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

‘That’s good, then,’ he finally said, although he still sounded suspicious. ‘Tomorrow we will travel to my house in Andalusia. Max should get settled there as soon as possible.’

Freya nodded, knowing what he was implying. Settled so you can leave. Her hands clenched, fingers curling into her palms. She forced herself to flatten them out, seem calm. Memories ricocheted through her.

Is there any chance you could be pregnant? No. Never.

The pain of that old loss was magnified by the knowledge that she would lose Max too—in a matter of weeks, maybe months.

Rafe let out a tiny sigh, and Freya couldn’t tell if he was sorrowful or just exasperated. ‘We will put this behind us,’ he said.

Freya nodded mechanically. She agreed with him completely, in the rational part of her mind, at least, yet she knew how difficult it could be to put mistakes behind you. Sometimes the only way to do it was to pretend it hadn’t happened at all.

Yet now, with Rafe, she wondered if that was even possible.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘LOOK, Freya!’

Freya shielded her eyes from the sun as Max jumped into the shallow end of the pool. He squealed in delight as he hit the water, and she clapped her hands. ‘Fantástico, Max!’ They had spoken only Spanish since arriving at Rafe’s villa in Andalusia, and Max had accepted it naturally—just as he had accepted everything about his surroundings.

And why shouldn’t he? It was paradise, after all. Stretched out on a sun lounger, Freya gazed around at the pool, fringed by palm and orange trees, with the rocky, barren mountains a stunning backdrop to the villa’s extensive gardens and grounds. In the three weeks since they’d been there Max had been content to swim and play, to explore the gardens and walk down the dusty country road to a nearby farm where they had just had a litter of kittens.

Rafe had stocked his villa with a variety of shiny new toys and books, and outfitted a bedroom as a nursery, with child-sized beds, tables and chairs. Max had everything he could possibly want. He didn’t even ask about England any more, or his mother. He’d adapted to his surroundings, and to Rafe, with childlike ease and joy.

Freya knew she should be glad he’d adjusted so well. And she was. Yet still she still felt uneasy, restless, because she did not know how long this would last. How long she would last. Every day she waited for Rafe to inform her she was no longer needed.

Rafe had been telecommuting with his office from the villa these last three weeks, with just a few short overnight trips to Madrid. He always made sure to spend time with Max, stopping by the pool or the nursery, and every afternoon playing with Max or reading him a story while Freya made herself scarce by silent agreement. The sight of their dark heads bent together sent a pang through her, a shaft of longing she had no right to feel.

Rafe had been cordial to her these last weeks, and they’d had a few careful conversations. Still, Freya felt as if they were orbiting around each other—Max the pull of gravity that kept them on similar but separate courses. Even so, his presence, his gentleness with his son, the way he’d tousle Max’s hair with a look of longing on his face—all of it made her wish things were different. She was different.

She didn’t let herself daydream beyond that vague thought, for she knew it was too dangerous. The kind of encounter she’d experienced with Rafe was surely nothing to build a relationship on—even if that were something either of them wanted. Which of course it wasn’t.

Yet despite the distance they maintained she couldn’t keep herself from watching Rafe as he spoke with Max, from noticing the almost reddish gleam in his dark hair, the easy grace with which he crouched down to talk to Max. Laughter rang through the house when they were playing together, surprising her because she’d never heard Rafe laugh before, and the sound made her ache. This man was not what she’d expected, what Rosalia had told her he was. At least not with Max.

With her …

‘Buenas tardes.’

Rafe strolled into the pool area, looking cool and casual in a loose white shirt and tan trousers. His feet were bare and tanned, his manner relaxed as he smiled at Max. Freya’s insides clenched with a nameless longing.

‘You are turning into a fish, Max,’ Rafe said. ‘Where are your fins?’

Max splashed in the shallows, grinning. ‘I don’t have fins!’

Rafe crouched down by the side of the pool, a smile softening his features, making him look entirely too approachable. Too wonderful. ‘No? Are you sure?’

