Harlequin Presents January 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: The Secret His Mistress CarriedTo Sin with the TycoonInherited by Her EnemyThe Last Heir of Monterrato

by Lynne Graham

  ‘I realise that you hold all the power,’ Rafael cut in quickly, hurrying to fill the empty silence before Lottie could say anything negative, ‘and that puts me at a disadvantage.’

  Power? Disadvantage? Why was he talking like this? As if it were some sort of business merger instead of the birth of a baby, the creation of a new life that should be born of love and commitment and caring. That explained the suit, she thought suddenly. Rafael was simply trying to broker a deal.

  ‘I will agree to your terms, Lottie. Anything. Just say the word and it will be yours.’

  ‘No, Rafe.’ She had to stop him now, before this got any worse.

  ‘If it’s a question of money...’

  Too late. Lottie felt heat rising up her neck, sweeping across her face, as the hideousness of his suggestion took hold.

  ‘Stop it!’

  She was starting to shake with a mixture of outrage and sadness—sadness that he could get her so wrong, that he had never understood her at all.

  ‘Do you seriously believe that you can buy me? Buy our baby?’

  ‘There’s no need to be so melodramatic.’ Pushing back his shoulders, he regarded her coldly over the jut of his chin. ‘I’m merely trying to find a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Don’t tell me you enjoy working in that...’ he paused, distaste written all over his face ‘...so-called art gallery in London.’

  ‘It’s called earning a living.’ Lottie glared at him. ‘It’s what normal people do. And, anyway, how do you know where I work?’

  ‘I made it my business to know.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Even as she asked the question the answer hit her like a snowball in the face. ‘You have been spying on me?’

  ‘You might call it spying. I call it research. Obviously I had to make sure I had all the available facts at my disposal before I contacted you.’

  His calm, rational voice was stoking the fire that was already roaring away inside Lottie.

  ‘There were certain things I needed to ascertain: your career, for example, the state of your finances, whether there was a man in your life.’ He shot her a cold, penetrating stare.

  Lottie gasped. How dared he? And, worse still, how dare he look at her now as if this was perfectly acceptable behaviour? She felt violated, exposed, as if he had stripped away the thin layer of her composure and left her standing naked and shivering in front of him.

  ‘You are telling me that you have hired some private investigator to follow me, lurk in the shadows, pick through my rubbish bins, train his grubby little binoculars on my windows?’ The words were tangling around themselves in their hurry to get out and strangle him.

  Rafael gave a short laugh. ‘Charming though your old-fashioned image is, things have moved on a bit since long macs and trilby hats. The wonders of the internet have taken over.’

  ‘Well, however you did it, it’s despicable.’ Lottie swept back the hair from her heated face, lifting its weight from the nape of her neck in an attempt to cool herself down. ‘You had absolutely no right to go poking about in my life.’

  Scowling, Rafael lowered his brows to an aggressive V. ‘Needs must, Lottie. Exceptional circumstances call for exceptional measures. Believe me, I wouldn’t be doing any of this if there was any other way.’

  And that little statement was supposed to make her feel better, was it? If so, then time had clearly not improved Rafael’s understanding of the female mind.

  Lottie held her glare in place, fearing that, despite her very real anger, her face might easily crumple with the intense sadness of it all. Because of course Rafael wasn’t trying to make her feel better, was he? He was just being his usual brutally honest self. Even at a time like this he wasn’t able to dress up the situation for his own gain. His nature was to say it as it was and achieve his aim through the sheer power of his conviction.

  Quietly she turned away from him, knowing what she had to say but not trusting herself to look into his eyes as she said it. ‘I’m sorry, Rafe, but my answer has to be no. We both know that it would never work.’

  Instantly Rafael came towards her, repelling her words with a dismissive arm gesture and an expression to match.

  ‘You don’t know that.’ His voice was hard, uncompromising, as his eyes bore down on her. ‘There have been major advances in IVF procedures even in the past couple of years. I’m sure we have every chance...’

