‘In that case I’d better help you to your room,’ he said coldly, fighting the urge to plunder that wide, sexy mouth with his, to force his tongue between her soft lips and to hell with the consequences.
‘I can manage, thanks.’
‘Dio! Do you have to argue about everything?’ His cool was being sorely tested! He wanted to shake her until every stubborn, obstinate bone in her body rattled, and with a muttered oath he pulled her into his arms and strode into her bedroom. ‘Dr Hillier said you have prescription painkillers, I suggest you take them,’ he said shortly, concern replacing his frustration as he noted the shadows in her eyes and the purple smudges beneath them. She looked all in, infinitely fragile, and he wanted to wrap her in cotton wool, although he was sure he’d receive a physical assault if he tried.
‘I don’t need any pills. I’m just tired, that’s all, and stressed,’ she added pointedly.
‘Make that an order rather than a suggestion. Where are they—in your handbag or the bathroom?’
He was the bitter end, Eden thought furiously, refusing to admit that she felt nauseous and faint with pain. How dare he accuse her of trying to blacken his father’s name, when Fabrizzio had done his best to ruin her reputation and had actually labelled her a whore? The Santini blood ran thick, she conceded bleakly, and she was an outsider who could never come between father and son, brother and brother—she didn’t even want to try.
‘You have two minutes to get into bed while I get you a glass of water,’ he warned from the doorway. ‘Any longer and I’ll strip you myself, and who knows where that might lead, cara mia?’
She had already slipped off her shoes, and the sound of his mocking laughter goaded her into picking one up and hurling it across the room, her disappointment acute when it missed his head.
‘When did you gain that temper?’ he queried, amusement gleaming in his eyes, and she glared at him.
‘The year I spent with you would have incited a saint to commit murder. You were an inspired tutor, Rafe.’
‘I’m glad you think so, cara, although I think we may be referring to different subjects!’
She should have known that in a verbal sparring match she was no contest for his acerbic wit, she conceded as she struggled out of her dress and into her nightshirt, anxious to ensure she was safely under the covers before he returned.
‘What happens now?’ she asked huskily when she had swallowed the two tablets under his watchful gaze.
‘I go to my bedroom and you go to sleep, with my assurance that I won’t disturb your dreams.’
If only! He’d done so for the last four years, why should tonight be any different?
‘I mean between us,’ she qualified awkwardly. ‘I meant what I said, Rafe, there’s no future for us.’ She wished she could read the expression in those unfathomable black depths, wished she knew what he was really thinking. ‘I’ll move out of the Dower House as soon as possible.’
His careless shrug screamed his indifference, and she felt a sharp pain in her chest. This really was the end. He’d run out of patience with her—hardly surprising when she’d led him on and then rejected him tonight—and the reality of seeing him walk out of her life for the second time caused tears to well in her eyes.
‘There’s no rush; I’ll be away for the rest of the summer at least and there’s a year’s lease to run on the house. My driver will take you back to Wellworth when you’re ready in the morning, but I have an early flight, so I’ll try not to disturb you.’
She must need her head tested, Eden thought dismally as she stared at the proud tilt of his head. Rafe Santini, the man who was idolised by women the world over, had asked her to be his mistress and she had turned him down! Most women would jump at the chance to travel to exotic locations with a sexy, handsome millionaire lover, but she had tried it once and concluded that she wasn’t like most women. She wasn’t interested in the high-profile lifestyle and certainly wasn’t interested in the money. She didn’t want to spend her life shopping for clothes that she hoped would retain her lover’s interest and prevent his eyes from straying to the countless wannabes who hung around the track. She just wanted the man, she conceded sadly. She wanted Rafe to love her as she loved him, but his arrogant assumption that he could click his fingers and she would jump to his bidding was proof that nothing had changed. He hadn’t loved her four years ago. She doubted he had ever loved any woman. His first love was for racing, for speed and excitement, and the thrill of danger was his overriding mistress.
