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The Secret Love-Child
Miranda Lee
Was the jilted bride expecting a baby? Isabel boldly asked Rafe to accompany her on what was to have been her honeymoon. Love wasn't part of the deal, but handsome, arrogant Rafe St. Vincent could help her to forget that she'd been jilted.Only, the honeymoon was soon over…because it seemed as if, accidentally, Isabel might have conceived Rafe's child….
“Let’s talk about you.”
“Fine,” Rafe said, his head whirling. Did sperm live for a full day? He was pretty sure it was possible…but the odds weren’t on his side.
Weren’t on his side? Was he mad? He should have been relieved. He didn’t really want to be a father, did he? Did he?
He looked at Isabel and realized he did. With her, anyway.
The realization took his breath away.
He reefed his eyes away and stared down at the pool. Stared and stared and stared. And then his eyes flung wide. Who would have believed it?
“Rafe? Rafe, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
The Secret Love-Child
Miranda Lee
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
‘PLEASE, Rafe. My reputation for reliability is on the line here.’
Rafe sighed. Les had to be really desperate to ask him to do this. His ex-partner knew full well the one job he’d hated when they’d been in the photographic business together was covering weddings. Where Les enjoyed the drama and sentiment of the bride and groom’s big day, Rafe found the whole wedding scenario irritating in the extreme. The pre-ceremony nerves got on his nerves, as did all the hugging and crying that went on afterwards.
Rafe was not a big fan of women weeping.
On top of that, it was impossible to be seriously creative when the criterion was simply to capture every single moment of the day on film, regardless. Rafe, the perfectionist, had loathed having to work with the possibilities that the weather might be rotten, the settings difficult and the bridal party hopelessly unphotogenic.
As a top-flight fashion and magazine photographer, Rafe now had control over everything. The sets. The lighting. And above all…the models. When you shot a wedding, you had control over very little.
‘I presume you can’t get anyone else,’ Rafe said, resignation in his voice.
‘The wedding’s on Saturday, exactly a fortnight from today,’ Les explained. ‘You know how popular Saturday weddings are. Every decent photographer in Sydney will already be booked.’
‘Yeah. Yeah. I understand. Okay, so what do you want me to do?’
‘The bride’s due at your place at noon today.’
Rafe’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. It was eleven fifty-three. ‘And what if I’d refused?’
‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down. You might be the very devil with women, but you’re a good mate.’
Rafe shook his head at this back-handed compliment. So he’d had quite a few girlfriends over the years. So what? He was thirty-three years old, a better-than-average-looking bachelor who spent his days photographing bevies of beautiful women, a lot of whom were also single. It was inevitable that their ready availability, plus his active libido, would keep the wheels turning where his relationships were concerned.
But he wasn’t a womaniser. He had one girlfriend at a time, and he never lied or cheated. He just didn’t want marriage. Or children. Was that a crime? It seemed to be in some people’s eyes.
Rafe wished his married friends—like Les—would understand that not everyone wanted the same things out of life.
‘Just give me some details before the bride actually arrives,’ he said a tad impatiently, ‘so I won’t look a right Charlie.’
‘Okay, her name is Isabel Hunt. She’s thirtyish, blonde and beautiful.’
‘Les, you think all your brides are beautiful,’ Rafe said drily.
‘And so they are. On the day. But this one is beautiful all the time. You’re going to enjoy photographing Ms Hunt, I promise you. Or should I say, Mrs Freeman. The lucky girl is marrying Luke Freeman, the only son and heir of Lionel Freeman.’
‘Is that supposed to mean something to me? Who the hell is Lionel Freeman, anyway?’
‘Truly, Rafe, you’re a complete philistine when it comes to subjects other than food, the Phantom and photography. Lionel Freeman was one of Sydney’s most awarded architects. Poor chap was killed in a car accident a couple of weeks back, along with his wife, so tread easily with the groom when you finally meet him.’