  ‘I’m not talking about IVF procedures.’ Throwing back her head, Lottie confronted the full force of his gaze. ‘I’m talking about us—me and you as a couple. I’m saying that we would never work.’ The hostility in her voice was there to mask the knot of pain of their failed marriage that sat deep in her stomach, refusing ever to go away.

  ‘Perhaps I am not making myself clear.’ Rafael gave her a look of pure disgust, turning his back on her, then swinging round again with eyes that pierced the gloom. ‘I’m not asking for any sort of reconciliation. I am asking you solely to be the mother of my child. Nothing more.’

  Nothing more? Despite the darkly oppressive atmosphere it was almost laughable, the way he described it—as if he were asking her to redesign his kitchen or landscape his garden. Except that it didn’t make her feel like laughing. More like crying.

  ‘What I am trying to say is that I will expect nothing else of you.’ Relentlessly, Rafael pushed on. ‘I know that that side of our marriage is over. Rest assured I will not be making any...’ he paused, firing a look of icy contempt at Lottie ‘...any demands of you.’ Distaste soured his mouth, contorted his handsome features. ‘You have my word on that.’

  Lottie felt something die inside her. She knew it was true, of course, that sexually she was of no interest to him any more. That side of their relationship had floundered after Seraphina had died, bashed against the rocks of invasive fertility treatments and crushing disappointment. But still, hearing him say the words stretched the sadness inside her until she thought she might snap in two, fold over with misery.

  But she had to accept it. Rafael had coachloads of women only too happy to cater to his needs now. Flashes of those internet pictures rose, unbidden, in her mind—the dazzling white teeth and pertly sculptured breasts.

  She looked down at herself, at the faded skinny jeans she had worn to travel in and her favourite well-worn ankle boots, then switched her gaze to Rafael. There he stood, ramrod-straight before her, that aura of intense concentration almost shimmering around his dark form. The sombre suit was so beautifully cut that you weren’t really aware of it—just of the way his body looked in it: powerful, immaculate, sexy. He epitomised everything that she wasn’t, and being back at the Palazzo Monterrato only emphasised that fact.

  Gathering together the last shreds of her composure, she raised her chin defiantly. ‘Thank you for explaining that, Rafael.’ Her voice sounded shrill, uneven, like an incompetent schoolteacher trying to keep control of a class. ‘Though you really didn’t need to point it out. When I said it would never work between us I meant in terms of the practicalities of our relationship.’ On firmer ground now, she pressed on determinedly. ‘Even supposing I ever did manage to get pregnant, how could we possibly raise a child together? We don’t even...’ She paused. There were so many don’t evens that she didn’t know which one to pick. ‘We don’t even live in the same country.’

  With the silent step of a panther stalking its prey Rafael closed the space between them, and Lottie suddenly found herself staring at the broad sweep of his chest.

  ‘Practicalities can always be sorted out.’

  As he spoke over the top of her head Lottie realised too late that she had chosen a foolish argument. Rafael was the supreme master of being practical, sorting things out. As Conte di Monterrato that was what he did on a daily basis—oversaw the running of the principality, planned for its future, solved the problems. And that was exactly what he was
doing now.

  So close to him now, Lottie breathed in his familiar scent—the faint tang of cologne mixed with soap and something else, something indefinably, yearningly Rafael. She could almost feel the intensity that emanated from him, rolling her way, threatening to engulf her.

  ‘I don’t want you to think for one minute that I am underestimating the enormity of what I am asking of you.’ His voice was very low, earnest. ‘But at the same time...’ his eyes ruthlessly scanned her face ‘...I don’t believe it is an entirely selfish request. I know what being a mother would mean to you.’

  Lottie gulped back the lump in her throat, her eyes widening at his startling assumption. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because I saw you, Lottie.’ His pause shimmered with raw emotion. ‘I saw the look of euphoria on your face when we found out that you were pregnant—saw the way your maternal instinct kicked in, stronger than any other bond. And then...’ He carried on, even though he looked as if he was hurting inside. ‘I saw the way you held our daughter in your arms.’

