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‘What do you know about dealing with babies?’ he questioned, as he tried to replicate what he’d seen Sophie doing that morning. ‘You certainly weren’t around for any of your own. Do you remember the time you turned up unexpectedly and Chase thought you were the postman?’
‘I know. I know. I hold my hands up to all accusations of being a bad father,’ said Ambrose, with a sigh. ‘I married too young and too often and behaved like a fool. But at least you’ve taken your time choosing a wife, which might mean you’ve got a better chance than I had.’ He looked across the room. ‘And she’s very beautiful.’
Raf
e froze as the door swung open, and as Sharla reappeared he thought about the things she’d said to him earlier. ‘Sharla?’ he demanded, his mouth twisting.
‘No, not Sharla.’ Ambrose snorted. ‘Sharla’s like one of those hothouse plants you see—requires constant maintenance and remains as unpredictable as hell. I’m talking about your blue-eyed princess, who, for all her upbringing, seems surprisingly normal.’
Rafe opened his mouth to say that Sophie wasn’t ‘his’ anything, but something stopped him. He certainly wasn’t in any position to be able to offer any definitive judgement of the Princess, but privately he found himself agreeing with Ambrose. She was surprising, that was for sure, and not just because she hadn’t pulled rank—not once. Or because she’d amazed them all by shovelling her way through an icy bank of snow, wearing some of Molly’s old ski clothes and an unflattering woollen hat. Or even because she was fast proving the most enthusiastic lover he’d ever known as her acrobatic feats in the shower a while back had proved. One who had, despite her inexperience, chipped away at his habitual cynicism and reawakened a sexual appetite which had been in danger of becoming jaded.
Oliver began to wriggle in his arms and as Rafe lifted him up in the air again the baby gave a gurgle of pleasure. Grey eyes not unlike his own met his and Rafe felt a powerful pang of something inexplicable as he stared at the newest member of the Carter family.
‘Ever thought about having children of your own?’ questioned Ambrose, with a sideways look.
‘No,’ said Rafe as Oliver’s chubby little fingers strayed towards his face, seemingly fascinated by the tiny cleft in his chin which all the Carter men carried.
‘Or thought about who you’re going to leave your fortune to if you don’t have children of your own?’ Ambrose continued.
Rafe stared down into the baby’s trusting eyes, trying to ignore the sudden ache in his heart. ‘There are countless charities who will be glad to benefit from my wealth.’
‘But that isn’t the same thing,’ said Ambrose. ‘Believe me when I tell you that it all boils down to flesh and blood. And that, in the end, nothing else matters.’
The sudden reedy quality in his father’s voice made Rafe realise that the old man was thinking about the end of his own life and it was a sobering thought. He reflected on Ambrose’s words during the champagne toast and the cutting of the cake afterwards. It had never particularly bothered him to think that he would not pass on his own genes, but suddenly a wave of emptiness and futility swept over him. Would he one day stand in a room like this, as his father was doing? Only the difference would be that he wouldn’t have adult children of his own. He would be standing there protected by the icy shell he had constructed—a lonely old man with nobody to leave his vast fortune to.
The walls seemed to be closing in on him and he found himself walking across the room to where Sophie stood, chatting to one of the godparents. Sliding his arm round her waist, he manoeuvred her away from the conversation, wanting the oblivion-giving warmth of her body to chase away some of these damned demons.
‘Come upstairs,’ he said, his lips close against her scented hair.
She drew back, eyebrows raised. ‘Won’t people miss you?’
‘Now.’
Sophie hesitated, thinking how autocratic he sounded—and wondering if he always got his own way. But why refuse to accompany him just to make a point? She’d had enough of meeting the occasional baleful stare from Sharla, even though the model had been nothing but steely politeness when they’d been introduced.
She didn’t say another word until they were back in their room and she pulled the pashmina from her neck, letting it flutter into a pale blue heap on a nearby chair. ‘So why the sudden masterful display of bringing me up here before the party’s properly ended?’ she questioned. ‘Was that all for Sharla’s benefit?’
‘For Sharla’s benefit?’ He frowned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Sophie stared out of the window, at the black snake of the newly shovelled driveway she’d helped clear, before meeting Rafe’s shuttered gaze. ‘I don’t have any ex-lovers to base my hunch on but I’ve been observing people for as long as I can remember.’ She sucked in a deep breath. ‘And for someone you split up with such a long time ago, there seemed a lot of underlying stuff going on between you both. What did she say to you downstairs?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘I thought you might say that. What’s the matter, Rafe—are you still in love with her?’
He clenched his fists. ‘In love with Sharla?’ he demanded hotly. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘What, then?’ she persisted. ‘Because there’s something there.’
‘Something? Yeah, you could say that.’ He took a step towards her. ‘You want to know what she said? Do you? Would it make you feel better if I told you that she made it very clear she’d like to be back in my bed again?’
She flinched. ‘And that’s all?’
How many more questions was she going to ask? Rafe wanted to tell her to mind her own damned business or maybe silence her with a kiss. But Ambrose’s words and the memory of the baby who’d been wriggling in his arms had loosened the floodgates he’d kept in place for so long. Too long. He gave a bitter laugh as he removed his tie with a violent tug and slung it at a nearby chair. ‘You want the truth about my relationship with her?’
He saw the faint concern which clouded her eyes before she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘Yes, I think I do.’
She sank down on one of the armchairs by the blazing fire and looked up into his face. And although the idea of sharing confidences was alien to him, something told him he could trust Sophie. He sensed she could be properly discreet as her upbringing had taught her to be, but it was more than that. Something strong and sure was shining from her blue eyes to cut through his usual icy reserve. But as that reserve melted, he could feel the heaviness in his heart—so painful and tight in his chest that it was hurting him just to breathe. If he’d thought the years might have lessened the sorrow then he’d been wrong. So maybe it really was time he talked about it, instead of letting it gnaw away inside him, like some dark cancer.
