Читать книгу: «Blackmail & Secrets», страница 3

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.

Freya swallowed and stayed by the door. ‘They’re night terrors.’

‘A dream?’

‘Not exactly. More severe, I suppose, and harder to comfort because he never actually wakes up.’

‘His eyes were open,’ Rafe said in a low voice. ‘He was looking at me as if.’ He turned back to the window, not finishing the sentence. His throat worked, his pulse beating rapidly, a testament to his anger and fear.

‘It wasn’t you,’ Freya said quickly, perhaps too quickly. She started towards him, stopping halfway across the room, aware that going nearer to Rafe right now might not be the best idea. The safest idea. ‘He doesn’t recognise anyone when he’s like that.’

Rafe did not turn from the window. ‘How long has he been having these terrors?’

‘It’s very common for children his age,’ Freya said, knowing she was hedging. Why did she not want to tell Rafe? She knew the answer already; she didn’t want to hurt him. Stupid, perhaps, and certainly impossible. Life was pain.

Rafe half turned to her again, and even from halfway across the room she saw the black glitter of his eyes. ‘How long?’

‘They’ve certainly been happening more often since Rosalia died,’ she said quietly.

Rafe nodded, accepting. ‘Of course. She was his mother.’ His fingers clenched around his glass. ‘Did she love him? Did she see him, hug him?’

Hug him. The question surprised Freya, and touched her too, for it seemed such a strangely specific and emotional thing for Rafe to be concerned about. Yet she understood the nature of the question, and she knew she had to answer truthfully. ‘She loved him,’ she said quietly, ‘but she didn’t see him that often.’

‘How often?’ Rafe asked in a raw voice, the question a demand.

‘Once every few weeks?’ Freya hazarded a guess. Towards the end it had been even less than that. If she was honest, at least with herself, Max had barely known his mother.

Rafe turned to her, shock and pain etched on his features. His chest rose and fell in a ragged breath, and Freya’s gaze was helplessly drawn to the movement. ‘Then you were his mother,’ he said simply, ‘in all but fact.’

Freya didn’t speak for a moment; she couldn’t. Too many emotions raced through her—hope and need and fear. She was glad Rafe could acknowledge how important she was to Max, and yet she was still dizzily afraid that he would force her to leave, that her closeness to Max would be a threat to his own relationship to his son. And she couldn’t keep need from coiling within her at the sight of Rafe, at the very scent of him—the kind of hungry desire she hadn’t felt in years. Hadn’t let herself feel because she knew where it led. The misery and despair it could cause.

‘Yes,’ she finally said, in no more than a whisper, ‘but it is a rather important fact.’

‘Is it?’ Rafe let out a bark of humourless laughter as he turned back to the window. ‘Sometimes I wonder.’

Freya could not decipher that statement, or what had motivated it, but she heard the bleakness in Rafe’s voice and knew its cause: three years of not knowing about his son, and now being faced with the seemingly insurmountable task of forging that all-important bond.

Impulsively she stepped towards him, going so far as to touch his arm. His skin was warm and the muscles jumped under her fingers. ‘He’ll get to know you,’ she said. ‘He’ll come to love you. It just takes time.’

Rafe turned towards her, and Freya realised she had not taken her hand from his arm. Instead her fingers had stretched out along his skin, as if seeking the heat of him. She was standing so close to him, in nothing but a skimpy tank top and shorts, and her breath suddenly started coming fast—too fast. Desire overwhelmed her senses, her thoughts. She knew she should step away, yet she couldn’t because she didn’t want to. She wanted this, wanted Rafe, and even as the realisation shamed her—she was still weak—she could not keep it from overtaking her, from guiding her actions. Keeping her hand on his arm, sliding her fingers along his skin.

Rafe’s face was still half turned to her, so she could see the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. And then he turned completely, his eyes glinting blackly in the moonlight, and he stared at her with a hunger that stole the breath from Freya’s lungs. He wanted this, too. He wanted her. She didn’t move.

