‘Absolutely. Just make sure whoever you sacrifice is a virgin, so I have nothing to fear.’
He laughed, as he had on their cliff walk that evening, and the sound rippled through her on a wave of pleasure, and once again she asked herself why it couldn’t be like this always, when one day was so special. He did enjoy being with her. He must feel something for her, to have cancelled his appointments for a day and made the time to be with her. It wasn’t all about the sex, or they would never have left his suite this morning.
Shortly afterwards, the launch powered up and steered away from Iseo’s Pyramid, back across the passage to Montvelatte. Out on the water the wind was rising. She heard talk from the deck of a predicted summer storm but discounted it. The sky was so blue and cloudless that it reminded her of the years she’d spent with her mother in Australia, where the land had seemed to go for ever until it met the sky. She’d loved the sense of space she’d found there, the space she’d never found growing up on a tiny in-the-middle-of-an-ocean boat or in a crowded school clinging to the side of a mountain in Gibraltar. Australia had been made of space, it seemed, and Montvelatte, an island in the Mediterranean, seemed to share the best of both her worlds—space and endless skies, hers for the taking.
A wind whipped up, tugging at her hair as the launch sliced through the water. Sienna laughed as she was caught offbalance, the hair flicking loosely around her face, her hands unsuccessfully trying to recapture the wayward locks, until Rafe captured her hands in one of his own and pulled them down low. ‘Leave it,’ he said, using the sway of the boat to tilt her towards him so he could kiss her brow. ‘I love your hair just the way it is.’
And then he angled up her chin, and his lips met hers, her hair blowing unrestrained around them as the empty yawning hole inside her latched onto a single truth that jolted her to her core.
Please, no, she thought, feeling herself shrivel away from him in panic.
Please, not that!
But as his mouth moved over hers, the truth refused to be ignored, unfurling inside her, filling the vacuum in a revelation that could see her damned.
She loved him.
Shock wrenched her from the kiss, and when he came after her she claimed the motion of the boat was making her queasy. He had no trouble believing her, just as she had no trouble convincing him, a wave of nausea snapping closely on the heels of her discovery.
She couldn’t love him.
She clung to the railing, while he insisted on fetching her some water, her world tilting and yawing in a way that had nothing to do with the motion of the boat and everything to do with a growing fear in her heart.
How could she have let it happen?
And yet, her mind recalled, one night in Paris, on a night filled with lovemaking so passionate and intense it had rocked her world, hadn’t that been exactly what she’d thought? That if a woman wasn’t careful, a man like Rafe was everything she could fall in love with?
But that had been before he’d shunted her out the door and out of his life without a second glance, and that was before he’d only wanted her back when he’d discovered she was pregnant to him. How could she fall in love with someone who’d treated her that way?
Too easily, it seemed. She’d allowed the same things she’d been attracted to from the very beginning to influence her now, overriding her reasons to hate him. He’d ridden roughshod over her at every opportunity, denying her any choice, telling her that they would be married and when. And still she’d let him under her skin, wanted him by her side, in her bed. Wanted him.
And that had been the real reason why she’d wanted to flee from Montvelatte the first chance she’d had. Not just because she was angry with him for the way he’d thrust her from his room that night, but because she’d known, ever since she’d landed on the island, how he could make her feel with just one look or one touch, and so she’d had to escape, and as soon as possible.
And that had been the real reason she’d stayed. Because in spite of everything, he held the magic to make her want him.
And she did want him.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, though. He could love her, he should love her, but she wasn’t supposed to love him, not if he could never return that love.
Sienna clung to the railing, breathing in great bursts of air, as the launch lurched over first one swell, and then another, swallowing them down and wishing she could swallow down her memories. Memories of her mother, her face contorted and tear-stained, her voice cracking as she pleaded with Sienna’s father to stay at home and not go to the bar that night. Begging him not to go. Telling him that she loved him.
And her father had bellowed back at her, calling her a stupid bitch, and yelling that he’d never loved her and never would and that the only reason he’d married her was because of the baby she’d been too stupid to get rid of. The hatch door had been slammed shut and he’d gone.
He hadn’t come home that night. Or the next. And, worried about her mother’s deepening depression, Sienna had asked her where her father was. It had been an innocent enough question. She’d known she was that baby for years, the one who had ruined her father’s life. But she’d thought in her young adolescent mind that if she could find her father and tell him that she would leave, things might once again be good between her mother and her father.
She’d only wanted to help.
But her question had only brought fresh floods of tears from her mother that had answered nothing, only bringing on a sick feeling that had buried itself deep into the pit of her stomach—that it was already too late.
And that it was all her fault.
A week later Sienna had overheard the news from her friends at the English school on the side of Gibraltar’s mountain, from girls who whispered in the rabbit warren of corridors in hushed tones, that her father had moved in with the woman from the bar and that he’d been boasting to everyone that he was never going back.
In the cramped society that was Gibraltar’s marina, it was the best kind of scandal. Sex, infidelity and betrayal, all celebrated with a tinge of pathos for the child involved, the child who knew she was responsible for it all.
