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Like hell she was.
Rafael took in a heavy breath and, leaning forward, made himself concentrate on the growing string of emails. There was one from Dr Oveisi’s office, asking for information regarding Contessa Revaldi’s embryo transplant. Had she done a pregnancy test yet? Rafael quickly composed a brief affirmative message, saying that the Contessa was indeed pregnant.
Pregnant. Somehow now the news was leaking out it seemed more real. Lottie was pregnant and he was going to be a father. He should have been ecstatic, euphoric. When he had been lying in that hospital bed, adjusting to the devastating news that he was sterile, it had been all he could think about. The fact that he did have one last chance to be a father. He had plotted and schemed to achieve his goal and now it had worked just the way he had been determined it would.
So how had he ended up feeling like this? Why did his body hurt more now than it had when he had woken up from that damned accident, battered, bruised and broken?
Because of Lottie—that was why.
* * *
Lottie stood perfectly still, the clouds scudding across the sky above her. She couldn’t move, frozen, numbed to the core, by her harrowing confrontation with Rafael.
She had known that telling him she was leaving would be the hardest thing she had ever had to do in her whole life. Last time she had taken the coward’s way—‘sneaking away in the night’, as Rafael’s words had so painfully reminded her. This time she had had to do it face to face. She had foolishly tried to tell herself that she would be able to convince him, make Rafael see sense, that it was the only practical solution. That they could never live together, even in a place as huge as the palazzo, even if she was exiled to the south wing...
But nothing had prepared her for the onslaught of misery that had just happened. Never, in her most deranged of moments, had she ever envisaged admitting to him that she still loved him. Whatever could possibly have possessed her to do that? Had something deep in her subconscious persuaded her that he might say the same, say that he loved her too, that they could be together for ever? If so her subconscious deserved to die a long and painful death. Because now she no longer even had the one thing left she could call her own. Her pride. That lay in tatters at her feet, along with her shredded declaration of love for him and the gruesome mess that was her bleeding heart.
Lottie bent down and picked up Rafael’s jacket, slipping her arms into the oversized sleeves, pulling it close around her, her body still shaking uncontrollably beneath it.
She had to leave. There was no doubt about that. Somehow she had to find the strength to explain to Rafael, coldly and clearly, why it was impossible for her to stay.
* * *
Pacing savagely round his office, Rafael stopped in front of the window. He had never felt like this before. So close to losing control. It was as if everything he thought he knew—everything about his character, his life—was being challenged. And found wanting.
He had been so protective of his own pride that he had refused to listen to Lottie, refused to let himself open up to her. Why had he not even considered that what she had just told him might be true? That maybe he had handled things badly after Seraphina died. That maybe he hadn’t taken time to grieve. That maybe, just maybe, she did still love him.
And what the hell did he think he was doing now? Shutting himself away in his office when she was out there somewhere, hurting? Lottie—the woman who was pregnant with his baby, the woman who meant more to him than anything in the world. One thing was for sure: if he let her slip through his fingers again he would never forgive himself. He had to do something about it now. Before it was too late.
They collided in the hallway. Lottie, running in from outside, coming up against the steel wall of Rafael’s chest. As his arms went out to steady her she pushed herself away and they stood there, facing each other, for several long, silent seconds.
‘I was just coming to look for you.’ Lottie brushed back the wild mess of curls from her face, from cold cheeks that were streaked with tears. She forced herself to meet his eyes, to squeeze the words past her closing throat. ‘To tell you that I’m sorry, Rafael, so sorry...but I meant what I said about...’
‘About having always loved me?’
She stopped dead.
‘About...about...’ she stammered, eyes wide with confusion, her heart swerving in her chest. ‘About having to leave.’
His eyes were scanning her face with such intensity it felt as if he was searching her soul for the truth. But she mustn’t falter now—not when she had got this far. She sucked in a breath, feeling it shudder down the length of her body. Somehow she had to find the strength to carry on, force the jagged words out of her mouth. Then it would be done.
