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‘No, Samantha. I am moving in with you and there is nothing you can do or say to put me off this course. I’ve missed important milestones already in my son’s life and I’m not about to miss another moment.’
Shakily Sam said, ‘Please, there must be another way to do this.’
Rafaele stepped even closer. Sam could smell him now and see the lighter flecks of green in his eyes. See the dark shadowing of stubble on his jaw. He’d always needed to shave twice a day. Her insides cramped.
‘The reason you don’t want me to stay, Sam... It wouldn’t be because there’s still something there...would it?’
Had his voice grown huskier or was it her imagination? Sam just looked at him and blinked. His eyes were molten green, hot. And she was on fire. It was only when she saw something very cynical and dark in their depths that she managed to shake herself free of his spell. She was terrified he’d touch her again, like earlier, and stepped back, feeling cold all over.
The thought that she’d given herself away, that he might analyse her reaction and suspect that there had been something deeper there than anger made her sick with mortification and shame.
In as cool a voice as she could muster, Sam said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rafaele. I’m no more attracted to you any more than you are to me. That died long ago.’
His eyes flashed. ‘So there should be no problem with my sharing your house to facilitate me getting to know my son, who you have kept from me for the last three years?’
It wasn’t really a question. Much as in the way he had ridden roughshod over her department at work, ensuring she would be under his control. With a sinking sense of inevitability Sam knew that if she fought Rafaele further he’d only dig his heels in deeper and deeper. And perhaps he’d even feel like toying with her again, proving a point, and perhaps this time she’d really give herself away.
The thought made her go clammy. She must never forget his cruel rejection or let him know how badly he’d hurt her.
She reassured herself that he was a workaholic, after all, so she’d probably barely see him. And for all his lo
fty talk she didn’t seriously see him lasting for longer than a week in the leafy but very boring London suburbs.
A man like Rafaele—son of an Italian count and a renowned Spanish beauty—was accustomed to beautiful things and especially beautiful women. Accustomed to getting what he wanted.
Seizing on that, and also anticipating his realisation that her house would not be a haven for his mistresses and would soon bore him to tears, Sam lifted her chin and said, ‘When do you propose to move in?’
CHAPTER FOUR
FOUR DAYS LATER it was Friday evening, and Sam was tense enough to crack in two, waiting for Rafaele’s appearance. He was moving in tonight, and all week his staff had been arriving at the house to prepare it for his arrival.
When she’d come home from his house the previous Monday evening she’d had to come clean and tell Bridie what had happened. The older woman had reacted with admirable nonchalance.
‘He’s his father, you say?’
‘Yes,’ Sam had replied, sotto voce, giving Bridie a look to tell her to be mindful of small ears nearby as Milo had been in the sitting room, watching a cartoon before bed.
Unfortunately Bridie had been enjoying this revelation far too much. She’d taken a sip of tea and then repeated, ‘His father... Well, I never, Sam. You’re a dark one, aren’t you? I always thought it might have been a waiter or a mechanic at the factory or something...but it’s actually himself—the Falcone boss...’
Sam had gritted out, ‘He’s only moving in temporarily. He’ll be bored within a week, believe me.’
Bridie had sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Well, let’s hope not for Milo’s sake.’
Sam’s hands stilled under the water now, as she washed the dinner dishes. She could hear Milo’s chatter to Bridie nearby. She was doing this for him. She had to stop thinking about herself and think of him. It was the only way she’d get through this, because if she focused for a second on what it meant for her to be thrown into such close proximity with Rafaele again she felt the urgent compulsion to run fast and far away.
Bridie bustled into the kitchen then, and Sam noticed her badly disguised expression of anticipation. She might have smiled if she’d been able.
‘You really don’t have to wait till he gets here.’
The housekeeper smiled at her sunnily and started drying dishes. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Sam. It’s better than the Pope’s visit to Dublin back in the seventies.’
Suddenly the low, powerful throb of an engine became obvious outside. To Sam’s chagrin she found that she was automatically trying to analyse the nuances of the sound, figuring out the components of the engine.
Milo’s ears must have pricked up, because he came into the kitchen excitedly and announced, ‘Car!’
They didn’t have a car themselves, much to his constant disappointment, and Sam couldn’t stop him running towards the door now. When the bell rang her palms grew sweaty. Before she could move, though, Bridie was beating her to it, and Sam only noticed then that Bridie, who never wore an apron, had put one on. She wanted to roll her eyes.
But then the door opened and Sam’s world condensed down to the tall dark figure filling the frame against the dusky evening. She hadn’t seen him since Monday and she hated the way her heart leapt in her chest.
