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Rafe had been cordial to her these last weeks, and they’d had a few careful conversations. Still, Freya felt as if they were orbiting around each other—Max the pull of gravity that kept them on similar but separate courses. Even so, his presence, his gentleness with his son, the way he’d tousle Max’s hair with a look of longing on his face—all of it made her wish things were different. She was different.
She didn’t let herself daydream beyond that vague thought, for she knew it was too dangerous. The kind of encounter she’d experienced with Rafe was surely nothing to build a relationship on—even if that were something either of them wanted. Which of course it wasn’t.
Yet despite the distance they maintained she couldn’t keep herself from watching Rafe as he spoke with Max, from noticing the almost reddish gleam in his dark hair, the easy grace with which he crouched down to talk to Max. Laughter rang through the house when they were playing together, surprising her because she’d never heard Rafe laugh before, and the sound made her ache. This man was not what she’d expected, what Rosalia had told her he was. At least not with Max.
With her…
‘Buenas tardes.’
Rafe strolled into the pool area, looking cool and casual in a loose white shirt and tan trousers. His feet were bare and tanned, his manner relaxed as he smiled at Max. Freya’s insides clenched with a nameless longing.
‘You are turning into a fish, Max,’ Rafe said. ‘Where are your fins?’
Max splashed in the shallows, grinning. ‘I don’t have fins!’
Rafe crouched down by the side of the pool, a smile softening his features, making him look entirely too approachable. Too wonderful. ‘No? Are you sure?’
Max continued to splash about, and slowly, as if he needed to steel himself, Rafe turned to Freya. ‘You are well?’ he enquired politely.
‘Very well,’ Freya replied, just as politely. She hated how artificial they were with each other, yet she did not know how to change it. She doubted Rafe even wanted to. And she had no intention of boring him with the truth—which was that over the past few days she’d felt a little off…tired and nauseous. It was no doubt some kind of bug, and she’d get over it without any help from Rafe.
‘Damita has prepared lunch,’ Rafe told her. ‘A seafood paella. Are you ready to eat?’
Freya couldn’t quite keep from making a face. Although the housekeeper made delicious meals, the thought of seafood put her right off.
Rafe raised his eyebrows. ‘Does that not suit you?’ he asked mildly.
‘I’m sorry. I have been feeling a bit nauseous these past few days. Probably some sort of stomach bug.’ She swung her legs off the lounger and turned to Max, intending to call him out of the water.
‘Nauseous?’ Rafe repeated. ‘How long has this been going on?’
‘A few days, that is all. It goes away by dinnertime.’
Rafe had stilled, tensed.
‘If you are worried that it might interfere with my care of Max—’
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I am not concerned about that.’
He paused, and Freya saw him looking at her with that narrow, assessing gaze that had been thankfully absent these past few weeks. He looked suspicious—but of what? A bout of stomach flu? Uneasily she turned back to Max.
‘Max, get out of the water. It is time for lunch.’ She waited for Rafe to say something, but he remained standing there, silent, as Max scrambled from the pool, and Freya held up a towel, bundling him into it with a smile and a ruffle of his wet hair.
It could not be. Surely it could not be. Rafe watched Freya as she dried off Max, cuddling him a bit, and his insides tightened.
Nauseous. Tired. He knew the signs; God only knew he’d been looking for them for the five years of his marriage—hoping, praying that Rosalia would fall pregnant, that they would have a family. The family he’d always wanted. The family he’d never had as a child.
Their marriage had ended when she’d revealed to him that it hadn’t been possible, that she’d never wanted it to be possible. With a flash of ever-present anger Rafe remembered the swamping sense of betrayal, the hollow sensation of realising he’d been waiting and hoping in utter futility.
Yet even that had been a lie. Had Rosalia ever told him the truth? Had any woman?
And was Freya lying to him now? Had she lied to him when she told him it was ‘taken care of’?
Could she be pregnant?
Rafe turned away from the sight of her, her dark red hair falling forward to hide her face as she towelled Max dry. In the heat she wore just a tee shirt and shorts, and he could see the curve of her shoulder, the thin fabric pulling taut over the bone. Even that simple sight caused desire to tug deep inside his belly. Was he imagining that her curves were looking lusher and fuller?
He’d spent the last three weeks trying not to notice her, trying to ignore the lust that fired his body and something different and deeper that touched his heart. Although he pretended not to notice, he couldn’t quite keep his gaze from her as she played with Max, or read him a story, her lovely features softened and suffused with love. He’d fully intended packing Freya back off to England by now, yet when he saw the bond she shared with his son he knew he could not—and not just for Max’s sake. Not even for Freya’s.
