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She wanted love. Marriage, children–everything. And she wanted it with Rafe. The only problem—the huge, agonising dilemma—was that she was desperately afraid he didn’t want the same. And after he’d thought abo
ut all she’d confessed, Freya wondered if tomorrow Rafe would send her away for ever.
Alone in his study, Rafe stared sightlessly in front of him as all Freya had said—confessed—echoed through his mind. And his heart. He was shaken by what she’d endured, what it had made him feel. Anger. Sorrow. Regret.
Guilt.
The last emotion surprised him, because he realised in all the years of his marriage, and all the years after, he’d never felt guilty. Confused, enraged, even sad and despairing. But guilty? No. He’d never thought he had anything to be guilty about. Rosalia was the one who had lied to him. She’d tricked him for five years, and then wounded him in the worst way possible.
‘I never wanted your baby, Rafe. I never told you because I knew you’d divorce me.’ The words had been snarled, punctuated by sobs, a testament to Rosalia’s anger and grief, and yet Rafe had never let himself think what her admission said about him.
Now, in light of Freya’s own honesty, he knew he needed to be honest with himself. About himself. What kind of man had Rosalia thought he was? What kind of man had he been? For the very fact that Rosalia had been so afraid of his rejection made Rafe realise how cold-hearted and single-minded he must have seemed to her all the years of their marriage. He’d been obsessed with having a child, with creating a family to replace the one he’d had… A mother who couldn’t look at him because he reminded her of her own shame—a father who hated him and never told him why. And he’d thought marriage and a family of his own would wipe away those sins. Those sorrows.
He’d never been more wrong.
His marriage to Rosalia had been a mistake, and one that had cost both of them their happiness. He’d never loved her—not the way he should have. She’d simply, Rafe acknowledged bleakly, been the expedient means to an end. And she must have known. He’d told her from the beginning that he wanted children as soon as possible. Had she agreed? Had she lied then? Rafe didn’t know anymore.
She had only been twenty years old, beautiful, young, orphaned. Her mother had died—in childbirth. That must have contributed to her reluctance to have children, yet Rafe had never given it a thought. He hadn’t given Rosalia much of a thought, he acknowledged grimly. He’d been consumed with his work, with establishing himself, with proving to his father and the world that he was worthy.
And the result had been success—and tragedy.
Now, instead of feeling angry at her deception, he felt the lacerating pain of guilt for his own part in the tragedy of their marriage. And Freya had been living with guilt for so long—guilt for poor choices, terrible mistakes. She needed, Rafe knew, to let go of her guilt. He needed to accept his.
And they both needed to move on. Yet how? How could he contemplate another marriage when his first had been such a failure? How could he make the same mistake twice? Entering into a loveless union for the sake of a child, or the hope of a child?
Rafe drove his fingers through his hair and let out a weary sigh. He thought of Freya’s choked words, her desperate kiss, the softness of her hair and her skin as she twined her arms around him. He’d wanted to kiss her back. He’d wanted to make love to her properly, not something rushed and regrettable like before. He’d wanted to love her.
Love her.
The word stilled him. Could he love her? Did he? After the failure of his marriage, Rafe wasn’t even sure he knew how to love. Yet he knew he could no longer imagine a life without Freya—without her tender smile, her cool gaze, the sudden warmth of her embrace. He needed her in his life, in Max’s life. Their unborn child’s life.
Their family’s life.
Rafe dropped his hands and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Freya had given him something precious and dangerous tonight: her honesty. Her vulnerability. She’d given him the secrets he’d demanded, and now Rafe knew what he had to do. He needed to give her his.
Yet even as this knowledge thudded through him he remained motionless, in conflict, afraid as he stared out at the unrelenting darkness of the night.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FREYA woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and a still-aching heart. The memories of last night—and its possible repercussions—tumbled through her mind and made her close her eyes once more. She did not want to get up. She did not want to face Rafe and his possible rejection. Likely rejection, considering how he’d withdrawn from her last night. She still recalled her own desperate kiss—did she never learn?—and Rafe’s refusal. The shuttered look in his eyes, the way he’d closed the door.
She could hear Max starting to stir in the adjoining nursery, and Freya rose from the bed and dressed, her limbs leaden and as heavy as her heart. She was just about to open the door to the nursery when a deep, masculine voice startled her, stopping her in her tracks.
‘Good morning, Max.’
‘Rafe!’ Max exclaimed, clearly happy to see him. ‘Where’s Freya?’
‘Still sleeping, I imagine. But you’re going to stay with Damita today. She wants your help making mallorquinas. How would you like that?’
Freya barely heard Max’s excited reply; the dark chocolate cookies were his new favourite. All she could register was the fact that Rafe was already cutting her out of Max’s life, no doubt making arrangements for her departure. She closed her eyes, nausea that had nothing to do with her pregnancy rising in her throat. So quick. So terrible. Yet what else could she expect from El Tiburón?
She waited a moment to get her emotions and expression under control, and then opened the door, even managing a cool smile directed at Rafe. ‘Good morning.’
‘Freya!’ Max tackled her around the knees. ‘I’m making mallor—mallor—’
‘Mallorquinas,’ Rafe prompted with a chuckle.
He raised his head to look at Freya and she felt her face drain of colour at the grim determination in his hooded gaze.