  ‘No. Stop!’ This was more than Lottie could bear and her hands flew to cover her ears.

  ‘Admit it, Lottie. It was never me that you wanted, was it?’ Relentlessly he surged on. ‘It was the baby. The baby was the only thing that mattered. The only reason you ever agreed to marry me. And our marriage was nothing more than a sham. Your final brutal declaration—everything about your behaviour, in fact—points to that one undeniable truth.’

  ‘I won’t listen to this any more!’ Turning away, Lottie stumbled towards the door, but he was still there—following her, beside her.

  ‘You can still have that dream, Lottie. Even though our marriage may be over in all but name we can still be parents—you can still be that mother.’

  ‘I have no idea why you are saying this.’ Blinking back the emotion that was stinging her eyes, Lottie rounded on him, drawing on every last bit of strength she possessed. ‘I can only assume you are confusing this with what you want, not me.’

  ‘Maybe I thought that too at first.’ Rafael positioned himself in front of the door, his towering shape blocking Lottie’s exit. ‘Until I saw the look on your face just now. I’m right, aren’t I? You want a baby every bit as much as I do.’

  ‘No, you are not right.’ Futilely trying to move him out of the way, Lottie grabbed hold of the door handle and tugged at it forcefully.

  The door opened two inches before it slammed against Rafael.

  ‘Be careful what you decide, Lottie.’ He looked down at her calmly, totally ignoring the door battering against his heels as she continued to tug at it. ‘Whatever you do, don’t let your contempt for me influence your decision—get in the way of your own happiness.’

  Finally he moved to one side and the door flew open, sending Lottie teetering off balance.

  ‘That would never do.’

  * * *

  Kicking off her boots, Lottie threw herself down on to the four-poster bed and stared at the tapestry drapes above her, her breath heaving unsteadily in her chest, tears now threatening to spill. How could he do this to her? Taunt her with her failed attempt at motherhood using the preciously painful memories of Seraphina. It was simply cruel.

  But that was Rafael. She knew he would stop at nothing to achieve his goal—use anything at his disposal to get what he wanted. Even if it meant tearing open her heart in the process.

  Like a double-edged sword, the pain cut both ways, and one slash undoubtedly revealed the truth. She had always wanted to be a mother. Not in the vague, one day it would be nice, mentally picking out cute names way that her girlfriends seemed to view motherhood, but with a deep, unfathomable yearning that was intrinsically a part of who she was.

  Maybe her own dysfunctional upbringing had made her realise that being a mother was the most important job of all and, rather than putting her off having children, had instilled in her a longing do it right. There was no doubt that when she had discovered she was pregnant with Rafael’s baby it had flooded her with euphoric exhilaration. This was her chance to be the sort of mother she had always wanted, rather than the one she had had.

  As the only child of a woman who, frankly, had had better things to do than pander to the whims of an annoyingly childlike child, Lottie had been largely raised by au pairs or home helps or whatever neighbour happened to be around. This had left Greta free to indulge in her real passion: travelling. Or, more specifically, cruising the world on luxury liners while Lottie had lived in a perpetual state of terror that one day there would be nobody to meet her at the school gates at all.

  Funded by Lottie’s much older father, who had thoughtfully taken out a comprehensive life insurance policy before he’d dropped dead when Lottie was still only seven, Greta had become addicted to the glamour of the cruising lifestyle: the handsome stewards in their crisp white uniforms, the perma-tanned dance hosts, the dashing captains. Eventually she had ended up in dry dock with one of the latter, when she had remarried and made a new life in Argentina.

  But the other slash of Rafael’s sword... Lottie screwed up her eyes against its searing pain, at the realisation that he’d got it so wrong. ‘It was never me that you wanted... The baby was the only thing that mattered.’ Was it possible that he actually believed that? That she had really done such a good job of fooling him? And, if so, why did it make her feel so hollowed out with sadness?

