by Jennie Lucas
And then release came for both of them—an intense wave of emotion and pleasure that crashed over them, leaving them shuddering, silent and senseless.
His breathing still ragged, his chest heaving, Rafe remained in the circle of her arms, still inside her, for one precious beat, before he pulled away, yanked up his trousers and left the room.
CHAPTER SIX
RAFE stalked into his room, dazed and shaking. What had just happened?
He took a shuddering breath and raked a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He knew all too well what had happened. He just couldn’t believe he had done it. It seemed utterly impossible that he had just had sex with Freya Clark, yet he felt satiation stealing through his body even as his mind rebelled, denied. He had known her for less than twenty-four hours. He had had no intention of so much as laying a finger on her. And yet within minutes—seconds—all that had changed.
She had come close to him and he’d breathed in the faint scent of lilac that he knew must be from her soap or shampoo, seen the rise and fall of her chest through her thin tank top as she breathed, and he had felt a sudden, desperate tidal wave of yearning that he hadn’t been able to control.
And when she had responded in kind…her mouth opening under his, accepting, wanting…that tidal wave had dragged him under completely.
After four long, lonely years—years of living off anger and bitterness rather than desire or love—he’d wanted that immediate connection and satisfaction, had needed it from her, and that deep need had overtaken any reason or self-control he’d had. The thought shamed him.
And now he was left with the aftermath of that rash act. How could they go forward with that between them? How could they concentrate on Max? He would have to tackle it directly, Rafe knew, yet he could not face it now. The realisation shamed him further. He’d shown such appalling weakness. He shuddered, shook off the thought.
He would speak to Freya in the morning. Explain—what? That it shouldn’t have happened? He knew she would agree. Surely she hadn’t expected… Had she planned it? Rafe stilled, his body tensing with sudden suspicion. Had Freya been trying to seduce him as a way to bind herself closer to Max, keep him from finding another care-giver? The suspicions slid slyly into Rafe’s mind, causing him to freeze as he considered the awful possibility. He thought of how she’d placed her hand on his arm, how she hadn’t moved it. She’d looked up at him, her eyes wide, her mouth parted, waiting, and then her shocking, shameless response…
Had she used him?
God knew he had little reason to trust Freya Clark. He’d felt she was hiding something from the start—sensed that calm composure was covering some purpose or plan—but seduction? Did she really think a single night of rushed pleasure would change his mind? And yet in that moment of shocking intimacy he’d felt closer to Freya Clark than he had to another human being in a long, long time. She could not have expected him to respond that way, to have known how much he longed for it.
And yet it had happened. Freya had approached him, had not turned away from his kiss despite his every expectation that she would. Rafe’s mouth twisted in disgust at both her and himself even as he fought against the urge to condemn her without true proof. He did not want to be unjust, yet he’d faced so much injustice himself.
And even if she had been using him, he could not send her away so suddenly. Max would be devastated. He thought of Max’s blankly terrified face, the endless screams. Max needed Freya—for several more weeks, at least. They were stuck together, at least for a little while, no matter what her intentions had been. He didn’t trust her. And he still had every intention of sending her away as soon as possible.
Freya walked from the living room as if she were made of glass. She felt as if she could shatter at any moment. She walked with her arms wrapped around herself, as if she could keep herself together by sheer physical force.
How could she have allowed herself to be so weak, tempted by desire yet again? How could ten years of distance and decorum, of carefully building a fortress around her body and heart, count for nothing? She felt as defenceless as a razed tower, her body and heart raw and vulnerable, open and exposed to the elements. To Rafe.
She thought of how he’d left the room, stalking from it as if he were angry, probably disgusted. By what they had done. By her. Had he sensed that weakness inside her? Had he known she would respond to his kiss, unable to keep desire from swamping her senses, obliterating all reason?
Freya went to the bathroom and, mindless of the late hour, ran a steaming bath. She needed to wash away the memory of what had just happened even if she couldn’t erase the regret. She would, Freya knew from experience, live with that for ever.
