Kate Hewitt - Blackmail & Secrets

‘Max is asleep?’

Freya nodded. She did not trust herself to speak. Rafe took a breath and let it out slowly. ‘Last night …’

She waited, tensing, knowing she should rush in and fill that silence with words and explanations, but she couldn’t. She’d had plenty of time today to attempt to formulate a coherent reason for what had happened last night, how the darkness and memories and intensity of Max’s terror had conspired to create an impossible, uncontrollable urge in both of them, yet now that seemed just a flimsy excuse for something that had—at least for her—been far deeper, darker, and more damaging. So she simply stared, and watched Rafe’s expression flatten and harden, the suspicion and anger flaring in his eyes.

‘It should not have happened,’ he said after a long, tense moment. ‘At least I did not intend for such a thing.’

The slight stress on I made Freya stiffen. ‘I didn’t either,’ she answered, her voice thankfully cool.

Rafe glanced at her sharply. ‘Didn’t you?’ he said, and Freya recoiled. So he was going to blame her. The realisation did not really surprise her, but it still hurt.

‘Is that what you think?’ she asked levelly. ‘That I seduced you?’

Rafe let out a short huff of sound—something torn between laughter and despair. He hunched one shoulder. ‘God knows what I think,’ he said in a low voice.

Freya sagged slightly in relief. She’d been expecting accusations, harsh and unrelenting. You should know better. What kind of girl are you? Things she’d heard and endured before. And yet despite Rafe’s admission she still felt guilty. She wondered if she would ever be free of that old guilt—that fear—if any relationship she had would be untainted by it. Its leaden weight was why she’d avoided relationships of any kind for so long, and yet somehow with Rafe she’d forgotten. At least for a moment.

And yet that she’d forgotten at all made her feel guiltier than ever.

Rafe gazed at her thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing once more, and Freya felt as if he could see into her soul. Sense her guilt. ‘Did I … hurt you?’ he finally asked, his voice low.

His gaze remained steady on her, colour high on his cheekbones, and Freya looked away. His thoughtfulness both touched and shamed her. The encounter had been so explosive, so urgent; clearly it had shocked him as much as her.

‘No,’ she whispered. Not unless she counted the pain in her heart.

Rafe nodded, accepting. ‘I must ask,’ he continued, his voice still low. ‘Is there any chance you could be pregnant?’

Shock raced through Freya, icy and unpleasant. She had not considered that Rafe would think of such a thing. ‘No,’ she said, her voice even lower than his, barely audible. ‘There isn’t.’

‘You are on birth control?’

She flushed and looked away. ‘It’s taken care of.’

Rafe gazed at her, and Freya felt the weight of his stare. No doubt he was wondering just what that meant. Was she on the Pill? Had she taken emergency contraception? She gave him no answers.

‘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.

‘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?’