She needed him to leave her room now, before she did something stupid like throw herself into his arms and promise to become his lover for however long he wanted her. Pride was her only defence against his magnetic pull, and she lifted her chin, determined to hide the fact that she was on shaky ground. ‘I guess this is goodbye,’ she whispered, and was rewarded with an insolent smile.
‘For now, cara, but not for long, I think,’ he said, his accent very pronounced as he strolled towards the bed. ‘How long will it take, I wonder, for you to grow bored with your lonely bed? You’ll come back to me, Eden. I know you too well and that passionate nature of yours will make your life hell. I look forward to the day that you come crawling back, cara mia. You’ll beg me to make you mine again because you belong to me.’
He leaned across the bed and her cry of outraged denial was muffled beneath the force of his lips as he initiated a kiss that was a flagrant assault of her senses. She hated him, hated every arrogant, cocksure bone in his body, but by the time she had recovered sufficiently to tell him, he had gone.
Chapter 7
Walking through the front door of the Dower House was like returning to an old friend, Eden thought as she stared up at the mellow, ivy-covered walls that she had so quickly grown to love. Her heart seemed destined to remain in pieces—she couldn’t stay in the house and she couldn’t have Rafe, although she would happily live in a shoebox if he showed any signs that he wanted more from a relationship with her than just sex.
She handed Nev her formal notice to leave the house, with the request that he keep her posted on any suitable properties she could rent, and after one look at her drawn features he wisely hid his curiosity. Fortunately, summer was a busy time in Wellworth and she spent the remainder of the week covering the vicarage fête, a veterans’ cricket match and a scoop about bad drains at the local hospital. After three years reporting on drought and disaster in Africa, it was hard to drum up much enthusiasm for parochial life. Her career was important, she reminded herself. She’d given it up once, caught up in the heady excitement of her romance with Rafe, and she was determined not to sacrifice it again.
If she was honest, she couldn’t drum up much enthusiasm for anything, and certainly not food. Her clothes were hanging off her and several friends had asked if she was ill. Only lovesick, she thought grimly—for the second time in four years. But the truth was she hadn’t gotten over Rafe the first time and meeting him again had lacerated her already-wounded heart.
She was determined to avoid the television coverage of the Portuguese Grand Prix, and spent the whole of Sunday with Cliff and Jenny and their new baby. She was incredibly lucky, she told herself. She had wonderful friends and lived in one of the most beautiful villages in England. Life was good, and much simpler without Rafe in it, yet later that night she found herself flicking television channels from an amusing comedy to a programme showing highlights of the day’s sporting events.
Rafe was in pole position for the start of the race and she experienced the familiar sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as she watched him streak out ahead of all the other cars. Unable to sit still, she wandered edgily between the living room and kitchen, the sudden shout of the commentator causing her to spill an entire carton of orange juice as she shot back to the screen.
‘…Santini’s off. Rafe Santini, five times World Champion, has crashed at the Portuguese Grand Prix, and I have to say that, from the pictures I’m getting from the scene, it would be a miracl
e if he emerges from the wreck of his car.’
‘No, please, no,’ Eden whispered. Where was Rafe? She couldn’t see past the throng of track officials but, as the commentator said, it seemed impossible that he could have survived the crash that had left his car a twisted pile of metal. The programme was showing the highlights, she suddenly remembered. The race had taken place hours before. Rafe could have been dead for hours and she hadn’t even known!
‘Rafe, get out of the car,’ she begged, her heart pounding, and suddenly, incredibly, the crowd of track officials parted and the camera focused on him easing himself out of the protective pod that contained the driver’s seat. As he was helped away from the track, the camera closed in on him and Eden sank to her knees in front of the screen. His face was hidden beneath his helmet, so all she could see were his eyes, but as she reached out and touched his image he seemed to stare straight at her and she felt as though she were drowning in those dark, unfathomable depths.
In an instant his image was gone. The programme covered the remainder of the race and then switched to a rugby match, but Eden saw nothing, heard nothing.