Even after a bath, sleep wouldn’t come. She kept reliving those urgent moments with Rafe—the feel of his lips on her skin, his body inside her, the fierce sense of both joy and regret, pleasure and pain. She had not been close, much less had sex, with anyone for ten years. Since Timeo. And it stunned and scared her that Rafe Sandoval had been the one to crumble her defences. She turned her head towards her pillow, closing her eyes tightly, willing the memories and regrets to recede.
She must have slept, although she did not remember doing so, for she opened her eyes several hours later to see Max standing very close to her face, peering owlishly at her. Freya blinked and tried to smile, although every muscle in her body ached.
‘Hello, there, sleepyhead.’
Max grinned. ‘You’re the sleepyhead.’
‘So I am.’ She touched his cheek, as soft and round as a peach, savouring the moment. Then the memories of last night rushed in, obliterating anything else, crashing over her so her throat closed up and her eyes stung. She withdrew her hand. ‘Let me just get dressed, Max, and we’ll go and see about breakfast.’
A few minutes later, with Max’s hand slipped through her own, Freya cautiously headed out into the apartment. Rafe was nowhere to be seen, and she felt a dizzying wave of relief. She wasn’t ready to see him yet; she didn’t know if she ever would be.
A housekeeper was busy in the kitchen, setting out bowls of fruit and slices of warm bread with pots of butter and jam, and she smiled at both Freya and Max as they entered. Freya made introductions, and they sat down at a table in the alcove and set to eating.
‘How long are we going to stay here?’ Max asked as he popped a strawberry in his mouth, juice running down his chin.
‘I’m not sure, Max. I think we’ll see Rafe’s house in the country soon. Wouldn’t you like that? To visit the mountains?’
Max frowned, and Freya knew she hadn’t fooled him. Despite her cheerful, brisk attitude, he sensed that something wasn’t right about this whole scenario.
‘I want to go swimming,’ he finally said, and Freya knew he was remembering Rafe mentioning that he had a pool.
‘And you will. It’s warmer in Spain, you know. You can go swimming outside even this time of year.’
Max brightened at this, and turned back to his fruit. Freya felt another wave of relief. She wasn’t ready to offer Max explanations she couldn’t even give. Thank goodness children were resilient.
Certainly more resilient than she was… She felt fragile and bruised, her body and brain both aching with the aftermath of last night.
Even as those thoughts ricocheted through her mind Rafe entered the kitchen. He was dressed for work, looking cool and remote in an immaculately cut business suit, a gold and silver watch flashing on one wrist. He greeted Maria, the housekeeper, and accepted a cup of coffee before turning to the two of them at the table.
‘Good morning, Maximo.’ His face softened in a smile clearly meant only for his son. He did not look at Freya. Max grinned back, his face and shirt already splotched with strawberry stains. ‘I’m afraid I must be at work today, but tomorrow we will go to my house in Andalusia and have fun there. Bueno?’
Max nodded shyly. ‘Bueno,’ he said.
Then Rafe turned to her, his mouth tightening, his eyes narrowing. The
movements were almost imperceptible, yet Freya saw them. Felt them. He looked angry, she realised with a shaft of pain that surprised her, even though she should have expected it. He was blaming her—just as she couldn’t keep from blaming herself. ‘We will talk tonight.’
She nodded, returning his gaze, refusing to allow all the aching emotion to show on her face. She might have suffered a moment of weakness in allowing Rafe access to her body, but she would never let him into her mind or heart. That would be even more dangerous, more painful.
Rafe stared at her, his gaze still narrowed, as if he was trying to understand her…and then make a judgement. Then, after a tense pause, he turned away, and Freya let out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
After breakfast Freya took Max for a walk in the neighbourhood, Barrio Salamanca. They window-shopped on the chic Calle Serrano, and gazed at the modern sculptures—much like the ones in Rafe’s apartment—at the Museo de Escultura Abstracta.
