving a point, and perhaps this time she’d really give herself away.

  The thought made her go clammy. She must never forget his cruel rejection or let him know how badly he’d hurt her.

  She reassured herself that he was a workaholic, after all, so she’d probably barely see him. And for all his lo
fty talk she didn’t seriously see him lasting for longer than a week in the leafy but very boring London suburbs.

  A man like Rafaele—son of an Italian count and a renowned Spanish beauty—was accustomed to beautiful things and especially beautiful women. Accustomed to getting what he wanted.

  Seizing on that, and also anticipating his realisation that her house would not be a haven for his mistresses and would soon bore him to tears, Sam lifted her chin and said, ‘When do you propose to move in?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FOUR DAYS LATER it was Friday evening, and Sam was tense enough to crack in two, waiting for Rafaele’s appearance. He was moving in tonight, and all week his staff had been arriving at the house to prepare it for his arrival.

  When she’d come home from his house the previous Monday evening she’d had to come clean and tell Bridie what had happened. The older woman had reacted with admirable nonchalance.

  ‘He’s his father, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sam had replied, sotto voce, giving Bridie a look to tell her to be mindful of small ears nearby as Milo had been in the sitting room, watching a cartoon before bed.

  Unfortunately Bridie had been enjoying this revelation far too much. She’d taken a sip of tea and then repeated, ‘His father... Well, I never, Sam. You’re a dark one, aren’t you? I always thought it might have been a waiter or a mechanic at the factory or something...but it’s actually himself—the Falcone boss...’

  Sam had gritted out, ‘He’s only moving in temporarily. He’ll be bored within a week, believe me.’

  Bridie had sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Well, let’s hope not for Milo’s sake.’

  Sam’s hands stilled under the water now, as she washed the dinner dishes. She could hear Milo’s chatter to Bridie nearby. She was doing this for him. She had to stop thinking about herself and think of him. It was the only way she’d get through this, because if she focused for a second on what it meant for her to be thrown into such close proximity with Rafaele again she felt the urgent compulsion to run fast and far away.

  Bridie bustled into the kitchen then, and Sam noticed her badly disguised expression of anticipation. She might have smiled if she’d been able.

  ‘You really don’t have to wait till he gets here.’

  The housekeeper smiled at her sunnily and started drying dishes. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Sam. It’s better than the Pope’s visit to Dublin back in the seventies.’

  Suddenly the low, powerful throb of an engine became obvious outside. To Sam’s chagrin she found that she was automatically trying to analyse the nuances of the sound, figuring out the components of the engine.

  Milo’s ears must have pricked up, because he came into the kitchen excitedly and announced, ‘Car!’

  They didn’t have a car themselves, much to his constant disappointment, and Sam couldn’t stop him running towards the door now. When the bell rang her palms grew sweaty. Before she could move, though, Bridie was beating her to it, and Sam only noticed then that Bridie, who never wore an apron, had put one on. She wanted to roll her eyes.

  But then the door opened and Sam’s world condensed down to the tall dark figure filling the frame against the dusky evening. She hadn’t seen him since Monday and she hated the way her heart leapt in her chest.

  Milo said with some surprise from beside Bridie, ‘It’s the man.’ And then, completely oblivious to the atmosphere, ‘Do you have a car?’

  Rafaele’s gaze had zeroed in immediately on Sam, and she was glad now that she had the buffer of Bridie at the door. Bridie was doing her thing now, extending her hand, introducing herself, practically twinkling with Irish charm. Lots of ‘sure’ and ‘Won’t you come in out of that cold?’. Ridiculously, Sam felt betrayed.

  Rafaele stepped in and Sam’s chest constricted. He looked so alien, foreign. Too gorgeous for this environment. Finally she found her legs and moved forward to pick Milo up. His eyes were huge as he took Rafaele in, again.

  Milo repeated his question. ‘Do you have a car, mister?’

  Rafaele looked at Milo and Sam could see how his cheeks flared with colour. His eyes took on a glow that she’d never seen before...or maybe she thought she had...once. Her arms tightened fractionally around Milo. Bridie had bustled off somewhere, saying something about tea and coffee. Now it was just the three of them.

  His voice was so deep it resonated within Sam.

  ‘Yes, I do have a car... I’m Rafaele...and what’s your name?’

  The fact that Rafaele’s voice had gone husky made Sam’s guilt rush to the fore again. Milo buried his head in Sam’s neck, his little arms tight around her neck.

