When Falcone's World Stops Turning

by Abby Green

  Milo.

  Quickly she got out of bed and went to the open adjoining door. Milo’s bed was tossed, his pyjamas were on the ground and he was nowhere to be seen.

  Bridie must have taken him for breakfast. The previous evening had seen them all seated for dinner—Milo sitting on big books on a chair to elevate him, insisting on feeding himself like a big boy, wanting to impress his new grandpapa, who had looked on approvingly.

  To Sam’s relief, after dinner Rafaele, far too disturbing in jeans and a black top, had made his excuses and disappeared to his study. And then Bridie had insisted on taking Milo up to bed, as he’d been barely able to keep awake long enough to feed himself his new favourite dessert: gelato.

  Sam had felt awkward, sitting with Umberto on her own, but the man had stood up and indicated for her to follow him and have some coffee, so she had. He’d led her to a small room off the dining room—comfortable, cosy.

  Luisa had come and poured them coffee and Sam had felt she needed to break the ice. ‘I’m sorry...that you didn’t know about Milo before now.’

  The old man had waved her words aside and admitted gruffly, ‘I gave up any right to pry into Rafaele’s life a long time ago.’

  Not knowing how to respond, Sam had just taken a sip of coffee. She’d always loved the strength and potency of well-made Italian coffee.

  ‘Milo is the same age as Rafaele was when he left here with his mother.’

  Sam had looked at Umberto.

  ‘He was very young.’ The old man’s face had darkened. ‘Too young to witness what he did.’

  Sam had frowned. ‘I’m sorry... I don’t know...’

  Umberto had looked at her, his gaze shrewd. ‘When my wife left me, Samantha, I was a broken man. I’d already lost everything. My house, the family legacy, the factory. My dignity. I begged her on my knees not to leave me but she did anyway. Rafaele witnessed my lowest moment and I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me for it.’

  Sam had tried to take it in. She’d known Rafaele’s mother had left, but not the extent of it. She wondered how traumatic it must have been for a child to see his mother turn her back on his father and it was as if something slid home inside her—she could see now where Rafaele’s intensely commitment-phobic issues might stem from.

  ‘It was a long time ago...’ Umberto had said. ‘It’s good that you are here with Milo. This will be a challenge for my proud son, and perhaps that’s not a bad thing.’

  Sam blinked in the morning light of her bedroom, the memory fading. She remembered now that she’d had disjointed dreams all night of a man on his knees, begging, pleading, with Milo looking on, crying in distress... She pursed her lips. One thing she could guarantee pretty categorically was that Rafaele would never be reduced to begging on his knees to anyone.

  Trying not to think of that vulnerable three-year-old Rafaele, when all she could see was Milo in her mind’s eye, Sam washed and dressed and went to search for Milo and Bridie. She found them in the dining room with the sun pouring in.

  Sam bent to kiss her son, aware of a cool green gaze on her from the head of the table. Umberto and Bridie broke off from their conversation to greet Sam and Rafaele stood up. Sam had to quell a dart of hurt. She felt as if the minute she entered a room he wanted to leave it.

  ‘I’ve got to go to the factory this morning for my meeting... I’ve arranged for a driver to come and pick you all up in an hour. He will drop Umberto off at the doctor’s and take you into Milan to sightsee. I’ll join you there this afternoon for a late lunch.’

  Umberto muttered something rude about doctors and Sam saw Bridie smile.

  Milo was asking Sam, ‘What’s sightsee?’

  Rafaele had pinned Sam with that unreadable gaze and instantly she felt breathless. ‘I have to go to a function this evening. I’d like it if you accompanied me.’

  Sam opened her mouth. ‘I...’

  Bridie chipped in quickly. ‘Of course she will. You could do with a night out, Sam, love. I’ll be here, and Milo can sleep with me so you won’t have to worry about disturbing him.’

  Sam glared at Bridie, who looked back at her with an innocence she didn’t trust for a second. Umberto was unhelpfully silent.

