Blackmail & Secrets

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.

‘You are turning into a fish, Max,’ Rafe said. ‘Where are your fins?’

Max splashed in the shallows, grinning. ‘I don’t have fins!’

Rafe crouched down by the side of the pool, a smile softening his features, making him look entirely too approachable. Too wonderful. ‘No? Are you sure?’

Max continued to splash about, and slowly, as if he needed to steel himself, Rafe turned to Freya. ‘You are well?’ he enquired politely.

‘Very well,’ Freya replied, just as politely. She hated how artificial they were with each other, yet she did not know how to change it. She doubted Rafe even wanted to. And she had no intention of boring him with the truth—which was that over the past few days she’d felt a little off … tired and nauseous. It was no doubt some kind of bug, and she’d get over it without any help from Rafe.

‘Damita has prepared lunch,’ Rafe told her. ‘A seafood paella. Are you ready to eat?’

Freya couldn’t quite keep from making a face. Although the housekeeper made delicious meals, the thought of seafood put her right off.

Rafe raised his eyebrows. ‘Does that not suit you?’ he asked mildly.

‘I’m sorry. I have been feeling a bit nauseous these past few days. Probably some sort of stomach bug.’ She swung her legs off the lounger and turned to Max, intending to call him out of the water.

‘Nauseous?’ Rafe repeated. ‘How long has this been going on?’

‘A few days, that is all. It goes away by dinnertime.’

Rafe had stilled, tensed.

‘If you are worried that it might interfere with my care of Max—’

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I am not concerned about that.’

He paused, and Freya saw him looking at her with that narrow, assessing gaze that had been thankfully absent these past few weeks. He looked suspicious—but of what? A bout of stomach flu? Uneasily she turned back to Max.

‘Max, get out of the water. It is time for lunch.’ She waited for Rafe to say something, but he remained standing there, silent, as Max scrambled from the pool, and Freya held up a towel, bundling him into it with a smile and a ruffle of his wet hair.

It could not be. Surely it could not be. Rafe watched Freya as she dried off Max, cuddling him a bit, and his insides tightened.

Nauseous. Tired. He knew the signs; God only knew he’d been looking for them for the five years of his marriage—hoping, praying that Rosalia would fall pregnant, that they would have a family. The family he’d always wanted. The family he’d never had as a child.

Their marriage had ended when she’d revealed to him that it hadn’t been possible, that she’d never wanted it to be possible. With a flash of ever-present anger Rafe remembered the swamping sense of betrayal.

the hollow sensation of realising he’d been waiting and hoping in utter futility.

Yet even that had been a lie. Had Rosalia ever told him the truth? Had any woman?

And was Freya lying to him now? Had she lied to him when she told him it was ‘taken care of’?

Could she be pregnant?

Rafe turned away from the sight of her, her dark red hair falling forward to hide her face as she towelled Max dry. In the heat she wore just a tee shirt and shorts, and he could see the curve of her shoulder, the thin fabric pulling taut over the bone. Even that simple sight caused desire to tug deep inside his belly. Was he imagining that her curves were looking lusher and fuller?

He’d spent the last three weeks trying not to notice her, trying to ignore the lust that fired his body and something different and deeper that touched his heart. Although he pretended not to notice, he couldn’t quite keep his gaze from her as she played with Max, or read him a story, her lovely features softened and suffused with love. He’d fully intended packing Freya back off to England by now, yet when he saw the bond she shared with his son he knew he could not—and not just for Max’s sake. Not even for Freya’s.

For his own.

Despite the distance they’d silently agreed to maintain, he was not ready for Freya to leave. It was unreasonable—idiotic, even—yet it was there all the same: a deep and desperate need for a woman he knew was completely off-limits. And who might be pregnant with his child.

‘Come along, Max,’ he said, his voice coming out a little rougher than he’d intended. The thought that Freya might be pregnant, might know she was pregnant, made fury pulse through him. Lied to. Again.

He didn’t talk to Freya until that evening, when Max was settled in bed. He waited outside the doorway until she’d said goodnight and clicked off the light. ‘I need to talk to you.’

Freya gasped aloud, one hand flying to her chest. ‘Oh! You startled me.’

He watched colour flare in her face, her grey eyes wide, and realised he hardly ever saw her discomfited or surprised or anything but coolly rational. Perhaps that was why her response in his arms had been so unsettling and explosive. It had not been at all expected.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Do you have a moment?’ He’d adopted that cool, polite voice, and Freya took it as her cue to match it.

‘Yes, of course.’ She followed him downstairs into the living room. The room was huge and formal and Rafe hardly ever used it.

He paced to the window, conscious of her standing in the doorway, slight and uncertain.

‘Is something wrong?’ she finally asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Rafe said. He’d wanted to sound calm, measured, but he heard coldness and even anger creeping in. You tricked me. Betrayed me. The accusations clamoured in his throat. Would he ever know a woman who was honest? Yet even now, as he turned to face her, saw her eyes widen and her face pale, he wanted to trust her. Stupidly, perhaps, but he could not deny that basic craving.

He saw Freya swallow, lift her chin. ‘Is there something you want to say?’ she asked evenly, and despite her level tone he knew she was frightened—saw the pulse flutter in her throat.

What was she afraid of? What was she hiding? If she knew she was pregnant, surely she would tell him, trap him? Keeping it from him—just as Rosalia had—made no sense. Rosalia had acted out of spite and hurt, but surely Freya did not harbour such motives? For a moment Rosalia’s last words to him rang through his head, obliterating all rational thought:

‘I never intended to fall pregnant. I’ve been on the Pill, Rafe, since our honeymoon. I don’t want your baby.’

‘Rafe?’ Freya spoke quietly, her forehead furrowing in concern.

Rafe let out a slow breath, forced the memories to recede. Freya was not Rosalia. He still didn’t trust her, didn’t know what secrets she hid, but she was not his ex-wife. She was not, please God, deceiving him the way his ex-wife had. She might not even be pregnant. A little nausea could be explained away, surely? He was simply being overly alert. Paranoid. Hopeful.

The word caught him on the raw. Did he want another child? The child of this near-stranger? The thought made no sense, yet he could not keep that tiny tendril of hope—or something close to it—from unfurling inside him. He’d wanted a family for so long—had dreamed of the day he would have a child, a wife. And now he found he could picture Freya as a mother all too easily, her slender arms cradling a baby—their baby. With a jolt he realised he did not want just the child, the way he had with Rosalia. He wanted the woman too.

Freya.

What was it about this woman that called out to him, made him want in a way he never had before? Made him feel in a way he never had before? Was it the glimpse of passion underneath that cool exterior? Or the gentleness and kindness she showed to Max? Or was it simply the whole person—beautiful, alluring, kind, secretive?

He still didn’t know what secrets she hid.

Freya simply stared at him, her face pale and beautiful, her eyes wide. She looked heartrendingly beautiful.

‘Freya,’ he said, and when she blinked in surprise he realised it was the first time he’d used her Christian name. ‘Have you considered that you might be pregnant?’

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