The moment spun on—silent, taut with tension and yearning—and then with a whispered curse, Rafe closed the space between their bodies and kissed her.

The first feel of his lips against hers set off an explosion through Freya’s body, obliterating the barriers she’d erected around her mind, her heart. She wasn’t prepared for her sudden intense reaction; she had no defence. Her mouth opened under his and her arms came up to grip his shoulders, although whether to push him away or pull him closer she did not know. Perhaps she simply needed to anchor herself.

She felt tension shudder through Rafe, and knew he’d been surprised by her response. He’d expected her to push him away. Of course he had; it was what she should have done. Yet now that he’d kissed her she could not keep herself from wanting this, wanting more, craving closeness, needing the connection. It had been so long. It had been ten years.

His mouth stilled over hers, the taste of him still on her lips, and she knew he was battling with himself.

Knowing he should stop. One of them should step away. And yet even in this moment, as cold rationality seeped through her mind, she could not control the craving, and her hands tightened on his shoulders.

It amazed and shamed her that after ten years of holding herself apart, keeping herself numb and distant and totally under control, this one man, in one moment, had completely conquered her. Overcome her defences. Awoken her emotions. Reminded her of her own weakness.

The moment broke and Rafe’s mouth took sure possession of hers once more. Freya completely lost all power of thought. All power, full-stop. She could do nothing but respond, need, even if it made her weak. Again.

Rafe slid his hands to her shoulders, bracing her, before moving them to the hem of her tank top, and then underneath, sliding along her skin. The intimate contact overwhelmed her utterly. She stumbled back, needing the anchor of his hands, and he moved with her until her backside came into contact with a marble-topped table, the edge cold and hard against her.

In one fluid movement Rafe hoisted her so she sat on top of the table, and out of instinct and pure need she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer so they were—almost—in the most intimate contact possible. There could be no mistaking her intent … or his.

Rafe’s breathing was ragged as he continued to kiss her with a pent-up passion and fury that Freya’s body echoed and gave back to him. His tongue delved into her mouth time and time again and she felt the scrape of stubble on her cheek, the softness of his lips against hers, the glorious hardness of his body against hers, pressing, insistent.

Rafe did not break the kiss as he pulled at the waistband of her shorts, pushing them down, and Freya helped him, knowing this was moving crazily fast and yet powerless to stop it. Not wanting to.

His hand shook as he pulled at the waistband of his own pyjama bottoms, and then kicked them off. And then suddenly, amazingly, he was inside her. Freya gasped at the feeling; her body closed around him, tight and unused to the sensation, the sense of fullness and completion.

He muttered an oath, the words no more than a hiss, as he began to move. Freya moved with him, her face buried in the hot curve of his shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin. Or perhaps it was her own tears, because belatedly, distantly, she realised she was crying.

And then release came for both of them—an intense wave of emotion and pleasure that crashed over them, leaving them shuddering, silent and senseless.

His breathing still ragged, his chest heaving, Rafe remained in the circle of her arms, still inside her, for one precious beat, before he pulled away, yanked up his trousers and left the room.

CHAPTER SIX

RAFE stalked into his room, dazed and shaking. What had just happened?

He took a shuddering breath and raked a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He knew all too well what had happened. He just couldn’t believe he had done it. It seemed utterly impossible that he had just had sex with Freya Clark, yet he felt satiation stealing through his body even as his mind rebelled, denied. He had known her for less than twenty-four hours. He had had no intention of so much as laying a finger on her. And yet within minutes—seconds—all that had changed.

She had come close to him and he’d breathed in the faint scent of lilac that he knew must be from her soap or shampoo, seen the rise and fall of her chest through her thin tank top as she breathed, and he had felt a sudden, desperate tidal wave of yearning that he hadn’t been able to control.

And when she had responded in kind … her mouth opening under his, accepting, Wanting … that tidal wave had dragged him under completely.

After four long, lonely years—years of living off anger and bitterness rather than desire or love—he’d wanted that immediate connection and satisfaction, had needed it from her, and that deep need had overtaken any reason or self-control he’d had. The thought shamed him.

