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A housekeeper was busy in the kitchen, setting out bowls of fruit and slices of warm bread with pots of butter and jam, and she smiled at both Freya and Max as they entered. Freya made introductions, and they sat down at a table in the alcove and set to eating.
‘How long are we going to stay here?’ Max asked as he popped a strawberry in his mouth, juice running down his chin.
‘I’m not sure, Max. I think we’ll see Rafe’s house in the country soon. Wouldn’t you like that? To visit the mountains?’
Max frowned, and Freya knew she hadn’t fooled him. Despite her cheerful, brisk attitude, he sensed that something wasn’t right about this whole scenario.
‘I want to go swimming,’ he finally said, and Freya knew he was remembering Rafe mentioning that he had a pool.
‘And you will. It’s warmer in Spain, you know. You can go swimming outside even this time of year.’
Max brightened at this, and turned back to his fruit. Freya felt another wave of relief. She wasn’t ready to offer Max explanations she couldn’t even give. Thank goodness children were resilient.
Certainly more resilient than she was… She felt fragile and bruised, her body and brain both aching with the aftermath of last night.
Even as those thoughts ricocheted through her mind Rafe entered the kitchen. He was dressed for work, looking cool and remote in an immaculately cut business suit, a gold and silver watch flashing on one wrist. He greeted Maria, the housekeeper, and accepted a cup of coffee before turning to the two of them at the table.
‘Good morning, Maximo.’ His face softened in a smile clearly meant only for his son. He did not look at Freya. Max grinned back, his face and shirt already splotched with strawberry stains. ‘I’m afraid I must be at work today, but tomorrow we will go to my house in Andalusia and have fun there. Bueno?’
Max nodded shyly. ‘Bueno,’ he said.
Then Rafe turned to her, his mouth tightening, his eyes narrowing. The
movements were almost imperceptible, yet Freya saw them. Felt them. He looked angry, she realised with a shaft of pain that surprised her, even though she should have expected it. He was blaming her—just as she couldn’t keep from blaming herself. ‘We will talk tonight.’
She nodded, returning his gaze, refusing to allow all the aching emotion to show on her face. She might have suffered a moment of weakness in allowing Rafe access to her body, but she would never let him into her mind or heart. That would be even more dangerous, more painful.
Rafe stared at her, his gaze still narrowed, as if he was trying to understand her…and then make a judgement. Then, after a tense pause, he turned away, and Freya let out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
After breakfast Freya took Max for a walk in the neighbourhood, Barrio Salamanca. They window-shopped on the chic Calle Serrano, and gazed at the modern sculptures—much like the ones in Rafe’s apartment—at the Museo de Escultura Abstracta.
By lunchtime Max was worn out, and Freya tucked him in for a nap before lying down herself, since she’d got very little sleep last night. Her body still thrummed with memories, ached with regret. Her mind insisted on replaying every moment with Rafe, and despite his coolness this morning she realised that she still desired him. At least her body did. Her body longed for his touch again.
She managed a restless doze before Max woke up, and then they ate a light dinner that Maria had prepared. Rafe still wasn’t home by the time Freya had bathed Max and tucked him into bed with several of his favourite stories.
‘When will Rafe come back?’ he asked, after she’d read each story at least twice. His eyes were already drooping and his thumb hovered near his mouth.
‘Tonight,’ Freya promised. ‘And tomorrow we will go to his other house.’
‘With the pool?’
‘With the pool,’ Freya confirmed, glad it could be—at least for now—that simple for Max.
She stayed until his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing evened out. In the distance she heard a door open and close, and she knew from the sound—and the plunging sensation in her middle—that Rafe had returned.
Of course she couldn’t avoid him for ever, yet she still dreaded seeing him—had no idea how to handle the moment his coldly assessing gaze met hers.
She stood on the threshold of the living room, watching as Rafe shrugged out of his suit jacket and loosened the knot of his tie. Then he turned to face her, and the very air seemed to freeze. Freya’s mind blanked so she could only stare at him, remember how she’d buried her face in his shoulder, wrapped her legs around his waist. Cried in his arms.
‘Max is asleep?’
Freya nodded. She did not trust herself to speak.
Rafe took a breath and let it out slowly. ‘Last night…’
She waited, tensing, knowing she should rush in and fill that silence with words and explanations, but she couldn’t. She’d had plenty of time today to attempt to formulate a coherent reason for what had happened last night, how the darkness and memories and intensity of Max’s terror had conspired to create an impossible, uncontrollable urge in both of them, yet now that seemed just a flimsy excuse for something that had—at least for her—been far deeper, darker, and more damaging. So she simply stared, and watched Rafe’s expression flatten and harden, the suspicion and anger flaring in his eyes.
‘It should not have happened,’ he said after a long, tense moment. ‘At least I did not intend for such a thing.’
