by Abby Green
Milo piped up, ‘That’s silly. Logs can’t sleep.’
Rafaele looked at his son and again Sam noticed the way something in his face and eyes softened. He came into the kitchen and sat down at the table near Milo. ‘Oh, really? What should I say, then?’
Milo was embarrassed now with the attention and started squirming in his chair. ‘Aunty Bridie says she sleeps like a baby, and babies sleep all the time.’
‘Okay,’ Rafaele said. ‘I slept like a baby. Is that right?’
Milo was still embarrassed and avoided Rafaele’s eyes, but then curiosity got the better of him and he squinted him a look. ‘You sound funny.’
Rafaele smiled. ‘That’s because I come from a place called Italy...so I speak Italian. That’s why I sound funny.’
Milo looked at Sam. ‘Mummy, how come we don’t sound like the man?’
Sam avoided Rafaele’s eyes. She put Milo’s bowl of cereal down in front of him and chided gently, ‘His name is Rafaele.’ And then, ‘Because we come from England and we speak English. To some people we would sound funny.’
But Milo was already engrossed in his food, oblivious to the undercurrents between the two adults in the small kitchen. Sam risked a glance at Rafaele and blanched. His look said it all: The reason he thinks I sound funny is because you’ve denied him his heritage.
Sam turned to the coffee machine as if it was the most interesting thing on the planet and said, too brightly, ‘Would you like some coffee?’
She heard a chair scrape and looked around to see Rafaele standing up. ‘I had some earlier. I have to go to the factory for a while today but I’ll be back later. Don’t worry about dinner or anything like that—I have to go out tonight to a function.’
‘Oh.’ Sam rested her hands on the counter behind her. She hated the sudden deflated feeling in her solar plexus. But hadn’t she expected this? So why was she feeling disappointed? And angry?
The words spilled out before she could stop them. ‘I forgot that weekends for you are just as important as any other day.’ Except for when he’d spent that whole last weekend in bed with her, and diverted his phone calls.
Rafaele’s eyes flashed. ‘We’re taking in delivery of some specially manufactured parts today and I need to make sure they’re up to spec because we start putting them into new cars next week. Something,’ he drawled, with that light of triumph in his eyes, ‘you’ll be dealing with next week when you come to work.’
Sam’s insides clenched hard even as a treacherous flicker of interest caught her. She’d forgotten for a moment.
Before she could respond, Rafaele had dismissed her and was bending down to Milo’s eye level. His ears had inevitably pricked up at the mention of cars. ‘I was thinking that maybe tomorrow you’d like to come for a drive in my car?’
Milo’s eyes lit up and he immediately looked at Sam with such a pleading expression that she would have had to be made of stone to resist.
‘Okay...if Rafaele still feels like it tomorrow. He might be tired, though, or—’
He cut her off with ice in his voice. ‘I won’t be tired.’
‘But you’re going out tonight,’ Sam reminded him.
Immediately her head was filled with visions of Rafaele and some blonde—of him creeping back into the house like a recalcitrant student at dawn, dishevelled and with stubble lining his jaw.
But he was shaking his head and the look in his eye was mocking, as if he could read her shameful thoughts. ‘I won’t be tired,’ he repeated.
He was walking out of the kitchen when Sam thought of something and followed him. He looked back at her as he put on his leather coat and she held out a key. ‘The spare front door key.’
He came and reached for it and their fingers touched. A sizzle of electricity shot up Sam’s arm and she snatched her hand back as if burnt, causing the key to drop to the ground. Cheeks burning with humiliation, she bent and picked it up before Rafaele could and handed it to him again, avoiding his eye.
And then, to her everlasting relief, he was out of the door. She turned around and breathed in deep, barely aware of Milo running to the reception room window so he could see the car pull away. She had to get a hold of herself around this man or she’d be a quivering wreck by the end of a week.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN SAM HEARD the telltale purr of a powerful engine as she lay in bed that night she looked at her clock in disbelief. It was before midnight and Rafaele was home? Home. She grimaced at how easily that had slipped into her mind.
Feeling like a teenager, but unable to help herself, she got out of bed and went to her window, pulling back the curtain ever so slightly. Her heart was thumping. Rafaele hadn’t got out of the car yet, and even from here she could see his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.
Sam had the uncanny feeling that he was imagining the wheel was her neck. Then suddenly the door opened and he got out, unfolding his huge frame from the sleek low-slung vehicle. In any other instance Sam would have sighed in sheer awe at the stunningly designed lines.
She stopped breathing as she took in Rafaele, just standing there for a moment. He wore a tuxedo. Sam knew from past experience that he had a dressing room and fully stocked wardrobe at his office. His shirt was open at the throat, his bow tie hanging rakishly undone.
Rafaele shut the car door and then surprised her by leaning back against the car and putting his hands deep in his pockets, crossing his long legs at the ankle. He looked down, and something about him was so intensely lonely that Sam felt like a voyeur. She hated the way her heart clenched.
She’d been so stunned to see him again that she hadn’t really contemplated how much of a shock it must have been for him discovering he had a son. He would never forgive her.
