The Last Heir of Monterrato

Rafael gave a short laugh. ‘Charming though your old-fashioned image is, things have moved on a bit since long macs and trilby hats. The wonders of the internet have taken over.’

‘Well, however you did it, it’s despicable.’ Lottie swept back the hair from her heated face, lifting its weight from the nape of her neck in an attempt to cool herself down. ‘You had absolutely no right to go poking about in my life.’

Scowling, Rafael lowered his brows to an aggressive V. ‘Needs must, Lottie. Exceptional circumstances call for exceptional measures. Believe me, I wouldn’t be doing any of this if there was any other way.’

And that little statement was supposed to make her feel better, was it? If so, then time had clearly not improved Rafael’s understanding of the female mind.

Lottie held her glare in place, fearing that, despite her very real anger, her face might easily crumple with the intense sadness of it all. Because of course Rafael wasn’t trying to make her feel better, was he? He was just being his usual brutally honest self. Even at a time like this he wasn’t able to dress up the situation for his own gain. His nature was to say it as it was and achieve his aim through the sheer power of his conviction.

Quietly she turned away from him, knowing what she had to say but not trusting herself to look into his eyes as she said it. ‘I’m sorry, Rafe, but my answer has to be no. We both know that it would never work.’

Instantly Rafael came towards her, repelling her words with a dismissive arm gesture and an expression to match.

‘You don’t know that.’ His voice was hard, uncompromising, as his eyes bore down on her. ‘There have been major advances in IVF procedures even in the past couple of years. I’m sure we have every chance...’

‘I’m not talking about IVF procedures.’ Throwing back her head, Lottie confronted the full force of his gaze. ‘I’m talking about us—me and you as a couple. I’m saying that we would never work.’ The hostility in her voice was there to mask the knot of pain of their failed marriage that sat deep in her stomach, refusing ever to go away.

‘Perhaps I am not making myself clear.’ Rafael gave her a look of pure disgust, turning his back on her, then swinging round again with eyes that pierced the gloom. ‘I’m not asking for any sort of reconciliation. I am asking you solely to be the mother of my child. Nothing more.’

Nothing more? Despite the darkly oppressive atmosphere it was almost laughable, the way he described it—as if he were asking her to redesign his kitchen or landscape his garden. Except that it didn’t make her feel like laughing. More like crying.

‘What I am trying to say is that I will expect nothing else of you.’ Relentlessly, Rafael pushed on. ‘I know that that side of our marriage is over. Rest assured I will not be making any...’ he paused, firing a look of icy contempt at Lottie ‘...any demands of you.’ Distaste soured his mouth, contorted his handsome features. ‘You have my word on that.’

Lottie felt something die inside her. She knew it was true, of course, that sexually she was of no interest to him any more. That side of their relationship had floundered after Seraphina had died, bashed against the rocks of invasive fertility treatments and crushing disappointment. But still, hearing him say the words stretched the sadness inside her until she thought she might snap in two, fold over with misery.

But she had to accept it. Rafael had coachloads of women only too happy to cater to his needs now. Flashes of those internet pictures rose, unbidden, in her mind—the dazzling white teeth and pertly sculptured breasts.

She looked down at herself, at the faded skinny jeans she had worn to travel in and her favourite well-worn ankle boots, then switched her gaze to Rafael. There he stood, ramrod-straight before her, that aura of intense concentration almost shimmering around his dark form. The sombre suit was so beautifully cut that you weren’t really aware of it—just of the way his body looked in it: powerful, immaculate, sexy. He epitomised everything that she wasn’t, and being back at the Palazzo Monterrato only emphasised that fact.

Gathering together the last shreds of her composure, she raised her chin defiantly. ‘Thank you for explaining that, Rafael.’ Her voice sounded shrill, uneven, like an incompetent schoolteacher trying to keep control of a class. ‘Though you really didn’t need to point it out. When I said it would never work between us I meant in terms of the practicalities of our relationship.’ On firmer ground now, she pressed on determinedly. ‘Even supposing I ever did manage to get pregnant, how could we possibly raise a child together? We don’t even...’ She paused. There were so many don’t evens that she didn’t know which one to pick. ‘We don’t even live in the same country.’