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

‘Of course, señor.’

‘Bueno.’

Rafe turned to his sleeping son, and in the wash of the streetlight Freya could see how his face softened, was suffused with tenderness. Her insides clenched again, this time with a nameless longing. She had not expected Rafe to seem so vulnerable when it came to his son. And so cold with her.

‘Come, Max,’ he whispered in Spanish. ‘We are home now.’

Still holding Max, he slid out of the car and entered the building, leaving Freya no choice but to follow. She followed Rafe through an ornate foyer, its marble floor gleaming from the light of a crystal chandelier. Despite the late hour, several porters were in attendance, and they moved with quiet efficiency, taking their bags to a separate service lift. Freya followed Rafe into a wood-panelled lift, and the operator, also liveried, slid the iron grille in place before taking them to the top floor. The penthouse.

Freya glanced at Max, because it was better than looking at Rafe. She had to fight the insane impulse to look at him, to notice the hard angle of his jaw and the faint glint of stubble on his chin. The sound of him speaking Spanish, his voice low, the tone mellifluous, had slipped into her senses, stirred them to life. She’d forgotten what a beautiful language Spanish was—which was ridiculous, because she’d been speaking it to both Max and Rosalia for years. Yet somehow it was different when spoken by a man. By Rafe.

The operator slid the grille open, and Rafe walked straight into the penthouse flat. Clearly someone had been there cleaning, turning lights on, stocking the fridge. The place had an empty yet enlivened air, and Freya gazed at the stark, modern furniture, so at odds with the classical building and its stately architecture. Most of the interior walls had been taken out to create a huge open space, and long, sashed windows revealed Madrid in all its glittering glory.

Freya gazed in dismay at the leather-and-chrome sofas, the glass coffee table, the awkward sculptures of glass and iron that Max could so easily break or hurt himself on. This was hardly a place for a child.

Rafe must have realised that too, for he half turned to Freya, so his face was in profile, and said in a gruff whisper, ‘We will leave as soon as possible for my house in Andalusia. It is much more suited for a child.’ He jerked his head towards Max, still amazingly asleep, nestled against his father. ‘I will put him to bed.’

‘Of course.’

Until he left Freya hadn’t realised they’d been speaking Spanish. She’d slipped into it so naturally. The thought caused her a ripple of foreboding. Being back in Spain was stirring up so many memories—memories of loss and desire and regret—and she did not want to feel them again. She didn’t want to remember at all. She couldn’t be tempted.

Alone in the huge reception room, she wandered around, gazing at the sculpture and the modern art, wondering what it revealed about Rafe. The place felt stark and soulless, much like the man Rosalia had described.

‘He never loved me. He never showed me any affection at all. How would he treat his child?’

Freya had listened to Rosalia’s diatribes patiently, because she’d known how frazzled and fractured the other woman was; she’d never seemed comfortable or happy or even at peace. She’d never bonded with Max, despite Freya’s attempts to bring them together. Freya had never known how much of Rosalia’s misery was self-inflicted, and how much was caused by the man in the other room. The man putting his son to sleep so tenderly.

There was so much she hadn’t expected, so much she didn’t understand. She’d made assumptions about Rafe Sandoval based on what Rosalia had told her, what the media described, and yet when he looked at his son he seemed like someone else entirely. Someone kind and gentle and good.

‘He seems to have settled,’ Rafe said, startling her. She turned around, her arms folded in front of her in a posture of defence.

‘Oh … good.’

Rafe propped one shoulder against the door, his gaze speculative.

‘Your Spanish is very good.’ ‘I told you I was fluent.’ ‘Yes.and why is that?’

He arched one eyebrow, the low lighting from the lamps sending his face into half-shadow so Freya couldn’t quite make out his expression. ‘You are not Spanish.’

‘My Spanish isn’t that good?’ Freya said wryly, surprising herself. At some point she must have mentally called a truce. This man was not her enemy. He showed too much concern for Max to be that. Yet he was still a danger.

‘Not quite,’ Rafe allowed.

Even in the shadowy light she saw a smile flicker across his face, and felt an answering tug of need deep in her belly. She took a step backwards.

‘So how and why did you learn Spanish?’

‘I studied it at school,’ Freya said. She took a breath, knowing she would need to tell him more, that he would ask eventually. ‘And I spent my gap year in Spain.’

‘Gap year?’

‘A year after sixth form,’ Freya explained. ‘When I was eighteen.’

The words felt like explosions in her heart, hollowing out holes. Ten years ago, and yet for a decade she’d acted as if that year didn’t exist—hadn’t happened. And here she was, admitting it to Rafe Sandoval. He’d slipped under her defences so easily, and she didn’t even know how it had happened … or why. All she knew was that it was frightening and dangerous … and yet a part of her craved it at the same time—that closeness, an intimacy. She’d denied herself for so long, and yet she couldn’t have picked a more inappropriate person to need. Want.