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself up against the feather pillows and gazed at the room around her. It was the same bedroom she had shared with Rafael—well, half of it, at any rate. The huge double doors across the middle of the room were now firmly closed, like a metaphor for their marriage.

  How different would things have been if they hadn’t lost Seraphina? If there had been no accident? If everything hadn’t gone so disastrously wrong? Their daughter would have been three now, running around this crusty old mausoleum, breathing fresh life into it, maybe even joined by a little brother or sister.

  But it had happened, and the sequence of events afterwards had happened, leading to her going back to England, starting a new life in London and putting the past behind her. Even if that new life had meant studiously avoiding babies of all descriptions—babies in buggies, baby adverts on the television—and even turning away from babies smiling gummily at her over their mothers’ shoulders on the bus.

  But she had never lost her yearning to have a baby, Rafael’s baby. And she had never forgotten their last remaining embryo. The tiny blob of shared cells stored in a tank of liquid nitrogen represented the last vestiges of their relationship and it was always there, locked away deep in her subconscious. Occasionally she would find herself fantasising about the sort of child it might grow into, before hurriedly pushing the thought back in its box and turning the key once more.

  And now...now the embryo was being offered its chance of life. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that circumstances would bring about a possibility like this. It was a mad, crazy, ridiculous idea.

  Wasn’t it?

  * * *

  Rafael paced up and down the length of the grand formal dining room, pausing only to check his watch once again. Where the hell was she? She knew that dinner was to be served at eight-thirty and she was now an hour late. Was she deliberately taunting him?

  It was half an hour since he had gone up to find her, when the sudden, irrational fear had gripped him. He’d pounded his feet along the corridor to her room, convinced that she had gone—run away as she had before. He’d rapped sharply on the door, and the thirty seconds of silence before he had heard her moving about had seemed like an eternity.

  But then the door had opened and there she’d been—all sleepy eyes and tousled hair, straight from a rumpled bed still warm from her body. And the sight of her, and that bed, had twisted a coil of lust deep inside of him.

  Now that she still hadn’t ap
peared he could feel the same fear spreading through him again. Ten minutes, she had said—just enough time for a quick shower. Pacing back towards the head of the table, he told himself to calm down, get a grip. Stop behaving like an idiot.

  He was glaring at the heavy panelled door when it finally opened and Lottie hurried in, all breathless apologies and pointed lack of eye contact. Reaching behind him for the bell that rang down in the kitchens, he waited in cold silence as she walked the interminable length of the table to join him. He watched from beneath the sweep of lowered lashes as she carefully sat down, sliding long legs under the table, shaking open her napkin to cover her lap.

  Tearing his eyes away, he seated himself beside her at the head of the table, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge just how adorable she looked. Her hastily washed and dried hair had resulted in a cloud of tumbling blonde curls that she had loosely twisted into a knot on top of her head, and already escaping tendrils were framing her delicate features. A short jersey dress, its colour a darkest purple, hugged her slender curves in a way that already had the blood racing around his veins.

  Lifting a heavy crystal decanter, he started to fill Lottie’s glass, watching as her slender fingers curled nervously around the stem. Then, raising his own glass between them, he saw Lottie automatically doing the same. What exactly were they toasting? With her meltingly clear blue eyes mercilessly trained on him he felt for the bedrock of bitterness to help him counter their effect and found it in the pit of his stomach, where it had sat ever since she had left him.

  ‘Your good health.’

  It was hardly the warmest of toasts. Lottie looked at his darkly glowering face over the rim of her wine glass. She knew he was angry that she was late for dinner; he had already been in a bad mood when he had woken her up from her unexpected nap, banging on her bedroom door, demanding to know what was keeping her. But her promise of ten minutes had proved impossible to achieve and, torn between nervousness at keeping him waiting and a desire to make herself look at least half decent, the latter had won.