And now he was left with the aftermath of that rash act. How could they go forward with that between them? How could they concentrate on Max? He would have to tackle it directly, Rafe knew, yet he could not face it now. The realisation shamed him further. He’d shown such appalling weakness. He shuddered, shook off the thought.

He would speak to Freya in the morning. Explain—what? That it shouldn’t have happened? He knew she would agree. Surely she hadn’t expected.

Had she planned it? Rafe stilled, his body tensing with sudden suspicion. Had Freya been trying to seduce him as a way to bind herself closer to Max, keep him from finding another care-giver? The suspicions slid slyly into Rafe’s mind, causing him to freeze as he considered the awful possibility. He thought of how she’d placed her hand on his arm, how she hadn’t moved it. She’d looked up at him, her eyes wide, her mouth parted, waiting, and then her shocking, shameless response.

Had she used him?

God knew he had little reason to trust Freya Clark. He’d felt she was hiding something from the start—sensed that calm composure was covering some purpose or plan—but seduction? Did she really think a single night of rushed pleasure would change his mind? And yet in that moment of shocking intimacy he’d felt closer to Freya Clark than he had to another human being in a long, long time. She could not have expected him to respond that way, to have known how much he longed for it.

And yet it had happened. Freya had approached him, had not turned away from his kiss despite his every expectation that she would. Rafe’s mouth twisted in disgust at both her and himself even as he fought against the urge to condemn her without true proof. He did not want to be unjust, yet he’d faced so much injustice himself.

And even if she had been using him, he could not send her away so suddenly. Max would be devastated. He thought of Max’s blankly terrified face, the endless screams. Max needed Freya—for several more weeks, at least. They were stuck together, at least for a little while, no matter what her intentions had been. He didn’t trust her. And he still had every intention of sending her away as soon as possible.

Freya walked from the living room as if she were made of glass. She felt as if she could shatter at any moment. She walked with her arms wrapped around herself, as if she could keep herself together by sheer physical force.

How could she have allowed herself to be so weak, tempted by desire yet again? How could ten years of distance and decorum, of carefully building a fortress around her body and heart, count for nothing? She felt as defenceless as a razed tower, her body and heart raw and vulnerable, open and exposed to the elements. To Rafe.

She thought of how he’d left the room, stalking from it as if he were angry, probably disgusted. By what they had done. By her. Had he sensed that weakness inside her? Had he known she would respond to his kiss, unable to keep desire from swamping her senses, obliterating all reason?

Freya went to the bathroom and, mindless of the late hour, ran a steaming bath. She needed to wash away the memory of what had just happened even if she couldn’t erase the regret. She would, Freya knew from experience, live with that for ever.

Even after a bath, sleep wouldn’t come. She kept reliving those urgent moments with Rafe—the feel of his lips on her skin, his body inside her, the fierce sense of both joy and regret, pleasure and pain. She had not been close, much less had sex, with anyone for ten years. Since Timeo. And it stunned and scared her that Rafe Sandoval had been the one to crumble her defences. She turned her head towards her pillow, closing her eyes tightly, willing the memories and regrets to recede.

She must have slept, although she did not remember doing so, for she opened her eyes several hours later to see Max standing very close to her face, peering owlishly at her. Freya blinked and tried to smile, although every muscle in her body ached.

‘Hello, there, sleepyhead.’

Max grinned. ‘You’re the sleepyhead.’

‘So I am.’ She touched his cheek, as soft and round as a peach, savouring the moment. Then the memories of last night rushed in, obliterating anything else, crashing over her so her throat closed up and her eyes stung. She withdrew her hand. ‘Let me just get dressed, Max, and we’ll go and see about breakfast.’

A few minutes later, with Max’s hand slipped through her own, Freya cautiously headed out into the apartment. Rafe was nowhere to be seen, and she felt a dizzying wave of relief. She wasn’t ready to see him yet; she didn’t know if she ever would be.