  She said to Milo’s obscured face, ‘Don’t you remember me telling you that Mr Falcone would be moving in to live with us for a while?’ Milo nodded against her neck, still hiding. She looked back at Rafaele. ‘He’s just a bit shy with strangers at first.’

  Rafaele’s eyes flashed dangerously at that reminder of his status and Sam said quickly, ‘You can leave your jacket and things in the hall.’

  He started to divest himself of his expensive black coat, revealing a dark suit underneath. Bridie reappeared then, unusually pink in the cheeks, and took Milo from Sam’s arms, saying, ‘I think it’s bedtime for someone...there’s refreshments in the drawing room.’

  Sam wanted to roll her eyes again. Since when had Bridie referred to the main reception room as the drawing room? Or said refreshments? Or got pink in the cheeks from preparing tea?

  She called after them. ‘I’ll be up to read a story in a little while.’

  All she could hear, though, was Milo’s plaintive, ‘I want to see the car,’ and Bridie reassuring him briskly that he could see it in the morning if he was a good boy and brushed his teeth before bed.

  Hating Rafaele right then, for imposing himself on them like this and upsetting their equilibrium, Sam forced herself to look at him and bit out, ‘I’ll give you a tour, shall I?’

  Rafaele smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘That would be lovely.’

  As perfunctorily as she could, while uncomfortably aware of Rafaele breathing down her neck, Sam showed him around the ground floor of the house.

  He stopped in the study and took in the impressive array of equipment set up for his benefit, surprising her by saying, ‘This was your father’s study?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sam answered, more huskily than she would have liked, caught by a sudden upsurge of emotion at remembering her scatty, absent-minded father spending hours on end in here, oblivious to everything. Her chest tightened. Oblivious to his daughter.

  ‘They should not have set up in here...it’s not appropriate.’

  Sam looked at Rafaele, surprised by this assertion. By this evidence of sensitivity.

  ‘No...it’s fine. It’s been lying empty. It should be used.’ Her mouth twisted wryly. ‘Believe me, you could have set all this up here while he was still alive and he wouldn’t have even noticed.’

  Feeling exposed under Rafaele’s incisive green gaze, Sam backed out of the room.

  ‘Upstairs. I’ll show you your room.’

  She hurried up the stairs, very aware of Rafaele behind her, conscious of her drab work uniform. Again.

  She opened and closed doors with almost indecent speed, and they passed where Milo was chattering nineteen to the dozen with Bridie as she helped him brush his teeth in the bathroom, standing on a little box so he could reach the sink.

  Rafaele stopped outside for a long moment, and when he finally turned to keep following Sam she shivered at the look of censure in his eyes. That brief moment of sensitivity had evidently passed.

  When she didn’t open the door to her bedroom, but just gestured at it with clear reluctance, Rafaele pushed past her and opened the door. He looked in for a long moment, before slanting her an unmistak
ably mocking look. She burned inside with humiliation and hated to imagine what he must think of the room. It hadn’t been redecorated since she’d left home for college and still sported dusky pink rose wallpaper.

  The faded décor now seemed to scream out her innermost teenage fantasies of not being the school nerd, of her deeply secret wish to be just like all the other girls. No wonder Rafaele had seduced her so easily. He’d unwittingly tapped into the closet feminine romantic that Sam had repressed her whole life in a bid to be accepted by her father, turning herself into a studious tomboy.

  Aghast to be thinking of this now, she swallowed her mortification, reached past Rafaele and pulled the door firmly closed in his face. Then she led him to his room.

  Thankfully it was at the other end of the house from her room and Milo’s, which was opposite hers. And, even better, it had an en suite bathroom. After that cataclysmic moment in the university the other day she had no intention of running into a half-naked Rafaele on his way to the bathroom.

  Rafaele barely gave the room a cursory once-over. As she led him back downstairs Sam sent up another silent prayer that he was already chafing to get back to his own rarefied world, where his every whim was indulged before he’d even articulated it out loud.

  Bridie had indeed set out tea and coffee in the front room. Sam poured coffee and handed it to him, watching warily as he sat down on the comfy but decidedly threadbare sofa.

  He looked around, taking in the homely furnishings. ‘You have a nice house.’

  Sam took a seat as far away from Rafaele as possible. She all but snorted. ‘Hardly what you’re used to.’

  He levelled her a look that would have sent his minions running. ‘I’m not a snob, Samantha. I may have had a privileged upbringing, but when I set out to resurrect Falcone Industries I had nothing but the shirt on my back. I lived in an apartment the size of your porch and worked three jobs to put myself through college.’

  Sam frowned, a little blindsided by this revelation. ‘But your stepfather—he was a Greek billionaire...’