Shock, fear and ultimately relief had left her so drained that she simply sat in front of the television, her hand resting on the screen as if she could somehow reach through it and touch him. Slowly, she uncurled her legs, wincing as cramps gripped her muscles, and she staggered upstairs, not to her bedroom but to the master suite Rafe had slept in for one night. The misery that she’d held in check all week broke over her in a wave and she cried until her chest hurt and her eyes were red-rimmed. So this was love, she thought bitterly. This agonising fear for his safety and a clawing desperation to jump on the next flight and follow him to whichever corner of the world he was in.
She couldn’t live without him, she acknowledged wearily, but neither could she live with him. How could she even contemplate returning to life as his mistress, moving constantly from hotel to hotel and waiting, always waiting for him to finish a race, a Press interview or a function in his honour before she was able to grab his attention for a few brief hours? It seemed that she was forever destined to love a man who was out of her reach, because Rafe didn’t love her; she doubted that he ever had. The question that kept her awake for the rest of he night was, could she settle for anything less?
The Italian Grand Prix was staged at Monza and the roads leading to the racetrack were heavily congested, despite the fact that the race wasn’t due to start for several hours. Rafe’s personal assistant, Petra—a woman who would one day surely be canonised in recognition of her patience—had listened to Eden’s request for a ticket to the race without asking any difficult questions.
Discretion was Petra’s byword and no doubt a necessary part of her job as she tried to unravel Rafe’s love life, Eden thought bleakly. But Petra had been one of her few allies during her time with the Santini team, and the following day a VIP ticket and flight details had arrived at the Dower House.
The rest was up to her, Eden acknowledged, and fear lurched sickly in the pit of her stomach. She must be mad, walking of her own accord into the lion’s den, and quite possibly Rafe would reject her, but since she’d witnessed his accident she’d been forced to accept that her life without him was no life at all.
Her ticket included a champagne reception and she was whisked off to the VIP box by an official, her heart sinking at the bevy of beautiful women around her.
Monza was a big event in Italy’s social calendar and the room was full of high-ranking members of Italian society, plus the usual array of models and glamour girls that followed the Formula 1 scene. She couldn’t compete, Eden thought bleakly, ready to turn tail and run. Some of the women were truly stunning, tall, tanned, with impossibly long legs and incredibly short skirts.
Rafe liked women in skirts—he thought trousers were unfeminine—but Eden had had no option but to wear a trouser suit to hide her scars.
The ice-blue suit had been ruinously expensive but worth every penny for its superb cut, the trousers skimming her curves while the jacket emphasised her slender waist. She looked cool and elegant yet innately sensual with her lacy camisole just visible beneath the jacket, and her hair caught up in a loose chignon.
Compared to the skimpily dressed women in the VIP box, she looked like one of the vestal virgins, Eden decided, but pride forced her to hold her head high and she smiled as she recognised one of the mechanics from the Santini team.
Alonso spoke little English and she wasn’t even sure he would remember her after all this time, but as she approached him he grinned and ran his eyes over her, his admiration clearly evident.
‘I’ve come to see Rafe,’ she began hesitantly, and he shrugged but picked up on the one word he understood.
‘Rafe? You come. He’s on the grid.’
Before the start of a race the grid was packed with track officials and celebrities mingling with the drivers. Monza was a big race for Rafe, before his home crowd. He was a legendary figure in Italy and thousands of fans flocked to see him win. Failing them wasn’t an option and the sense of excited anticipation in the air emphasised to Eden the intense pressure he was under.
He was leaning against his car, dressed in a white race suit decorated with the logos of his many sponsors, a white cap jammed on his head. He looked bronzed and fit, his black hair just visible from beneath the cap, his eyes gleaming like polished jet as he laughed with the photographers. Around him was a group of stunning, bikini-clad girls, the sashes across their voluptuous bodies displaying the logo of the company they were advertising.
‘OK, Rafe, if you could put your arm round Cindy’s waist, and Cindy, snuggle up to him, sweetheart, that’s it, put your hand on his chest. Great shot, and again.’