‘Ah.’ Rafe’s gaze swept slowly over her, and Freya stared back coolly, refusing to look away or show any sign of weakness. ‘You can sleep in the bedroom next to Max’s,’ Rafe finally said. ‘Let me know if there is anything you need.’

Freya nodded, and he moved off to the other bedroom wing. Freya walked slowly down the corridor, peeking into a darkened room with its door ajar to see Max curled peacefully on a double bed.

In the room next door her bag had already been placed by the bed, although she hadn’t noticed anyone enter the apartment besides themselves. Presumably there was a separate service entrance, and the staff were trained to come and go silently. She gazed around at all the opulence—the king-sized bed with its cream satin duvet, the plush carpet under her feet. She moved to the window and lifted the heavy damask drape; outside she saw a wrought-iron balcony, and she slid the door open to breathe in the dusky warm air.

Freya closed her eyes, letting the sultry breeze ripple over her. Happiness and sorrow warred within her. She was with Max. What more could she possibly want? Yet memories whispered on the fringes of her mind. Threatened to pull her under.

She’d known it would be difficult, returning to Spain after all these years, but she hadn’t quite prepared herself for the way the very air brought her tumbling back to that old version of herself, innocent and untainted. She wished suddenly, fiercely, that she could go back and change the events of that year, erase the mistakes she’d made. She wished she could be a whole person—untroubled, unscarred—for Max. And maybe even for Rafe. If she was, would things be different now? Would she even be here at all? For surely it was her desperate knowledge that she could never have a child of her own that had derailed her mathematics career and led her to care for Max in the first place?

Freya undressed quickly, exhaustion not just from the flight but from the last week crashing over her in a wave, and slipped beneath the cool, slippery duvet. She fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, despite the thoughts and memories churning through her mind and heart.

And she awoke to an unholy scream of terror renting the air.

CHAPTER FIVE

FREYA bolted out of bed, every nerve on high alert as the scream echoed through the apartment. It was coming, she knew, from Max. She recognised the sound of raw fear, for in the week since Rosalia had died he’d woken up several times with night terrors. She hurried out of her bedroom, stumbling in the unfamiliar surroundings, groping in the dark. And skidded to a halt on the threshold of Max’s bedroom—for Rafe was already there.

She gaped in disorientated surprise as Rafe leaned over Max, whispering soothingly, stroking his hair. Max kept on screaming. His eyes were open, but Freya knew he wasn’t really awake. She had yet to find a way to deal with Max’s night terrors other than time and patience.

‘What is wrong?’ Rafe asked in a low voice. He did not take his gaze from his son. ‘Why will he not stop? What can I do?’

There was a raw note of pleading in Rafe’s voice that tore at Freya’s heart. Rafe Sandoval was not a man used to being helpless.

‘He’s not really awake,’ she said quietly. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, next to Rafe. Too late she realised how few clothes either of them wore; Rafe was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of drawstring trousers, and because of the warm night she wore only a tank top and shorts. They were very close on the bed, their bare legs brushing, causing gooseflesh to rise all over Freya’s body in an instinctive response of awareness.

She turned to Max, murmuring quietly, stroking his hair just as Rafe had. Now that the terror had run its course—or perhaps because Max recognised her, even in his sleep—he relaxed just a bit, his screams lowering to exhausted moans, and buried his head in Freya’s lap.

‘It’s all right now, isn’t it?’ Freya said, her fingers sliding through his silky hair. ‘You’re all right, Max. It was nothing but a dream.’

Max jerked his head up, his unfocused eyes suddenly trained on Rafe. And he started screaming again.

Rafe tensed, and Freya said, a note of apology in her voice, ‘He’s asleep—he doesn’t—’

‘I’ll go.’ Rafe stood up and walked stiffly from the room. To Freya’s dismay Max’s screams subsided as soon as his father had left. The strange events of the day must have affected him on a subconscious level.

She stayed for a few more minutes as he dropped back into a deeper sleep, and then she tucked the blankets around him. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, wondering if she should go back to her own room. Had Rafe gone back to bed? He’d seemed almost hurt by his son’s rejection, and that thought compelled her to tiptoe towards the living room.

Rafe stood by the window, a tumbler of whisky in his hand. He was still shirtless, and Freya could not keep herself from noticing how the moonlight slanting through the windows washed his body in silver, emphasising the sculpted muscles of his back, his broad shoulders and trim hips.

She almost turned around again and hightailed it back to her room, for her brain recognised that there was something dangerous about this situation—about both of them wearing almost nothing in the middle of the night, in a moon-washed room. Her body sensed danger too. Every nerve and sinew was singing to life, to a heightened awareness that was painful in its pleasure. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to feel … anything.

‘Why is he like that?’ Rafe half turned to her, his face in profile.