Sam quickly shut the curtain again and climbed back into bed, feeling cold from the inside. Eventually she heard the opening and closing of the front door, and then heavy footsteps. She held her breath for a moment when she fancied they stopped outside her door, and then, when she heard the faintest sounds of another door closing, let her breath out in a shuddery whoosh.
About an hour later Sam gave up any pretence of trying to sleep. She threw back the covers and padded softly out of her bedroom. All was quiet and still. She looked in on Milo, who was sprawled across his bed fast asleep, and then made her way to the kitchen to get some water. She was halfway into the room before she realised she wasn’t alone.
She gave a small yelp of shock when she saw Rafaele in the corner of the kitchen, in low-slung faded jeans, bare feet and a T-shirt, calmly lifting a coffee cup to his lips.
She put a hand to her rapid heart. ‘You scared me. I thought you were in bed.’
Rafaele arched a brow mockingly. ‘Don’t tell me—you couldn’t sleep until you knew I was home safe?’
Sam scowled and hated that he’d caught her like this: sleep-mussed, wearing nothing but brief pants and a threadbare V-necked T-shirt.
Anger rushed through her. Anger at the day she’d spent with her thoughts revolving sickeningly around one person—him. Anger that she had to face him like this in what she would have once considered her sanctuary. And, worst of all, anger at herself for not having told him about Milo when she should have.
Feeling emotional, and terrified he’d see it, she stalked to the sink. ‘I’m just getting some water. I couldn’t sleep and it has nothing to do with you coming home or not.’
Liar.
Sam heard his voice over the gush of water.
‘I couldn’t sleep either.’
Sam remembered the intensely lonely air about him as he’d waited outside before coming in. Now she felt guilty for having witnessed it. She held the glass of water in both hands and turned, feeling disorientated.
She looked at the coffee cup and remarked dryly, ‘Well, that’s hardly lik
ely to help matters.’
Rafaele shrugged and drained the coffee, the strong column of his throat working. He put the cup down. ‘When I couldn’t sleep I came down to do some work.’
His gaze narrowed on her then, and Sam’s skin prickled. She gripped the glass tighter.
He drawled, ‘But as I’m just a guest in your house perhaps I should ask for permission?’
Sam’s anger was back just like that. Anger at herself for thinking she’d seen Rafaele vulnerable even for a moment. ‘But you’re not really a guest, are you? You’re here to punish me, to make me pay for not telling you about your son.’
Feeling agitated, Sam put down the glass, sloshing some water over the side. She clenched her hands and rounded on Rafaele. ‘I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about Milo. I should have, and I didn’t. And I’m sorry.’
Rafaele went very still and put his hands in his pockets. The air thickened between them and swirled with electricity. He looked relaxed, but Sam could tell he was as tense as she was.
‘Why?’
One word, a simple question, and Sam felt something crumble inside her. He hadn’t actually asked her that yet. He’d asked her how she could have, but not why.
She looked down and put her arms around herself in an unconscious gesture of defence, unaware of how it pushed her breasts up and unaware of how Rafaele’s eyes dropped there for a moment or the flush that darkened his cheekbones. She was only aware of her own inner turmoil. She would never be brave enough to tell him of her hurt and her own secret suspicion that it had been that weak emotion that had been her main motivator. She was too ashamed.
She steeled herself and looked up. Rafaele’s eyes glittered in the gloom. ‘It was for all the reasons I’ve already told you, Rafaele. I was in shock. I’d almost lost my baby only days after finding out that I was pregnant in the first place. It was all...too much. And I truly believed you had no interest—that you would prefer if I just went away and didn’t bother you again.’
She almost quailed at the way his jaw tightened but went on. ‘My father was not really there for me. Ever. Even though he brought me up and we lived in this house together. He didn’t know how to relate to me. What I needed. I think...I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping Milo from a similar experience.’
Rafaele crossed his arms too, making his muscles bunch. It felt as if something was fizzing between them under the words. A subtext that was alive. All she could see was that powerful body. Lean and hard.
‘You had no right.’
Sam looked at him, willing down the way her body insisted on being divorced from her mind, becoming aroused as if nothing had happened between them. As if he didn’t hate her.
‘I know,’ she said flatly. ‘But it happened, and you’re going to have to let it go or Milo will pick up on it—especially now you’re living here too.’
Anger surged within Rafaele at her pronouncement. He uncrossed his arms, unable to disguise his frustration. Sam was standing before him, and despite the charged atmosphere and the words between them he was acutely aware that all he wanted to do was rip that flimsy T-shirt over her head and position her on the counter behind her so that he could thrust deep into her and obliterate all the questions and turmoil in his head.
When she’d walked into the room all he’d seen had been the tantalising shape of her firm breasts, their pointed tips visible through the thin fabric. Her sleep-mussed hair had reminded him of when she’d been on top of him, riding him, her head falling back...
Desire was like a wild thing inside him, clawing for fulfilment. It wasn’t helped by the fact that in a bid to prove that Sam didn’t have this unique effect on him, he’d found himself hitting on his friend’s mistress at the function earlier. Flirting with her, handing her his card—desperate to provoke some response in his flatlining libido. He’d acted completely out of character, managed to insult his friend Andreas Xenakis, and he’d proved nothing.