At the edge of the group was the one man Eden had hoped not to see, and her heart sank as she stared at Fabrizzio Santini. A Sicilian by birth, Fabrizzio was several inches shorter than his son, but with the same broad shoulders and strong jaw. The son of a peasant farmer made good. His rise to the top, and as the force behind the Santini car company, were well-documented, as was the fact that his marriage to a wealthy heiress had much to do with his success. Even now, with a billion-pound fortune to his name, he possessed a ruthless streak that business rivals feared. He took what he wanted from life, discarding anything he deemed not good enough, and Eden had been top of his junk pile.
‘Hey, boss!’ Alonso called cheerfully, and Rafe turned his head, his whole body stiffening as he stared at Eden. ‘Signorina Eden’s back.’
‘Is that so?’ Rafe crossed his arms over his chest and let his gaze trawl over Eden in a slow appraisal as if she were a particularly curious specimen in a jar. Around him the girls stopped chattering and the photographers fiddled with their cameras, the nuance in Rafe’s voice warning them to be ready for what might be an interesting shot. ‘This is a surprise,’ he drawled. ‘What do you want, Eden?’
Beneath his indolent stance he was tense, aggression emanating from every pore, his eyes cold and hard as he waited for her to speak.
‘You,’ Eden replied simply. She didn’t know what else to say other than the truth.
She had the interest of everyone in the crowd now and the models giggled and moved closer to Rafe. The sun beat down mercilessly, forming a shimmering heat haze on the tarmac, and all around race marshals scurried like busy ants. There was no way she could come out of this with any vestige of pride intact, Eden acknowledged as she stared at Rafe and remembered his taunts that she would one day crawl back to him. There was no chink of softness in his expression; he was hard and unrelenting, bristling with injured male pride at the way she had rejected him, and she sighed. He wasn’t going to make this easy but her pride had already suffered its last death throes, and abject humiliation before a crowd of gorgeous blondes wasn’t going to make much difference now.
‘You said you would enjoy seeing me beg for a chance to come back to you,’ she reminded him steadily, her eyes focused only on him. ‘Well, here I am, be
gging.’
The giggling grew bolder. A couple of photographers snapped shots of Eden, but she didn’t spare them a glance and it was Rafe who moved impatiently, shrugging out of Cindy’s hold while a nerve jumped in his cheek.
‘No more photos,’ he demanded, ‘we’ve finished now.’ He strode off, only pausing for a second to glare at Eden. ‘Are you coming, or not?’ he snapped, and hastily she stumbled after him, unable to decipher his reaction and unaware that Fabrizzio Santini’s speculative gaze followed them both.
His trailer was far from luxurious. He might be a multimillionaire, but there were no airs and graces to him, and he preferred to hang out with the other members of the team. Once inside he headed for the fridge, extracted a bottle of water and flipped the lid before taking a swig.
‘Just what the hell are you playing at, Eden?’ he growled as he leaned against a cupboard and surveyed her grimly. ‘Two weeks ago you were adamant you wanted nothing more to do with me. Why the sudden change of heart?’
‘I miss you,’ she replied honestly. During the long, sleepless night after his crash, she’d finally concluded that life was too short and precarious. It was only the most incredible luck that had seen her escape with her life after the land-mine explosion, the same luck that meant he’d climbed out of the car unhurt
in Portugal. What if one day their luck ran out? she wondered. Wasn’t it time to follow her heart rather than her head?
Rafe gave a disbelieving snort and paced the trailer restlessly, pulling his cap from his head and raking his hand through his hair. ‘Is that the truth?’ he demanded, but beneath the arrogance she caught the faint note of uncertainty in his husky voice, and her heart turned over. He didn’t do uncertain, he was the most self-assured man on the planet, yet, incredible though it seemed, her answer mattered to him. Despite the attentions of every gorgeous woman on the circuit, Rafe still wanted her.
His Private Mistress Page 10