  Sam looked at Rafaele and was loath to let him see that she might not want to go for very personal reasons.

  She shrugged a shoulder. ‘Sure—why not?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THAT EVENING SAM realised a fundamental flaw in her plan to join Rafaele for his function. She had no dress. She hadn’t even thought about it earlier, while in Milan, too caught up in the whistlestop sightseeing tour Rafaele had arranged for Bridie and Milo, who obviously hadn’t been there before. Then they’d picked Umberto up from the doctor’s and met Rafaele for lunch.

  Biting her lip and wondering what to do, Sam went to the wardrobe, fully expecting it to be empty. When she opened the door, though, she gasped and her heart stopped cold in her chest. There was a dress hanging up inside, and it was the dress Rafaele had bought her four years before. She remembered the big white box it had come in, along with the matching underwear, shoes and jewels. She’d left it all behind at the palazzo because she’d felt as if it had never really belonged to her.

  About two months after Sam had returned to England the box containing the dress, shoes, underwear and jewellery had arrived via a courier company. As soon as she’d realised what it was and had read the accompanying note—I bought this for you. Rafaele—Sam had sent it back with the note torn in two pieces.

  And now it was here.

  Sam felt short of breath. She took the dress out of the wardrobe, its material heavy and slinky, and stalked out of her bedroom and across the hall to Rafaele’s, not bothering to knock on the door.

  Her eyes widened when she took in a naked Rafaele, strolling out of his bathroom and rubbing his hair with a towel. For a long moment he just stood there, and Sam’s eyes were glued to that broad, magnificent chest. Instant heat bloomed in her belly.

  With a strangled sound she lifted her eyes and held the dress out. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  With supreme nonchalance Rafaele secured the towel around his waist and quirked his mouth sexily on one side. ‘It’s amazing how you can still blush, cara.’

  Sam gritted out, ‘Don’t call me that. I’m not your cara. Why do you still have this dress?’

  Rafaele’s face was inscrutable. He shrugged. ‘It seemed a shame to throw it away just because you didn’t want it.’

  Bile rose inside Sam. ‘And how many lucky women have worn it since me?’

  A muscle popped in Rafaele’s jaw. ‘None. I thought you’d appreciate blending in with the crowd tonight instead of appearing in your habitual tomboy uniform.’

  To Sam’s disgust she felt tears prick her eyes. ‘I’ll try not to disappoint you, Rafaele. After all, I know what an honour it is to be taken out in public with you, because you never deemed it appropriate before.’

  She whirled around and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Rafaele winced and put his hands on his hips. His chest was a tight ball of blackness. He cursed himself. He should have followed his head and thrown that dress out as soon as he’d realised she’d left it behind—instead of sending it to her, almost intrigued as to how she might respond when even then he’d known that he couldn’t have anything more to do with her.

  When it had arrived back with the torn note, then he should have thrown it out. But instead he’d instructed his housekeeper to hang it up and had refused to analyse why he’d done such a thing.

  It was just a dress.

  Thoroughly disgruntled now, and regretting the impulse he’d had earlier to ask Sam to accompany him this evening, Rafaele got dressed.

  * * *

  Sam was still tight-lipped in the back o
f one of Rafaele’s chauffeur-driven cars about an hour later. She was as far away from him as she could get without falling out of the door, and she hated the electric awareness that pulsed between them.

  As they’d been leaving Milo had been holding Umberto’s hand in the grand hallway of the palazzo and he’d gasped. ‘Mummy, you look like a princess.’

  Sam had gone red, and then grown even hotter when Rafaele had appeared, looking stupendously gorgeous in a classic tuxedo. Suddenly she’d been glad of the effort she’d made. She needed all the armour she could muster.

  Her hair was up in a topknot, held in place with a jewelled pin loaned to her by Bridie. She’d put on more make-up than she’d normally wear, outlining her eyes and thickening her lashes. And wearing the vertiginous heels that had come with the dress Sam reached to Rafaele’s shoulder.

