Her gaze travelled to Rafe, the breadth of his shoulders, the darkness of his hair. Those fault lines were still there, she knew. Papered over, perhaps, but still visible. Still a threat. She had to be careful. Perhaps it was b
ecause he was Spanish, or simply because he was an unbearably handsome and charismatic man, but Rafe Sandoval presented her with a lethal temptation—and it was one she had to resist.
‘Are you all right?’ Rafe asked over Max’s head. He was still holding his son, and Freya had slid into the seat next to them in the limo.
He must have felt her tension, sensed her anxiety. She forced herself to relax. Smile.
‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired.’
Rafe nodded, accepting, and Freya turned her face to the window and watched the darkened streets slide by. Neither of them spoke, and Max didn’t stir, yet the tension in the limo felt palpable—at least to Freya.
She was conscious of how close Rafe was sitting to her, his strong, muscled thigh just inches from her own, and how easily and gently he held Max. She could hear the steady sound of his breathing, could inhale the musk of his aftershave. All of it conspired to make her feel tense enough to snap. Break. There was simply too much about this whole situation that she didn’t like. The rawness of old memories, the uncertainty of her present situation. Her unwanted attraction to Rafe Sandoval.
She took several slow, deep breaths, forced her fists to unclench even if her insides wouldn’t.
‘We’re here.’ The limo had pulled up to a stately building with ornamented pillars and portico, and a general aura of privilege and wealth. A liveried doorman opened the door. ‘Señor Sandoval. Buenas noches.’
‘Good evening,’ Rafe returned in Spanish. ‘Has my apartment been prepared?’
‘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?’