The Sandoval Baby

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The child he’d always wanted.

Max.

The little boy scrubbed his eyes with his fists, then blinked sleepily, smiling up at Freya. ‘I had a funny dream …’ He paused, the smile freezing on his face as he stared past Freya to Rafe. Max shrank into Freya’s side, his eyes rounding with uncertainty and perhaps even fear.

Rafe stood there, his throat working as he tried to think of the right words to say. He’d never been speechless before, yet now his mind was empty. The realisation of his own child was thudding through him, obliterating thought.

‘Max, this is a friend,’ Freya said, shifting over on the bed so Rafe could see his son.

Max buried his head in Freya’s lap and Rafe watched as she continued to stroke his hair with pale, slender fingers.

Her words caught up with him and his frozen brain finally thawed for thought. A friend? Freya glanced at him sharply, and he saw a warning in her eyes. Anger spiked through Rafe. He was not a friend. He would not begin this most precious relationship with a lie. Yet, even as he opened his mouth to deny her claim, he realised how difficult it would be to explain the truth to his son. The anger hardened inside him. Already Freya Clark had put him in an impossible position. Already she had tricked him, showing him that he was right not to trust her. Trust anyone.

He clenched his fists, then forced them flat again. He wanted to tell Max to get up, that they were going; he wanted to hug him. He knew both would terrify the child, so he clung to his last shred of patience and took his cue from Miss Clark.

‘Hello, Max,’ he said, and his son buried his face against Freya’s shoulder. ‘Yes, I am a friend. And I’m so very happy to meet you.’

Freya heard the raw note of emotion in Rafe’s voice, and it surprised her. Moved her, even. For, after everything Rosalia had said—‘He never loved me. He doesn’t know how to love.’—she hadn’t really expected Rafe to feel anything for his son. He was cold, cynical, unable to love. That was what Rosalia had told her, what the tabloids and gossip magazines said. El Tiburón.

And she’d been counting on that, counting on the fact that Rafe was too busy with his professional life to deal with his son properly; she’d thought—hoped—he’d be glad for Freya to do it, despite her connection with Rosalia.

Yet hearing the rawness of Rafe’s voice, seeing how he looked almost hungrily at his child, made Freya realise uncomfortably, painfully, that nothing about this situation was what she’d thought. That maybe Rafe wasn’t what she’d thought.

Max peeked at Rafe from behind her shoulder, curious now, but still shy, and Freya stood up from the bed. ‘Why don’t we go downstairs and have a snack?’

Max slipped his little hand in hers, and Freya led him downstairs, Rafe following behind. She could feel the tension and even the anger emanating from the man; it rolled off him in waves. She felt her own body tense in response, her heart thudding despite her determination to remain calm. To feel calm.

Already this man was making her feel too much. She’d been carefully, comfortably numb for so long, and it was strange and unsettling how he’d managed to strip that away from her within minutes. Her mind and body’s basic response to him was alarming. Frightening, even.

Unless, of course, it wasn’t him. It was simply the situation. The possibility of losing Max, and even of travelling to Spain, had brought too many painful memories to the fore. Memories she’d spent the last ten years trying to forget. And, even though they hurt, it was better than thinking Rafe affected her.

Better than making the mistake—again—of falling for a man’s handsome face and then being crushed under his heel. No, she’d learned that lesson all too terribly well. She would not be affected by Rafe Sandoval at all.

Yet she could still feel his presence, even his heat, behind her as she went down the stairs.

The next quarter of an hour was spent dealing with Max, yet Freya knew she could put off another conversation with Rafe for only so long. He loomed like a shadow in the kitchen, watching as she prepared Max a cup of milk and some slices of apple, helping him into his chair while he watched the stranger with wide, solemn eyes.

‘Are you a friend of Mummy’s?’ he finally asked, and the very air seemed to freeze.

Freya was amazed Max had even thought to make such a connection; Rosalia’s visits had been infrequent enough to make him stop asking for her. Yet her death, of course, had brought his mother and her absence to the front of his mind, and Freya supposed it was natural for him to attempt to make sense of the recent disorder of his world.

‘I knew your mother,’ Rafe replied carefully, his voice controlled.

‘Were you friends?’

Another agonising pause. Freya watched emotions flicker across Rafe’s face: anger foremost, and then uncertainty, perhaps even sorrow. ‘Yes,’ he finally said, although to Freya the word sounded reluctant. ‘We were.’