  He hadn’t touched her while they were leaving. He’d merely indicated that she should precede him and, feeling horribly exposed under his cool gaze, Sam had walked out, praying she wouldn’t fall over.

  Now they were pulling up outside the glittering façade of a building with men in uniforms waiting to assist all the guests in their finery. Butterflies swarmed into Sam’s belly.

  She felt her arm being taken in a warm grip and showers of electric shocks seemed to spread through her body. Reluctantly she looked at Rafaele, and the momentarily unguarded look on his face took her by surprise.

  ‘I should have told you earlier... You look beautiful.’

  ‘I...’ Sam’s voice failed. ‘Thank you.’

  And just like that she felt the animosity drain away. She realised that as soon as she’d seen the dress hanging up she’d harboured a very treacherous wish that Rafaele had kept it for sentimental reasons, and that was the basis for her lashing out at him. It had been anger at herself for her own pathetic weakness.

  Rafaele had let her go. Sam’s door was being opened and someone was waiting for her to step out. When she did so, Rafaele was standing there, his face unreadable again. She wondered if she had imagined what he’d just said...

  He took her arm and led her inside and Sam was glad he was supporting her, because nothing could have prepared her for the dazzling display of wealth and beauty as soon as they walked in.

  She felt instantly gauche: both underdressed and overdressed. Rafaele got them drinks and almost immediately was surrounded by gushing acolytes—a mixture of men and women. As they stood there the number of women seemed to increase. They shot Sam glances ranging from the curious to the downright angry—as if he had no right to come here with a woman.

  Clearly Rafaele was a prize to be fought over, and Sam really didn’t like the way her own hackles rose and her blood started to boil in response. She felt a very disturbing primal urge rise up within her to claim him in some way. The fact that she had borne his child seemed to resonate deep within her, and she wanted to snarl at the women to back off.

  With a lazy insouciance that did nothing to help cool her blood, Rafaele reached out and drew her to his side. The level of malevolence coming from the women increased exponentially.

  He said to the people surrounding them, ‘I’d like to introduce you to Samantha Rourke.’

  Something in Sam went cold at this very bare introduction, which left her in some kind of limbo land—what exactly was she to him?

  But what had she expected him to say? Meet the mother of my child, who is such a pushover that she lets me sleep with her even though she knows I hate her...?

  Sam caught one or two smug looks from a couple of the women. As if to say, She’s no competition. Her blood boiled over.

  She managed to keep it together until they were alone again and then she rounded on him. ‘If you brought me here just to deflect the attention from those man-eaters then I think I’ve done my bit. I’d prefer to be at home with Milo than to witness your simpering fan club line up to tell you how marvellous you are.’

  Furious at herself for feeling so emotional, Sam stabbed Rafaele’s chest with a finger. ‘I’m the mother of your child—tell that to your next prospective mistress.’

  Rafaele looked at Sam and felt something pierce his chest. Her words were lost to him for a second in the glare from those grey eyes. She looked so young, so stunning. Her neck was long and graceful, her skin so pale he could see the delicate veins underneath. The dress hugged and emphasised every curve, fitting her better now than it had four years ago. His eyes dropped down over the swell of her breasts and her words resounded within him: I’m the mother of your child.

  Moments ago, when he’d reached out to pull her to him and introduce her, he’d felt a second of blind panic. The realisation had been immediate and stark: he’d just introduced his peers to Sam and when the news emerged of his son, and that she was his mother, they would assume that they were together. And that thought wasn’t making him want to flee.

  Rafaele had not even considered this prospect when he’d asked Sam to the function. He’d just looked at her that morning and the words had spilled out... Proving once again how she scrambled his thought processes. How she effortlessly tapped into something deep and instinctive within him that led to choices and decisions that his head might normally balk at.

  He couldn’t even blame her. It wasn’t as if she’d inveigled her way to an invitation—if anything she’d looked horrified at the suggestion. Rafaele’s blood simmered. He felt the imprint of Sam’s finger in his chest. The rest of the room died away and he saw only her. Need and desire rose up to strangle him and magnified his feeling of exposure.

