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

Freya nodded. ‘Yes, it would seem … I thought it was impossible. I was sure.’

‘Were you?’ Rafe enquired coolly.

Freya’s gaze flew to his face. She saw his eyes had narrowed, his lips pursed. She was starting to know that look so well.

‘What are you suggesting?’ she asked, her voice as cool as his. ‘That I tricked you somehow? That I planned what—what happened and thought I might get pregnant that one time? You still suspect some kind of seduction?’ Even though she kept her voice level and expressionless, she knew Rafe could hear the scorn.

‘I don’t know what to think,’ he said evenly. ‘You told me it was taken care of. I assumed you were on birth control—’

‘I am infertile.’ Freya cut across him, the words raw and wounded. ‘I was told I was infertile. I had no reason to doubt it.’ She swallowed convulsively, unable to say more. Rafe’s narrow gaze took in her sudden silence, and she knew he was not satisfied with her answer.

He nodded towards her still-flat belly. ‘Obviously the person who told you was mistaken.’

Freya placed her hand on her middle, as if she could somehow sense the tiny life within. Pregnant. A child. A chance she’d never, ever thought to have. Rafe raised his eyebrows, and suddenly, fiercely, Freya said, ‘I’m keeping it.’

Rafe drew back, clearly startled by the fierceness of her tone. ‘I was not suggesting otherwise.’

‘Good.’ She let out a harsh breath. ‘This baby is a miracle. I never thought I’d fall pregnant.’ Repercussions were slamming through her mind. This baby was not hers alone. ‘You’ve said you wanted children …’ she began hesitantly, not even sure what point she meant to make.

Rafe’s mouth thinned. ‘I have a child.’

The words hurt even as Freya lifted her chin. ‘Fine. If you think I’m asking for help, or money, or something like that—’

‘I don’t know what you want.’ Rafe cut across her, his tone suddenly savage. ‘I’ve never known what you wanted.’ He took a step closer to her, the action seeming both menacing and desperate. His eyes flashed blackly. ‘But I know you are hiding something from me, and when I find out what it is …’

It wasn’t quite a threat, but close enough that Freya felt a shiver steal straight through her, all the way to her soul.

‘Whatever secrets I have,’ she whispered, ‘have nothing to do with you.’

Rafe’s mouth curved in a humourless smile. ‘I knew from the moment I met you that you were hiding something from me. You still are. I’ve been deceived enough before to know the signs.’

Freya felt her heart start to beat with fast, fearful thuds. She could not deny that she was hiding something; she’d been hiding something for ten years. Yet neither could she confess. The thought of facing Rafe’s sure scorn and disgust was more than she could bear. Besides, it was her secret and hers alone. It had nothing to do with their baby. Their baby.

‘I think you must be paranoid,’ she told him coolly. ‘I am not Rosalia. I am not lying to you. I genuinely believed myself to be infertile.’

‘I believe you,’ Rafe returned, yet his tone suggested that was just about all he believed.

Freya could not keep herself from looking away, and Rafe noticed.

His mouth thinned once more. ‘I will make an appointment at the doctor’s in Seville.’

Freya swallowed. Tasted bile. Memories came rushing back—memories of pregnancy tests and doctors’ offices, of disappointment and despair. She’d been eighteen years old, alone in Barcelona. It had been different, and yet so much the same. She looked away, blinking hard.

‘What is wrong?’ Rafe asked.

Freya drew in a deep breath. She could not let memories claim her now—not when Rafe was already so suspicious.

‘Nothing. That is.this is a lot to take in.’

‘So it is.’ Rafe paused, and Freya tensed. He looked so serious, and so very determined. ‘If the doctor confirms this pregnancy, and it is viable,’ he said, his gaze dark and steady, ‘you will marry me.’

Even though she’d strangely half expected it, Freya still felt an icy ripple of shock douse her senses. ‘That isn’t the only solution.’

‘It is for me.’

She raised her chin. ‘You want to get married after your first experience?’

He flinched, and she realised she’d hurt him. ‘At least with this marriage we’ll both go in knowing the circumstances—and the limitations.’

‘Which are?’

‘It will be a marriage of convenience—one that is best for the child.’

He made it sound so simple, Freya thought. So obvious. ‘And a loveless business arrangement is best for a child?’ she asked, a revealing catch in her voice.

‘Knowing both your parents is best for a child,’ Rafe returned harshly.

‘That doesn’t require marriage—’

‘My child will not grow up a bastard.’ She flinched, and he gave a hollow laugh. ‘I would not wish that on any child. I’m speaking from experience.’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘You—’ Rafe slashed a hand through the air. ‘Marriage is the only option.’

Freya felt a hollow sensation in her chest, as if she had emptied out. She had not expected such a demand so soon, so suddenly. ‘And if I don’t agree?’ ‘Don’t go there, Freya.’

The words were a warning, given with the kind of cold control that reminded her she was speaking to El Tiburón. The shark of the business world who devoured what he wanted and discarded what he didn’t. And right now, Freya thought, he wanted her child.

He didn’t want her. Not the way she wanted to be wanted, anyway. To be cherished, loved. Not that she’d even dared to hope for it, but to sign her entire life away to a man who didn’t love her, didn’t trust her—

A man who was gentle with his child, whose smile made her ache. A man whom she knew, terrifyingly, she could fall in love with if she let herself. And who would never love her.

‘Are you threatening me?’ she asked, her voice still thankfully level and even cool.

‘See it as you like,’ Rafe replied. ‘You are carrying my child. I missed the first three years of my son’s life. If you think I am going to allow—’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Then I will do everything in my power to ensure I retain custody,’ Rafe said.

The words fell like stones into the silence, creating irrevocable ripples. They were words that could not be unsaid, with implications Freya did not want to envisage.

She swallowed, pushed past the bitterness and bile that crowded her throat. She’d thought Rafe was a good, gentle man, and he was—with Max. With her he was something else entirely. With her he was El Tiburón. Was this what Rosalia had faced? This heartless ambition, this single-minded determination to provide and care for his child? Was this why she had stopped loving him? Why she had left?

‘Why?’ she asked when she finally trusted her voice. ‘Why would you threaten to take my child away from me?’ Her voice trembled, broke. ‘Why would you blackmail me into marriage?’

Surprise and perhaps even regret flashed across Rafe’s face, and then his expression hardened. ‘I simply want what is best for our child,’ he told her flatly. ‘Isn’t that what you want?’

‘I want …’ Freya stopped, for she knew what she wanted wasn’t possible. Had never been possible since she’d last given in to temptation, wrecked three lives and destroyed another. Love. Happiness. A family. None of those were possible for her—except, amazingly, the last. Yet not in a way she had ever envisaged or would have chosen. Still, she acknowledged bleakly, it was the only option. Her only chance at some kind of happiness.