Max nodded, apparently—and thankfully—satisfied, and while he sipped his milk Freya returned to the kitchen, mindlessly tidying up while she registered Rafe Sandoval’s presence near her, felt the force of it like a charismatic and inexorable tug on her body.

‘We leave tonight.’

She turned, her heart caught in her chest. ‘We?’

Rafe inclined his head. ‘I take your point, Miss Clark. Max needs the stability of a familiar care-giver until he settles into his new home.’

Until. The word was ominous. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice cool with dignity. ‘I’ll pack our bags.’

Rafe nodded, satisfied with her acquiescence. Freya knew better than to push for more time in England. She’d got what she wanted, and she intended to keep it by asking for no more. Still, the thought of returning to Spain sent a shiver of trepidation and even cold, raw fear through her. She suppressed it, determined to deal only in practicalities.

‘I don’t think Max has a passport—’

‘I can deal with that.’ Rafe slipped a mobile phone from his jacket pocket, already punching in numbers. ‘I have to make a few preparations for the trip. Be ready by five o’clock.’

Startled, Freya glanced at the clock on the cooker. That was in just over two hours. ‘So quick—’

‘Yes.’ Rafe looked up, and his dark gaze—his eyes were so black—pinned Freya in place. ‘I conceded to you in this one thing, Miss Clark. Don’t look for other concessions.’

Freya swallowed. This felt like a war, yet she could hardly blame Rafe Sandoval for feeling antagonistic. She had seen him as the opposition from the moment she’d heard his name in the solicitor’s office.

He’s the man who will take Max away from me.

‘Just making an observation,’ she stated coolly. ‘We’ll be ready.’

‘Good.’ Rafe snapped his mobile shut and returned to Max, who had finished his milk and apple slices and was now looking at the two adults in the room with wary expectation. ‘Max, how would you like to go on a trip?’ Rafe crouched down to Max’s eye-level, smiling and assured, while Freya watched on.

‘A trip?’ Max repeated, and glanced at Freya. She nodded her reassurance.

‘Yes, a little holiday, Max. Would you like that?’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To Spain.’ Rafe stood up. ‘I have a house there, right in the mountains. There’s a swimming pool too. Do you like to swim?’

Max smiled shyly. ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘He hasn’t been very much,’ Freya explained.

Rafe’s gaze flicked over her, and when he looked away it felt like a dismissal. ‘I’m sure there are many things Max hasn’t done,’ he said. ‘This will be a new experience for him.’

The hint of challenge in his voice made Freya realise how easily Rafe Sandoval was able to put her in her place. He had all the power, all the control.

She only had Max … and for how long?

‘We’ll both look forward to it,’ she said, and with the faintest flicker of a smile Rafe turned away from her to face his son once more.

‘I shall see you later, Max. We’ll take an aeroplane to Spain. You can even watch a film during the flight.’ Max didn’t reply, clearly unable to process all these changes in so short a space of time. Rafe gazed at his son, his eyes seeming to turn even blacker, and then slowly—hesitantly—he reached out one hand and very gently, as if Max were made of glass, tousled his hair.

Max flinched a little under the hesitant caress, and to her surprise Freya felt a pang of sympathy and perhaps something else, something deeper and more dangerous, for Rafe.

‘He’s a bit shy with strangers—aren’t you, Max?’

Rafe turned to her, his expression coolly challenging, his voice low enough so only Freya would hear. ‘Well, we shan’t be strangers for long, shall we?’ he said, and with one last smile for his son he left.

Rafe sat in the driver’s seat, knowing he needed to put the key in the ignition and drive away. He didn’t. Couldn’t. His hands were trembling too much.

He let out a slow, shuddery breath, adrenalin, anticipation, and anger racing through him in equal measures. He’d just seen his son. The child he’d always wanted and never thought to have.

The child his ex-wife had tricked him out of … twice.

Rafe forced himself to relax, forced the dark memories back—memories of his own loveless childhood, and then the unhappy years of his marriage. The cold, cold gaze of his father as he surveyed the son he’d never loved. The way he’d often looked past him, as if Rafe wasn’t there. As if he didn’t want him to be. And only when he was an adult had he learned why.

Things would be different now, Rafe promised himself. A new generation, a new day. He was the father now, not the unwanted child, and he loved his son. Nothing and no one would keep him from Max … and certainly not Freya Clark.