A housekeeper was busy in the kitchen, setting out bowls of fruit and slices of warm bread with pots of butter and jam, and she smiled at both Freya and Max as they entered. Freya made introductions, and they sat down at a table in the alcove and set to eating.

‘How long are we going to stay here?’ Max asked as he popped a strawberry in his mouth, juice running down his chin.

‘I’m not sure, Max. I think we’ll see Rafe’s house in the country soon. Wouldn’t you like that? To visit the mountains?’

Max frowned, and Freya knew she hadn’t fooled him. Despite her cheerful, brisk attitude, he sensed that something wasn’t right about this whole scenario.

‘I want to go swimming,’ he finally said, and Freya knew he was remembering Rafe mentioning that he had a pool.

‘And you will. It’s warmer in Spain, you know. You can go swimming outside even this time of year.’

Max brightened at this, and turned back to his fruit. Freya felt another wave of relief. She wasn’t ready to offer Max explanations she couldn’t even give. Thank goodness children were resilient.

Certainly more resilient than she was … She felt fragile and bruised, her body and brain both aching with the aftermath of last night.

Even as those thoughts ricocheted through her mind Rafe entered the kitchen. He was dressed for work, looking cool and remote in an immaculately cut business suit, a gold and silver watch flashing on one wrist. He greeted Maria, the housekeeper, and accepted a cup of coffee before turning to the two of them at the table.

‘Good morning, Maximo.’ His face softened in a smile clearly meant only for his son. He did not look at Freya. Max grinned back, his face and shirt already splotched with strawberry stains. ‘I’m afraid I must be at work today, but tomorrow we will go to my house in Andalusia and have fun there. Bueno?’

Max nodded shyly. ‘Bueno,’ he said.

Then Rafe turned to her, his mouth tightening, his eyes narrowing. The movements were almost imperceptible, yet Freya saw them. Felt them. He looked angry, she realised with a shaft of pain that surprised her, even though she should have expected it. He was blaming her—just as she couldn’t keep from blaming herself. ‘We will talk tonight.’

She nodded, returning his gaze, refusing to allow all the aching emotion to show on her face. She might have suffered a moment of weakness in allowing Rafe access to her body, but she would never let him into her mind or heart. That would be even more dangerous, more painful.

Rafe stared at her, his gaze still narrowed, as if he was trying to understand her … and then make a judgement. Then, after a tense pause, he turned away, and Freya let out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

After breakfast Freya took Max for a walk in the neighbourhood, Barrio Salamanca. They window-shopped on the chic Calle Serrano, and gazed at the modern sculptures—much like the ones in Rafe’s apartment—at the Museo de Escultura Abstracta.

By lunchtime Max was worn out, and Freya tucked him in for a nap before lying down herself, since she’d got very little sleep last night. Her body still thrummed with memories, ached with regret. Her mind insisted on replaying every moment with Rafe, and despite his coolness this morning she realised that she still desired him. At least her body did. Her body longed for his touch again.

She managed a restless doze before Max woke up, and then they ate a light dinner that Maria had prepared. Rafe still wasn’t home by the time Freya had bathed Max and tucked him into bed with several of his favourite stories.

‘When will Rafe come back?’ he asked, after she’d read each story at least twice. His eyes were already drooping and his thumb hovered near his mouth.

‘Tonight,’ Freya promised. ‘And tomorrow we will go to his other house.’ ‘With the pool?’

‘With the pool,’ Freya confirmed, glad it could be—at least for now—that simple for Max.

She stayed until his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing evened out. In the distance she heard a door open and close, and she knew from the sound—and the plunging sensation in her middle—that Rafe had returned.

Of course she couldn’t avoid him for ever, yet she still dreaded seeing him—had no idea how to handle the moment his coldly assessing gaze met hers.

She stood on the threshold of the living room, watching as Rafe shrugged out of his suit jacket and loosened the knot of his tie. Then he turned to face her, and the very air seemed to freeze. Freya’s mind blanked so she could only stare at him, remember how she’d buried her face in his shoulder, wrapped her legs around his waist. Cried in his arms.

‘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.