The boat lurched over the wash from a long gone passenger ferry, and a stomach that she’d been trying to keep under control lurched with it. ‘Oh, God,’ she cried, clamping a hand over her mouth.
Sweat broke out on her forehead; she felt sick to her core and leaned out over the railing, concentrating so hard on not letting go that only vaguely was she aware of the shouting and of the stilling of the boat. She managed a few deep gulps of air, and it was easier then to swallow back on her churning stomach, the residual wash no more than a rhythmic slap of water against the hull.
The gentle breeze cooled her sweated brow, made her aware of how hot she’d been, how close to losing everything in her stomach.
Damn it! She hated feeling this sickness, whatever the cause. Hated the feeling of vulnerability that went along with it.
She felt Rafe’s hand at her back, stroking her shoulder, and almost shrugged him away until she realized that if she was feeling anything, then she was already over the worst.
‘Here,’ he said, and gratefully she turned and took the goblet, sipping at the cool fluid.
‘I’ll get them to radio the doctor,’ he told her. ‘He can meet us when we get back.’
She pushed the glass away. ‘I don’t need a doctor!’
‘You’re not well. You need a doctor.’
‘What I need is to have my head read,’ she snapped, wondering what perverse law of nature had decided that, of all the men in the world, she should be unlucky enough to fall in love with this man. ‘And I’m quite sure your precious heirs will be fine, which is all you’re really worried about.’
His hand fell away, the silence dragging. ‘What is this?’
‘Just that every time I so much as sneeze, you call in the doctors.’
‘I want you to be well. Is there anything wrong with that?’
> ‘You don’t give a damn about me and don’t pretend you do! Your concern for me extends no further than as an incubator for your babies. If you could get away with plugging me into a power socket for the duration, like any other incubator, you’d be satisfied.’
‘You’re talking rubbish.’ He turned and made a signal to the skipper, who had been waiting patiently for instructions, and who now revved up the engines and cut a course back into port. ‘What are you trying to turn this into—some kind of contest about what means more to me? You know how important it is for Montvelatte—for me—to have an heir.’
She swung away from him and swept a hand across her face, pushing back the loose tendrils of her hair. ‘There is no contest. I’m merely acknowledging the truth of the matter. You’d never be thinking about marrying me if it weren’t for two small smudges on a screen. You’d never even consider marrying me if it weren’t for these two babies of yours I’m carrying.’
‘And that’s a problem?’ He moved closer, his hands held out to her, but she jumped back out of his reach just as quickly.
‘This damned marriage is all about these babies. Nothing else. If it weren’t for them, you would have let me walk away weeks ago.’
His feet planted wide on the deck, he reached a hand to his head, pushing it through his hair, irritation plainly written on his features.
‘We’ve been through this,’he said gruffly, his patience clearly wearing thin. ‘We both know why we’re getting married. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be good together. You know that.’
‘Sure, we have a great time in bed. Now there’s a sound basis for a marriage. Not!’
‘Even forgetting the fact we’ll have children between us, being compatible in bed is more than some people have.’
‘And it’s less than others have.’
‘I’ll settle for the sex.’
She scoffed. ‘I’d expect you to say that. And what happens when we don’t have such a great time in bed any more? When you get sick of me or I get sick of you? What happens then?’
Even behind his sunglasses, she could see his eyes narrow as they focused in on her. ‘Then we get separate beds. Is that what you want to hear?’ He looked away, his hand troubling his already tousled hair once more. ‘What is this?’ he said, turning back. ‘What are you trying to prove?’
Sienna stood at the railing, looking out to sea, the wind in her hair as the boat cut through the clear blue water, and shook her head. ‘I don’t want it,’ she said. ‘I don’t want a marriage based on becoming someone’s brood mare.’
‘A bit melodramatic, don’t you think?’
‘No, I don’t think. You need an heir. If these …’ she placed a hand low over her tummy, cradling the place her babies were growing deep below ‘ … turn out to be girls, that doesn’t help you one bit, does it? A daughter cannot become a prince. A daughter does not solve Montvelatte’s problem. You need a son.’
‘They will be boys; I know it.’
‘How can you know it? There is no way of telling at this stage, no way of knowing. And if you’re wrong, and neither of these babies is male, what will my job be?’ She nodded, drawing herself up as still and tall as she could. ‘I’ll be expected to keep on breeding until you have an heir and a spare. But will that be enough, I wonder, given what happened to your brothers? Two sons may not be enough. So how many children must I be expected to bear? How many times will I be expected to share your bed so that you might inject me with your seed and get me pregnant? Don’t even pretend you don’t expect me to be some kind of brood mare for you.’
‘Enough!’ He drew closer. So close she could see the corded tension in his throat, the thump of his heart beating in his temples. ‘And you would have me believe that you do not enjoy sharing my bed? Dio, who was it who dressed herself like a temptress and paraded herself in front of Montvelatte’s wealthiest like some high-society whore, trawling for sex, smelling for all the world like a bitch in heat—’
Her open palm collided against his face with a crack that slammed his head sideways and left a deep red stain upon his olive-skinned cheek.