By lunchtime Max was worn out, and Freya tucked him in for a nap before lying down herself, since she’d got very little sleep last night. Her body still thrummed with memories, ached with regret. Her mind insisted on replaying every moment with Rafe, and despite his coolness this morning she realised that she still desired him. At least her body did. Her body longed for his touch again.
She managed a restless doze before Max woke up, and then they ate a light dinner that Maria had prepared. Rafe still wasn’t home by the time Freya had bathed Max and tucked him into bed with several of his favourite stories.
‘When will Rafe come back?’ he asked, after she’d read each story at least twice. His eyes were already drooping and his thumb hovered near his mouth.
‘Tonight,’ Freya promised. ‘And tomorrow we will go to his other house.’
‘With the pool?’
‘With the pool,’ Freya confirmed, glad it could be—at least for now—that simple for Max.
She stayed until his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing evened out. In the distance she heard a door open and close, and she knew from the sound—and the plunging sensation in her middle—that Rafe had returned.
Of course she couldn’t avoid him for ever, yet she still dreaded seeing him—had no idea how to handle the moment his coldly assessing gaze met hers.
She stood on the threshold of the living room, watching as Rafe shrugged out of his suit jacket and loosened the knot of his tie. Then he turned to face her, and the very air seemed to freeze. Freya’s mind blanked so she could only stare at him, remember how she’d buried her face in his shoulder, wrapped her legs around his waist. Cried in his arms.
‘Max is asleep?’
Freya nodded. She did not trust herself to speak.
Rafe took a breath and let it out slowly. ‘Last night…’
She waited, tensing, knowing she should rush in and fill that silence with words and explanations, but she couldn’t. She’d had plenty of time today to attempt to formulate a coherent reason for what had happened last night, how the darkness and memories and intensity of Max’s terror had conspired to create an impossible, uncontrollable urge in both of them, yet now that seemed just a flimsy excuse for something that had—at least for her—been far deeper, darker, and more damaging. So she simply stared, and watched Rafe’s expression flatten and harden, the suspicion and anger flaring in his eyes.
‘It should not have happened,’ he said after a long, tense moment. ‘At least I did not intend for such a thing.’
The slight stress on I made Freya stiffen. ‘I didn’t either,’ she answered, her voice thankfully cool.
Rafe glanced at her sharply. ‘Didn’t you?’ he said, and Freya recoiled. So he was going to blame her. The realisation did not really surprise her, but it still hurt.
‘Is that what you think?’ she asked levelly. ‘That I seduced you?’
Rafe let out a short huff of sound—something torn between laughter and despair. He hunched one shoulder. ‘God knows what I think,’ he said in a low voice.
Freya sagged slightly in relief. She’d been expecting accusations, harsh and unrelenting. You should know better. What kind of girl are you? Things she’d heard and endured before. And yet despite Rafe’s admission she still felt guilty. She wondered if she would ever be free of that old guilt—that fear—if any relationship she had would be untainted by it. Its leaden weight was why she’d avoided relationships of any kind for so long, and yet somehow with Rafe she’d forgotten. At least for a moment.
And yet that she’d forgotten at all made her feel guiltier than ever.
Rafe gazed at her thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing once more, and Freya felt as if he could see into her soul. Sense her guilt. ‘Did I…hurt you?’ he finally asked, his voice low.
His gaze remained steady on her, colour high on his cheekbones, and Freya looked away. His thoughtfulness both touched and shamed her. The encounter had been so explosive, so urgent; clearly it had shocked him as much as her.
‘No,’ she whispered. Not unless she counted the pain in her heart.
Rafe nodded, accepting. ‘I must ask,’ he continued, his voice still low. ‘Is there any chance you could be pregnant?’
Shock raced through Freya, icy and unpleasant. She had not considered that Rafe would think of such a thing. ‘No,’ she said, her voice even lower than his, barely audible. ‘There isn’t.’