CHAPTER THREE

FREYA settled Max into his seat on Rafe Sandoval’s private jet, trying not to show her awe and intimidation at such luxurious surroundings. The scope of Rafe’s wealth and power had never been more apparent than now.

Max wriggled, trying to peer out of the window in his excitement, and frustration, exacerbated by her nerves, caused Freya to raise her voice in a way she hardly ever did.

‘Max, settle down!’

‘He’s just excited—aren’t you, Max?’

Rafe had appeared behind her without sound or warning, so Freya nearly jumped in surprise. Annoyance bit at her; the last thing she wanted was Rafe Sandoval seeing her lose her temper with his son. She turned around to face Rafe, smiling coolly, composure firmly restored.

‘Of course he is. This is an amazing aeroplane.’ She looked away from Rafe’s dark, knowing gaze to examine the inside of the jet, taking in its leather sofas and teak coffee tables. It looked like an upscale hotel lounge, not a mode of transport.

‘We’ll be taking off in a few minutes,’ Rafe said. ‘Once the plane is at altitude, we can have something to eat. I suppose Max must have missed his dinner?’

Freya nodded. She’d spent the two hours between Rafe arriving this afternoon and now sorting and packing their things, answering Max’s ceaseless questions, and trying to quell her own nerves. This was so soon, so sudden, so much.

She wanted to stay with Max, of course she did. Since hearing about Rafe Sandoval’s custody claim a week ago she’d thought of little else. But she hadn’t considered how quickly he would move, how much he would want Max … and what it would feel like to return to Spain after all these years.

She pushed that thought—that memory—away. She never thought of her year in Spain, or the endless well of sorrow it opened up inside her. She wouldn’t start thinking about it now; she couldn’t afford to.

Max was happily looking out of the window now, so Freya took the opportunity to speak privately—and professionally—to Rafe. ‘I just left the house—locked, of course.’

‘My solicitor will deal with it,’ Rafe dismissed, the matter dealt with easily, thoughtlessly.

Freya thought of the terraced house where she’d spent so many happy days with Max over the last three years. She’d probably never see it again. Neither would Max. Those days, Rafe was effectively telling her with his dismissal and his dark stare, were over.

She swallowed, the hugeness of Rafe’s decision—and her determination to stay with Max—reverberating through her. ‘You should sit down,’ Rafe told her. ‘The plane is about to take off.’

Freya took her seat, holding her hands tightly in her lap, trying to remain calm. The events of the day were catching up with her with dizzying speed. She took a few slow, deep breaths and let them out, hoping Rafe wouldn’t notice her little exercise in self-control. She needed it now—needed to steady herself. Feelings and memories lingered on the fringes of her mind, in the recesses of her heart. If she let them, Freya knew, they would take her over completely.

They didn’t speak as the plane took to the air, and for the next little while Freya kept herself occupied with Max, pointing things out on the ground, chatting mindlessly about the aeroplane and all its features. She could sense Rafe’s presence near her, felt awareness prickle along her skin and coil inside, yet she did not face him. He’d taken out a sheaf of papers, and out of the corner of her eye she saw he was focused on his work—which was just as well. Even just sitting there he was far too distracting. Too tempting.

No, she couldn’t think that way. Freya stiffened, appalled by the nature of her own thoughts. She’d kept men strictly off-limits for years, and now this cold-blooded corporate type was causing her to stumble. Surely she was tougher than that? More experienced than that?

Yet, even so, her gaze wandered past Max, now busily exploring the plane, to Rafe. He was tapping a pen against his thigh—the fabric pulled taut over lean, hard muscle—as he gazed, frowning, at the papers spread across the table. Freya couldn’t look away, even when he looked up. His gaze settled on his son, and there was such longing and sadness in that dark look that Freya’s breath caught in her chest. She was not mistaking the depth of emotion in Rafe’s eyes, for she still saw it when his gaze swung to her and pinned her in place. She could not look away … and neither could he. They stared at each other, and Freya felt heat break out over her body. Awareness. Desire.

Rafe’s gaze moved slowly over her body, and Freya felt her face flush. Then his expression hardened, his mouth thinning, and he looked away. Freya sagged against her seat, amazed and unnerved by how affected she’d been by a simple look. Except there had been nothing simple about it. It had been dark and dangerous and far too tempting.