Except that he wanted this woman more than ever.
He hated her. But he wanted her. And he wanted his son.
‘Let it go?’ he asked now with deceptive softness, and something in him exulted when he saw how Sam paled slightly. ‘I think I’ve more than proved myself to be accommodating where my son and your deception are concerned.’
Rafaele knew he was reacting to Sam’s almost patronising tone and to his anger at this inconvenient desire.
His lip curled. ‘Do you really think I would be here in the suburbs with you if it wasn’t in my son’s best interests? Do you really think I want you working at the factory for any reason other than because I want to keep you where I can see your every treacherous move?’
She paled even more at that, and Rafaele felt something lance him deep inside, but he couldn’t stop.
‘You’ve put us all in this position by choosing the path that you did. By believing that you knew best. Well, now I know best and you’re just going to have to live with it. You’re going to have to let it go, Samantha.’
The hurt Sam felt at Rafaele’s words shamed her. He looked as hard and obdurate as a granite block just feet away. And as unyielding. The thought of them ever reaching some sort of amicable agreement felt like the biggest and most ludicrous fantasy on earth. And yet between her legs her panties chafed uncomfortably against swollen slick folds of flesh. She wanted to scream out her frustration at her wayward body.
Just before he’d fallen asleep earlier Milo had asked, in a small, hesitant voice, ‘Will the man...I mean Rafelli...will he remember to take me in the car tomorrow?’
Anger at Rafaele’s assertion that he was doing his utmost to think of Milo when all he seemed to be concerned about was needling her made her lash out. ‘You might feel like you’re sacrificing your glamorous life for your son, Rafaele, but when will you get bored and want out? Milo has been talking about you all day. He’s terrified you won’t remember to take him out in the car tomorrow. He’s fast heading for hero-worship territory and he’ll be devastated if you keep leading him on this path only to disappear from his life.’
Sam was breathing heavily. ‘This is what I wanted to avoid all along. Milo’s vulnerable. He doesn’t understand what’s going on between us. You can punish me all you want, Rafaele, but it’s Milo who matters now. And I can’t say sorry again.’
Rafaele was completely unreadable, but Sam sensed his tension spike.
‘What makes you think that I am going to disappear from Milo’s life?’
The words were softly delivered, but Sam could sense the volcanic anger behind them.
‘You know what I mean. You’re not going to stay here for ever. You’ll leave sooner or later. Milo will be confused. Upset.’
Sam was aware that she could have been talking about herself, about what had happened to her.
Panic at the way Rafaele took a step closer made Sam’s breath choppy. Instinctively she moved back. ‘I think this was a very bad idea. I think you should move out before he gets too attached. You can visit us. That way he won’t be so upset when you leave...we’ll have proper boundaries.’
‘Boundaries, you say?’ His accent sounded thicker. ‘Like the kind of boundaries you put around yourself and my son when you decided that it would be a good idea not to inform me of his existence?’
‘You’re just...not about commitment, Rafaele. You said it yourself to me over and over again. And a child is all about commitment—a lifetime of it.’
Rafaele was so close now that she could see veritable sparks shooting from those green depths.
His voice was low and blistering. ‘How dare you patronise me? You have had the experience of giving birth to a baby and all the natural bonding that goes with it—a bonding experience you decided to deny me. I now have the task of bonding with my son when his personality is practically formed. He has missed out on the n
atural bonding between a father and son. You have deprived us both of that.’
He stopped in front of her and Sam found it hard to concentrate when she could smell his musky heat. The anger within her was vying with something far hotter and more dangerous.
‘I can give my son a lifetime of commitment. That is not a problem. If and when I do leave this place he will know I am his father. He will be as much a part of me and my life as the very air I breathe.’
His eyes pinned her to the spot.
‘Know this, Sam. I am in Milo’s life now, and yours, and I’m not going away. I am his father and I am not shirking that responsibility. You and I are going to have to learn to co-exist.’
Sam’s arms were so tight now that she felt she might be constricting the bloodflow to her brain. ‘I’m willing to try to co-exist, Rafaele. But sooner or later you’ll have to forgive me, or we’ll never move on.’
* * *
Rafaele stood for a long moment after Sam had left, his heart still racing. She had no idea how close he’d come to reaching for her, pulling her into him so that he could taste her again.
Sooner or later you’ll have to forgive me.
For the first time Rafaele didn’t feel the intense anger surge. Instead he thought of Sam’s stricken pale features that day in the clinic. He remembered his own sense of panic, and the awful shameful relief when he could run away, far and fast, and put Sam and the emotions she’d evoked within him behind him.
For the first time he had to ask the question: if he’d been in her position would he have done the same thing? If he’d believed that his baby was unwanted by one parent? It wasn’t so black and white any more. Rafaele had to admit to the role he’d played.
Completely unbidden a memory came to him of something Sam had told him one night while they’d been lying in bed. It was something he avoided like the plague—the post-coital intimacy that women seemed engineered to pursue—but this hadn’t been like that. Sam had started telling him something and then stopped. He’d urged her on.