‘Poor bloke. What rotten luck.’ Rafe’s own father had been killed in a car crash when Rafe had been only eight. It had been a difficult time in his life, one he didn’t like dwelling on.
‘Oh-oh. I just heard a car pull up outside. The bride-to-be, I gather, and right on time. I hope she’s just as punctual on her wedding day. Now what about money, Les? What do you charge for a wedding these days?’
‘A lot less than you could command, my friend. But I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for my fee. It’s already been agreed upon and the full amount paid up front. If you give me your bank account number, I’ll…’
‘No, don’t bother,’ Rafe broke in, not caring about the money this once. Les might need it. He wouldn’t be running around covering too many weddings with a broken leg. ‘You can owe me one. Just don’t ask again, buddy. Not where a wedding is concerned. Must go. The doorbell’s ringing. I’ll call you back after the bride’s gone. Let you know what I thought of her.’
Rafe hung up and headed downstairs, then hurried along towards the front door, curious now to see if Les was exaggerating about the bride-to-be’s blonde beauty.
She’d have to be something really special to surprise him. After all, he was used to beautiful blondes. He’d photographed hundreds. He’d even fallen madly in love with one once.
He’d been twenty-five at the time, and had just started climbing the fashion photographic ladder. Liz had been an up-and-coming cat walk model. Nineteen, nubile and too nice to be true. Only he hadn’t realised that in the beginning. He’d become so besotted with her he’d actually begged her to live with him. Which she had. But only till she’d milked him for everything he was worth, both personally and professionally. Within a year she’d moved on to an older, more influential photographer, leaving an emotionally bruised and embittered Rafe behind.
He was no longer bruised, or bitter. That had all happened years ago. But he hadn’t lived with a girlfriend since, no matter how much he might occasionally be tempted to. And he didn’t date blondes any more. Experience had taught him blondes often played sweet and vulnerable and not too bright, when they were actually smart as a whip, sneakily manipulative and ruthlessly ambitious.
Photographing them, however, was another question. A blonde was still his model of choice.
Rafe wrenched open the front door to his inner-city terrace home and tried not to stare. Wow! Les hadn’t exaggerated one bit.
What a pity she was going to be married, he thought as his male gaze swept over his visitor. Because if ever there was a blonde who might make him reassess his decision never to date one again, she was standing right in front of him.
Talk about exquisite!
Ms Isabel Hunt was the epitome of an Alfred Hitchcock heroine. Classically beautiful and icily blonde, with cheekbones to die for, cool long-lashed blue eyes and what looked like a perfect figure. Though, to be honest, she would have to remove the fawn linen jacket she was wearing over those tailored black trousers for Rafe to be sure.
‘Ms Hunt?’ he said, smiling warmly at her. What had been an irksome task in his mind now held the prospect of some pleasure. Rafe liked nothing better than photographing truly beautiful women. Of course, only the camera would tell if she was also photogenic. It was perverse that some of the most beautiful women in the flesh didn’t always come up so well on film.
‘Mr Saint Vincent?’ she returned, her own gaze raking over him. With not much approval, he noted. Maybe she didn’t like men who hadn’t shaved by noon.
She looked the fussy type. Her make-up was perfection and her clothes immaculate. That white shirt she had on underneath her jacket was so dazzlingly white, it could have featured in one of those washing-powder ads.
‘The one and only,’ he replied, his smile widening. Most women, he’d found, eventually responded to his smile. Rafe liked his photographic subjects to be totally relaxed with him. Being stiff in front of a camera was the kiss of death when it came to getting good results. ‘But do call me Rafe.’
‘Rafe,’ she said obediently, but coolly.
Ms Hunt, Rafe realised ruefully, was not a woman given to being easily charmed. Which perhaps was just as well. She was one gorgeous woman. Those eyes. And that mouth! Perfectly shaped and deliciously full, her lips were provocative enough in repose. How would he react if they ever smiled at him?
Don’t smile, lady, he warned her silently. Or we both could be in big trouble!