  Reaching out a hand, he snaked it around her neck and brought her closer. Something triumphant moved through him when he saw those eyes flare with awareness. But the realisation of how comfortable he was with people knowing who Sam was, assuming they were together, was too raw, too new. He needed to push it back. Push her back.

  ‘I have the only mistress I need right here, Sam. Why would I go looking when you’ve already proved yourself so amenable?’

  Her cheeks went white and Rafaele felt the punch of something dirty and dark down low.

  ‘You bastard.’

  She pulled away from him and spun around, moving through the crowd. It was a long second before Rafaele could function again, and then he set off after her, a dense darkness expanding in his chest when he thought of those huge eyes and the pain in their depths that he’d just witnessed. That he’d just caused. Wilfully. From weakness.

  * * *

  Sam could barely drag enough oxygen into her lungs. She was seething. Hurt and angry with herself for letting Rafaele get to her. For feeling so possessive and jealous around those other women. For ever hoping even for a second that his bringing her here tonight had meant something...

  She raised a hand to get the doorman’s attention, to ask him to call her a cab, but just then it was caught by a firm grip and she was whirled around.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  Rafaele looked as livid as she felt, and he had no right to be. Sam pulled her arm free. ‘I’m going home, Rafaele. I don’t need to be reminded publicly how little you like to acknowledge me in your life.’

  She turned around again, but gave a gasp of dismay when she saw Rafaele’s chauffeur-driven car stopping at the foot of the steps. He was marching her down to the open door before she could do anything. The door was quickly shut and he was sliding in the other side. Sam had a perverse urge to open the door and jump out but she curbed the childish desire. And also she realised she didn’t have enough money for a cab. She scowled at herself. Being with Rafaele was eroding her very independence.

  Rafaele issued a terse instruction to the driver and the privacy window slid up noiselessly. His eyes glittered at her in the gloom of the backseat but even now Sam’s muscles clenched in her pelvis, and she felt the betraying heat of desire getting her body ready for this man. Her m
an. The stupid assertion flashed again. She could have growled with frustration.

  Eventually he bit out, ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did back there. You didn’t deserve that.’

  It was the last thing Sam had expected to hear, and she said faintly, ‘No, I didn’t.’ And then, ‘Why did you bring me with you, Rafaele? People will only ask questions...when they find out about Milo... We shouldn’t be seen together. It doesn’t help matters.’

  Rafaele’s face looked as if it was carved out of stone. ‘You’re the mother of my child, Samantha. It’s inevitable that we’ll be seen together, no matter what happens in the future.’

  Sam had an image then of Rafaele, married to some cool blonde beauty, and of an older Milo heading off on a plane on his own to stay with his father and his new family. The image made her suck in a breath of pain and she scooted as far away from him in the back of the car as she could.

  Mixed in with the pain she was feeling was the ever-present and building sexual frustration. She felt as if she was going mad. Heat burned her insides and made her skin prickle. All she could see in her peripheral vision was the huge dark shape of Rafaele and imagined that powerful body, naked and surging into hers, thrusting so deep that she’d finally feel some measure of peace.

  She had to hold back a groan, and was aware of Rafaele’s quick glance at her through the thick tension between them.

  Lord. It had been a long time since Sam had had to pleasure herself, but if this need wasn’t assuaged soon she’d go mad.

  ‘Sam.’

  Rafaele’s voice was thick and Sam’s heart palpitated. Reluctantly she looked at him and a pulse throbbed between her legs. She clamped her thighs together desperately.

  He reached over and took her hand and Sam almost cried out at the sensation. She tried to pull back but he wouldn’t release her.

  ‘I want you.’

  His face was in shadow but she could sense his desperation. It was little comfort. Inevitability rose up inside her. She could resist anything but this declaration. This promise that soon, if she allowed it, he would ease this ache that was inside her, tearing her apart. It transcended even what had just happened.