The Secret Baby Scandal

The door opened and Rafe gazed dispassionately at the figure standing there. She looked remarkably composed, without even a flicker of surprise at seeing the stranger on her doorstep. Of course his solicitor had informed her of the arrangements.

‘Señor Sandoval, hello. I’ve been expecting you. Won’t you come in?’ She stepped aside, and Rafe entered the cramped foyer, taking in the faded wallpaper, the worn carpet, the clutter of boots by the foot of the stairs. He could hardly believe his son—his heir—had been living like this.

‘You must be Miss Clark?’ he said, turning to face her. She had surprisingly striking features. Her pale face was heart-shaped, her eyes a cool grey, revealing nothing. Her hair, pulled back into a neat ponytail, was a deep red, almost magenta, yet he didn’t think she dyed it. Her eyebrows, arching over those clear, expressionless eyes, were the same colour. ‘Yes. Please call me Freya.’

Rafe inclined his head in acknowledgement, but did not reply. He had no intention of staying long enough to call her anything. He wanted his son. That was all.

Freya gestured to the little parlour off the hall. ‘Won’t you come in? Max is sleeping for the moment, but he should wake up soon.’

Max. Maximo. The name was both familiar and foreign. He wondered why Rosalia had chosen the name—if she’d chosen the name. How involved had she been in the life of their son? How much had this woman been involved, and how much did she know? He had so many questions, yet he did not intend to find answers from this stranger.

He did not want to sit and make pleasantries over a tepid cup of tea. Still, Rafe acknowledged, forcing his impatience and his anger back, this woman had cared for his son for most of his young life. Talking to her was necessary, perhaps invaluable. Undoubtedly there were things he needed to know. Nodding again, he followed her into the parlour, which was as shabby as the rest of the dismal little house.

‘I realise this is a strange situation,’ Freya said. She perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair, her legs crossed at the ankles. She looked, Rafe thought, as if she were interviewing for a position at finishing school.

He remained standing by the door. ‘Yes, it is strange,’ he agreed tersely, ‘although I do not blame you for that.’

Freya Clark raised her eyebrows. ‘Indeed, Señor Sandoval,’ she said coolly. ‘I did not know of your whereabouts until the solicitor informed me a few days ago and requested that I bring Max for a paternity test.’

She spoke with a hint of censure, but Rafe had no intention of explaining anything to her—certainly not how he’d craved reassurance that Max was truly his, how much reason he’d had to expect he was not.

‘I realise it all happened very quickly,’ he said coolly. Less than a week ago he’d been informed his ex-wife had died in a car crash. Then another, even more shocking call: he had a son.

A son he’d never known about. A son his wife had never told him about, even though she must have known she was pregnant when she’d left him. Even though he’d been paying her maintenance for the four years since their divorce. Glancing around the parlour, with its secondhand suite and faded curtains, Rafe knew where his money hadn’t been going.

‘And I did not know of my son’s whereabouts,’ he countered, ‘or even his existence.’ Not until his solicitor had rung him. Not until he’d had the results of the paternity test, confirming that Max really was his.

Something flickered in Freya Clark’s silver-grey eyes, like a ripple in water. Was it guilt? Had she participated in Rosalia’s deception? She looked as if she was hiding something with her carefully closed expression, those blank eyes, and Rafe had no intention of trusting her.

Still, it hardly mattered. He was taking Max back to Spain and he would hire a reliable governess there. He had no need of this woman, with her strange silver eyes and her remote composure. He did not want any vestige of his son’s—or his wife’s—former life cluttering up their future as a family.

‘I’m very glad the solicitor was able to locate you,’ Freya said, and again Rafe felt that flicker of suspicion. She did not sound very sincere—or was he simply being cynical? God knew he had enough reason to be cynical where women were concerned. Not one had deserved his trust or love.

He pushed the question aside, too impatient to deal with it, or the woman who had caused it. The sooner he—and Max—were gone from this awful place the better.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he agreed pleasantly, although he knew she heard the thread of steel in his voice. He’d had enough of pleasantries. ‘When Max wakes up you can pack his things. I intend to return to Spain tonight.’

Any faint hope that Rafe Sandoval might not be interested in his son crumbled to dust in light of his coldly delivered statement. And, Freya told herself fiercely, that was fine. That was good. Max needed to be with his father—the only family he had now. During the last week she’d told herself that again and again. Yet still the idea of losing him so quickly, so coldly, of him being ripped away from her just as—

Freya stopped that train of thought immediately and made herself smile at Rafe. ‘I can certainly understand your haste, Señor Sandoval—’

‘Can you, Miss Clark?’

His dark eyes flashed dangerously, and she knew he was mocking her. He was a beautiful man, with his high cheekbones and the dark slashes of his eyebrows a bold contrast to the sensual fullness of his lips. Although his hair was cut quite short, it looked silky and soft, and he couldn’t quite keep it from flopping over his forehead. She imagined that annoyed him. He’d raked his long, brown fingers through his unruly fringe three times since he’d come into the house. A tiny insecurity, but it made him seem more human. More approachable.

And this was the man Rosalia had never wanted to speak of. A man she’d had to escape because he was so

hard and cold and even cruel. Freya knew better than to believe every accusation Rosalia had hissed out in her anger and fear, but Rafe Sandoval did have an intimidating presence. She could sense a leashed anger emanating from this powerful man; it vibrated in every taut line of his muscular body. His fingers clenched into a fist at his sides and then straightened out again. Twice.

‘I can,’ she replied steadily. ‘I know you must be eager to spend time with your son, and get to know him—’ Actually, she didn’t know that. From everything Rosalia had said, Rafe wasn’t interested in Max. Never had been. Then the solicitor had rung and told her Max’s father had been located, had never known about his son, and was coming to collect him as soon as possible. Freya’s safe little world had suddenly been rent apart—the truth she’d built it on that Max had no one but her now shown for a lie.

Yet she should have known it would happen at some point. She was Max’s nanny, not his mother. She was temporary, expendable, replaceable. She’d always known that, even if she’d managed to pretend otherwise while Rosalia had partied in London and she and Max had lived their separate, contented existence here. Even if she’d let herself love him, had been as good as a mother to him for over three years. She’d still known, and it was that knowledge that was breaking her heart now.

‘Indeed.’ Rafe’s tone was forbidding, the word clearly a close to the conversation. His dark gaze flicked towards the stairs.

Freya felt a rush of gratitude that Max had been so tired from his morning at playgroup that he’d fallen asleep. A small mercy, but a crucial one. She needed this time to convince Rafe Sandoval to take her to Spain with him.

And, from the ill-disguised impatience on his coldly handsome face, it wasn’t going to be an easy job.