Max continued to splash about, and slowly, as if he needed to steel himself, Rafe turned to Freya. ‘You are well?’ he enquired politely.

‘Very well,’ Freya replied, just as politely. She hated how artificial they were with each other, yet she did not know how to change it. She doubted Rafe even wanted to. And she had no intention of boring him with the truth—which was that over the past few days she’d felt a little off … tired and nauseous. It was no doubt some kind of bug, and she’d get over it without any help from Rafe.

‘Damita has prepared lunch,’ Rafe told her. ‘A seafood paella. Are you ready to eat?’

Freya couldn’t quite keep from making a face. Although the housekeeper made delicious meals, the thought of seafood put her right off.

Rafe raised his eyebrows. ‘Does that not suit you?’ he asked mildly.

‘I’m sorry. I have been feeling a bit nauseous these past few days. Probably some sort of stomach bug.’ She swung her legs off the lounger and turned to Max, intending to call him out of the water.

‘Nauseous?’ Rafe repeated. ‘How long has this been going on?’

‘A few days, that is all. It goes away by dinnertime.’

Rafe had stilled, tensed.

‘If you are worried that it might interfere with my care of Max—’

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I am not concerned about that.’

He paused, and Freya saw him looking at her with that narrow, assessing gaze that had been thankfully absent these past few weeks. He looked suspicious—but of what? A bout of stomach flu? Uneasily she turned back to Max.

‘Max, get out of the water. It is time for lunch.’ She waited for Rafe to say something, but he remained standing there, silent, as Max scrambled from the pool, and Freya held up a towel, bundling him into it with a smile and a ruffle of his wet hair.

It could not be. Surely it could not be. Rafe watched Freya as she dried off Max, cuddling him a bit, and his insides tightened.

Nauseous. Tired. He knew the signs; God only knew he’d been looking for them for the five years of his marriage—hoping, praying that Rosalia would fall pregnant, that they would have a family. The family he’d always wanted. The family he’d never had as a child.

Their marriage had ended when she’d revealed to him that it hadn’t been possible, that she’d never wanted it to be possible. With a flash of ever-present anger Rafe remembered the swamping sense of betrayal.

the hollow sensation of realising he’d been waiting and hoping in utter futility.

Yet even that had been a lie. Had Rosalia ever told him the truth? Had any woman?

And was Freya lying to him now? Had she lied to him when she told him it was ‘taken care of’?

Could she be pregnant?

Rafe turned away from the sight of her, her dark red hair falling forward to hide her face as she towelled Max dry. In the heat she wore just a tee shirt and shorts, and he could see the curve of her shoulder, the thin fabric pulling taut over the bone. Even that simple sight caused desire to tug deep inside his belly. Was he imagining that her curves were looking lusher and fuller?

He’d spent the last three weeks trying not to notice her, trying to ignore the lust that fired his body and something different and deeper that touched his heart. Although he pretended not to notice, he couldn’t quite keep his gaze from her as she played with Max, or read him a story, her lovely features softened and suffused with love. He’d fully intended packing Freya back off to England by now, yet when he saw the bond she shared with his son he knew he could not—and not just for Max’s sake. Not even for Freya’s.

For his own.

Despite the distance they’d silently agreed to maintain, he was not ready for Freya to leave. It was unreasonable—idiotic, even—yet it was there all the same: a deep and desperate need for a woman he knew was completely off-limits. And who might be pregnant with his child.

‘Come along, Max,’ he said, his voice coming out a little rougher than he’d intended. The thought that Freya might be pregnant, might know she was pregnant, made fury pulse through him. Lied to. Again.

He didn’t talk to Freya until that evening, when Max was settled in bed. He waited outside the doorway until she’d said goodnight and clicked off the light. ‘I need to talk to you.’

Freya gasped aloud, one hand flying to her chest. ‘Oh! You startled me.’