‘You bastard! I am nobody’s whore!’
He raised a hand to his face, rubbing the place she had hit and all the while he looked down at her. ‘All I am trying to do is make the best of a situation.’
‘Take advantage of it, you mean!’
‘Which is better than pretending it doesn’t exist! Don’t you think it’s about time you faced the facts? You’re pregnant with twins. My twins. What the hell else are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. But maybe you might have bloody well asked me to marry you, instead of just demanding I do.’
‘And would you have said yes?’
‘Not a snowball’s chance in hell.’
His jaw worked overtime, his eyes cold as flint. ‘Then maybe it’s just as well I didn’t ask.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE engines slowed as they entered the harbour, and Rafe went and stood at the opposite side of the launch as the pilot skilfully negotiated their way into the marina and to the private landing where Sebastiano stood to attention, waiting for them to dock, the buttons on his jacket gleaming under the sun. He was looking from one to the other, a small frown creasing the skin between his wiry eyebrows.
‘What is it?’ Rafe asked before they’d berthed, obviously eager for a change of topic.
‘The Princess Marietta has arrived. She’s waiting for you at the Castello.’
‘Marietta is here? Already?’ He leapt onto the dock. ‘I’ll take the Alfa. Sebastiano, you take Signorina Wainwright and drive carefully. She’s feeling a little off-colour.’
And then he was gone, and it was Sebastiano’s duty to hand her from the boat. ‘You’re not well, Signorina Wainwright?’ he inquired as intelligent eyes scanned her features, and she gained the distinct impression he missed nothing, not even the residual spark of fury that coloured her vision.
‘I’m fine,’ she answered, taking his hand as she stepped onto the dock. ‘Rafe worries too much.’
‘Prince Raphael has not seen his sister in some years. They have a lot to catch up on.’
‘Lucky Marietta,’ was the best response she could dredge up. He’d tried. He’d cancelled his appointments and taken her out on a cruise around the island. He’d shown her the tiny coves and beaches that dotted the coastline, tutored her in the names of the villages and what specialities each was renowned for, whether it was to do with wine, olives, oranges or seafood.
Rafe took a hairpin bend, his tyres squealing in protest, and slammed his fist against the steering wheel. He’d done everything he could. And still she railed against him, blaming him, fighting the inevitable as if she were some innocent lamb being led to the slaughter.
Christo! What was her problem?
Last night she’d been the one to come to him, calling to every last sexual sense he had, the siren, beckoning him, wanting him to make love to her.
Hadn’t he given her what she’d wanted? She’d seemed fine with their arrangement then. What the hell had changed between then and now?
The Alfa Romeo made easy work of the climb, the Castello looming larger and larger in front of him as he neared its iron gates. Maybe she was right. Maybe their marriage was a disaster waiting to happen if she could run so hot and cold in the space of twenty-four hours.
Maybe he would be better off with someone more amenable. Or maybe pregnancy was sending her hormone levels haywire. She was having twins after all. Did that mean twice the hormones?
Besides, he didn’t want someone else.
Why would he when she was already pregnant with his seed?
Two babies. And she could think what she liked, but he was damned sure at least one of them would be a son and the heir that Montvelatte needed if it was to maintain its status as a Principality into the future.
It was perfect. Why couldn’t she see that?
It had to be hormones.
Rafe pulled
into the forecourt and was just uncurling himself from the car when he heard a sound, a familiar voice even as it turned into a squeal of pleasure. He looked up to see his little sister running down the steps towards him, and he wondered when his little sister had turned into such a stunning woman, a younger version of how he remembered his mother—blonde and beautiful and a throwback to another time, when northern Europeans had swept south into Italy. Somehow Marietta had inherited the lion’s share of her genes from their mother. As for him, he’d inherited her height, but the rest of his genes he could attribute squarely to his typically Mediterranean father.
He was glad she’d won their mother’s blonde good looks and that they sat with such apparent ease on her. Maybe he hadn’t taken any notice back then, or maybe it had just been too long a time since he’d seen her. How many years was it since they’d seen each other? Whatever, it was way too long.
‘Raphael!’ she squealed, launching herself at him, and the years faded away, and it was his little Marietta back in his arms. His same little princess. Although now with a discernible hint of a New Zealand accent. ‘I’m so sorry I missed your coronation.’
He grimaced. ‘Don’t be. It was a dry and dusty affair. You didn’t miss anything. But you’re here early. I wasn’t expecting you until just before the wedding.’
‘I finished a design project early. Thought I’d take off before they lumbered me with another. I hope you don’t mind. It’s just so good to see you at last.’ She kissed both his cheeks and then stood back down, a grin tugging at her lips as she gave him a look of mock seriousness. ‘Or should I call you “Prince Raphael” now?’
He squeezed her to him again and spun her around, returning the kiss with one of his own. ‘Only if you let me call you princess.’
‘But you always did,’ she said on a laugh as she settled back to ground level, taking his arm as they headed into the Castello. ‘But who would have imagined one day I would actually be a princess for real—and that this—’ she swept her arm around in a wide arc ‘—would all be yours.’
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