‘You are on birth control?’
She flushed and looked away. ‘It’s taken care of.’
Rafe gazed at her, and Freya felt the weight of his stare. No doubt he was wondering just what that meant. Was she on the Pill? Had she taken emergency contraception? She gave him no answers.
‘That’s good, then,’ he finally said, although he still sounded suspicious. ‘Tomorrow we will travel to my house in Andalusia. Max should get settled there as soon as possible.’
Freya nodded, knowing what he was implying. Settled so you can leave. Her hands clenched, fingers curling into her palms. She forced herself to flatten them out, seem calm. Memories ricocheted through her.
Is there any chance you could be pregnant?
No. Never.
The pain of that old loss was magnified by the knowledge that she would lose Max too—in a matter of weeks, maybe months.
Rafe let out a tiny sigh, and Freya couldn’t tell if he was sorrowful or just exasperated. ‘We will put this behind us,’ he said.
Freya nodded mechanically. She agreed with him completely, in the rational part of her mind, at least, yet she knew how difficult it could be to put mistakes behind you. Sometimes the only way to do it was to pretend it hadn’t happened at all.
Yet now, with Rafe, she wondered if that was even possible.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘LOOK, Freya!’
Freya shielded her eyes from the sun as Max jumped into the shallow end of the pool. He squealed in delight as he hit the water, and she clapped her hands. ‘Fantástico, Max!’ They had spoken only Spanish since arriving at Rafe’s villa in Andalusia, and Max had accepted it naturally—just as he had accepted everything about his surroundings.
And why shouldn’t he? It was paradise, after all. Stretched out on a sun lounger, Freya gazed around at the pool, fringed by palm and orange trees, with the rocky, barren mountains a stunning backdrop to the villa’s extensive gardens and grounds. In the three weeks since they’d been there Max had been content to swim and play, to explore the gardens and walk down the dusty country road to a nearby farm where they had just had a litter of kittens.
Rafe had stocked his villa with a variety of shiny new toys and books, and outfitted a bedroom as a nursery, with child-sized beds, tables and chairs. Max had everything he could possibly want. He didn’t even ask about England any more, or his mother. He’d adapted to his surroundings, and to Rafe, with childlike ease and joy.
Freya knew she should be glad he’d adjusted so well. And she was. Yet still she still felt uneasy, restless, because she did not know how long this would last. How
long she would last. Every day she waited for Rafe to inform her she was no longer needed.
Rafe had been telecommuting with his office from the villa these last three weeks, with just a few short overnight trips to Madrid. He always made sure to spend time with Max, stopping by the pool or the nursery, and every afternoon playing with Max or reading him a story while Freya made herself scarce by silent agreement. The sight of their dark heads bent together sent a pang through her, a shaft of longing she had no right to feel.
Rafe had been cordial to her these last weeks, and they’d had a few careful conversations. Still, Freya felt as if they were orbiting around each other—Max the pull of gravity that kept them on similar but separate courses. Even so, his presence, his gentleness with his son, the way he’d tousle Max’s hair with a look of longing on his face—all of it made her wish things were different. She was different.
She didn’t let herself daydream beyond that vague thought, for she knew it was too dangerous. The kind of encounter she’d experienced with Rafe was surely nothing to build a relationship on—even if that were something either of them wanted. Which of course it wasn’t.
Yet despite the distance they maintained she couldn’t keep herself from watching Rafe as he spoke with Max, from noticing the almost reddish gleam in his dark hair, the easy grace with which he crouched down to talk to Max. Laughter rang through the house when they were playing together, surprising her because she’d never heard Rafe laugh before, and the sound made her ache. This man was not what she’d expected, what Rosalia had told her he was. At least not with Max.
With her…
‘Buenas tardes.’
Rafe strolled into the pool area, looking cool and casual in a loose white shirt and tan trousers. His feet were bare and tanned, his manner relaxed as he smiled at Max. Freya’s insides clenched with a nameless longing.