‘Would you object if I called you Isabel?’ he said recklessly.
‘If you insist.’
Was that contempt he saw flicker in her eyes? Surely not!
Still, Rafe decided to pull right back on the charm for now and get down to tin tacks.
‘Les rang me a little while ago with just the barest of details,’ he informed her matter-of-factly, ‘so why don’t you come inside and we can discuss a few things?’
He led her into the front room where he conducted most of his business. It wasn’t an office as such, more of a sitting room, simply and sparsely furnished. The walls, however, were covered with his favourite photos, all of women in various states of dress and undress. None actually nude, but some were close, and all were in black and white.
‘I don’t see any wedding photos,’ the bride-to-be noted curtly as he led her over to the nearest sofa.
‘I no longer work as a wedding photographer,’ he admitted. ‘But I was once Les’s partner, so don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.’
She gave him a long hard look. ‘I suspect you’re more expensive than Les.’
Rafe sat down on the navy sofa opposite hers and leant back, stretching his arms along the back.
‘Usually,’ he agreed. ‘But not this time. I’m doing this job as a favour to Les.’
‘What about the actual photos? Will I have to pay more for them?’
‘No.’
She glanced up at the prints on the wall again and almost rolled her eyes. ‘You do take coloured snaps, don’t you?’
Rafe was not a man easy to rile. He had a very even temper. But she was beginning to annoy him. Coloured snaps, indeed! He wasn’t some hack or hobby photographer. He was a professional!
‘Of course,’ he returned, priding himself on sounding a lot calmer than he was feeling inside. ‘I do a lot of fashion photography. And fashion wouldn’t be fashion without colour. But wedding photographs do look fabulous in black and white. I think you’d be pleased with the results.’
‘Mr Saint Vincent—’ she began frostily.
‘Rafe, please,’ he interrupted, determined not to lose it. My, she was a snooty bitch. Mr Luke Freeman was welcome to her. Rafe wondered if the poor groom knew exactly what type he was getting here. Talk about an Ice Princess!
‘The thing is, Rafe,’ she said in clipped tones, ‘I wouldn’t have chosen a wine-red gown for my maid of honour if I wanted all the photographs done in black and white, would I?’
Rafe simply ignored her sarcasm. ‘What colour is the groom wearing?’
‘Black.’
‘And yourself?’
‘White, of course.’
‘Of course,’ he repeated drily, his eyes holding hers for much longer than was strictly polite.
She flushed. She actually flushed.
Rafe was startled. She couldn’t be a virgin. Not at thirty. And not looking like that. It was faintly possible, he supposed. Either that, or sex wasn’t her favourite pastime.
Rafe pitied the groom some more. It didn’t look as if his wedding night was going to be a ball if his bride was this uptight about sex.
‘I’m sorry but I really don’t want my wedding photos done in black and white,’ she pronounced coldly, despite her pink cheeks. ‘If you feel you can’t accommodate me on this, then I’ll just have to find another photographer.’
‘You won’t find anyone decent at this late stage,’ Rafe told her bluntly.
She looked frustrated and Rafe found some sympathy for her. He was being a bit stubborn, even if he was right.
‘Look, Isabel, would you tell a painter how to paint? Or a surgeon how to operate? I’m a professional photographer. And a top one, even if I say so myself. I know what will look good, and you won’t look just good shot in black and white. You’ll look magnificent.’
She was clearly taken aback by his fulsome compliment. But he’d never had the opportunity to photograph a bride as beautiful as this. No way was he going to let her muck up his creative vision. With the automatic cameras now available, any fool could take colour snaps. But only Rafe Saint Vincent could produce black and white masterpieces!
‘There will be any number of guests at your wedding taking coloured snaps, if you want some,’ he argued. ‘My job, however, is to give you quality photographic memories which will not only be beautiful, but timeless. I guarantee that you’ll still be able to show your wedding photographs to your grandchildren with great pride. They won’t be considered old-fashioned, or funny, in any way.’
