Blackmail & Secrets: The Sandoval Baby / The Count's Secret Child / Playboy's Surprise Son

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?’

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘PREGNANT?’ Freya repeated numbly, for of course the possibility had never once—not even remotely—crossed her mind. She shook her head, suppressing the sudden, bizarre blaze of hope Rafe’s words had caused to streak through her. ‘No.’

Impatience flashed across his features. ‘Why not?’

‘It’s impossible,’ Freya told him flatly. It hurt to say it.

Rafe shook his head, nonplussed. ‘I’m infertile,’ she elaborated. His expression did not change.

‘Are you certain?’

Anger spiked through her, firing her words. ‘Am I certain?’ she repeated, her voice rising, giving way to the ocean of emotion underneath. She strove to temper it, to keep herself as calm and remote as always. She could not give in to the emotions and memories now. If she did, she might drown in them. ‘Of course I am.’

Rafe shrugged. ‘It is perhaps possible, though?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Freya said coldly. She hated that he was pressing her, giving her hope. She’d lived with her infertility for ten years. Had accepted it … almost.

Perhaps this is your punishment. A girl like you …

‘It is not possible. And I’m surprised you’d even think of it, based on such little evidence. A little nausea—’

His mouth compressed into a thin line. ‘I looked for pregnancy symptoms in my wife for five years. I know the signs.’

His admission caused shock to slice through her. Five years? ‘And she never fell pregnant?’

‘No,’ Rafe told her flatly. ‘Because she was on the Pill the entire time and didn’t tell me. She never wanted children, even though I—’ He stopped, his lips pressed firmly together, his body taut with suppressed emotion.

‘But then she did become pregnant, and kept it from you?’ Freya filled in slowly.

‘Exactly.’ Rafe turned back to her with a grim smile. ‘By accident, I must suppose. She deceived me twice—first by taking birth control when she knew how much I wanted a child, and then by keeping her pregnancy secret from me.’

‘I suppose I can understand why you wanted a paternity test,’ Freya said quietly, and Rafe’s features twisted.

‘I did not realise she hated me so much.’ He raked a hand through his hair, then let it fall. ‘I think you should take a pregnancy test. Just in case.’

‘It’s not—’

‘I know,’ he cut across her. ‘But at least it will rule out the possibility.’

This was what Rosalia lived with for five years, Freya supposed. The pressure, the tension, and then of course his disappointment. By the time Freya had met her Rosalia had surely hated Rafe. Yet what had caused that hate? Five years of expectation and disappointment could not have helped. Had she ever loved him? Freya thought she must have. Her hatred had seemed fuelled by disappointment and despair. Had Rafe ever loved his wife, Freya wondered, or just the idea of a child?

‘I’ll buy a test tomorrow,’ Rafe told her.

Freya shrugged her acceptance. If it eased Rafe’s mind, she would take the test. She knew what the result would be.

Positive. Two pink lines. Freya sat on the edge of the bath and stared disbelievingly at the test stick. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. She knew it was.

Yet the evidence was right there in her hand—two blazing pink lines that meant she was pregnant. She scrabbled for the leaflet that had come with the test, checked again. Yes. Pregnant. And what about false positives? Very rare, the leaflet said.

And yet.

It couldn’t be.

Even so an incredulous hope was filling her up inside, buoying her heart. She felt a sudden fierce joy—a joy she’d never thought to experience. A child. Her child. A miracle.

‘Freya?’ Rafe stood outside the bathroom door, impatience sharpening his voice.

The disbelieving joy of seeing the test results gave way to a greater shock. She was pregnant … with Rafe’s child. It was a miracle, but it was also a mess.

‘Just a minute.’ From somewhere Freya found her voice. Fumbling with the lock, she opened the bathroom door. She had no words—she felt suddenly near tears—so she simply handed the test stick to Rafe. He took it automatically, then stared down at those two lines.

For a split second, no more, Freya thought he looked almost—happy. He didn’t smile, but his features softened in a way that made her yearn for this moment to be so different from what it was. Then his expression was ironed out and he tossed the stick in the bin.

‘You’re pregnant.’ He spoke levelly, without any inflection.