it matter that he smelled good? She had to put all her concentration on the task before her, on telling him what he needed to know.
He guided her arm around his huge, hard shoulders. His heat and strength seared along her side. Together, with her leaning on him to keep her weight off her right foot, they turned to go in, taking the stone path through the hedge and across a stretch of lawn to the wide patio shaded by jacaranda and carob trees and through the open French doors into the combination kitchen and family room.
“Here...” He led her to a wide white chair.
“Maybe not,” she warned. “I’ve got bits of grass and dirt all over my jeans.”
“It’s all right. Sit down.”
“Your call,” she said resignedly, easing her arm from across his shoulders and sinking onto the soft cushion. “It hardly looks like the same place.” The large room had been redecorated and updated, the living area with light-colored fabrics and modern oversize furniture. The kitchen now had chef-quality appliances and granite and wood countertops.
“Tourists with fat billfolds don’t appreciate heavy draperies and an ancient fridge. They want comfort and openness to go with the view.” He gestured toward the terrace opposite the French doors. On that side, the villa needed no garden walls. It touched the edge of the cliff. From where she sat, she could see the crowns of palm trees and farther out, the harbor and the blue Mediterranean. The DeValerys were English, of Norman descent, but Montedoran blood also ran in their veins. Villa Santorno had come down through the generations from a Montedoran-born DeValery bride.
“So.” She tried not to sound wistful. “You really do plan to make it a rental?”
“I do.” He towered above her, the scar pulling at his mouth, his eyes endlessly dark and way too somber. Two months ago, he’d come to Montedoro to make arrangements for the villa’s renovation. At that time, it had been four months since the accident that took his older brother Edward’s life and gave Rafe the earldom as well as his crescent scar. Genny had essentially run him to ground then—just as she was doing now.
Two months ago...
They’d made love in this very room. But then the curtains had been heavy, layered, ornate velvets over floral damask, the sofas and other furniture a gorgeous mash-up of baroque, rococo and neoclassical.
He asked low and a little gruffly, “Do you have to look so sad?”
“I liked it the way it was, that’s all.” Now and then during her childhood, various members of his family would come and stay at the villa to enjoy the Montedoran nightlife, or attend some event at the palace. Occasionally during those visits, her family had been invited to dine or have tea here. She could still remember her ten-year-old self perched on a velvet-seated straight chair beside the French doors to the garden, holding a Sevres teacup and saucer, scheming to get his grandmother, Eloise, aside and wrangle herself another invitation to Hartmore, the DeValery estate in Derbyshire. To Genny, Hartmore had always been the most beautiful place in the world.
He knelt at her feet and her breath caught at the suddenness of the movement. “I’ll have a look, shall I?” Before she could decide whether or not to object, he had her foot in one big, gentle hand and was untying the shoelace with the other. He slid the shoe off, set it aside and then began probing at her ankle, his touch warm and sure, making her heart hurt. Making her body yearn. “It doesn’t seem to be broken. Maybe a slight sprain.”
“It’s fine, really. It’s already stopped hurting.”
He glanced up, caught her eye. “Just to be safe, I think we ought to wrap it.”
Harsh, angry accusations pushed at the back of her throat, but she only said firmly, “Leave it, Rafe. It’s fine.”
“Fair enough.” He lowered her foot to the floor and rose to his considerable height.
She tracked the movement, and found herself staring up the broad, strong, wonderful length of him. Struck again with longing, her breath got caught and tangled somewhere in the center of her chest. How strange. She’d always loved him as a person, but found him hulking and coarse, unattractive as a man.
What a blind, childish fool she’d been.
“Tell me what’s brought you here,” he said, his eyes so deep and dark, seeing everything, giving nothing away. The man was like a human wall, always quiet and watchful and careful, as though wary of his own strength among mere mortals. “Tell me, Gen. Please. Whatever it is.”
“All right, then.” She drew in a fortifying breath—and suddenly, contrarily, she ached to delay the inevitable. But what was the point in that? He needed to know and she’d almost broken her neck climbing the garden wall to get to him and tell him. “I’m pregnant. It’s yours.”
Did he flinch?
She wasn’t sure. Most likely he hadn’t. He never flinched. That for a moment it had seemed so was probably only her imagination working overtime.
“My God, Gen.” He said it softly, almost reverently. “How? We were careful.”
“Not careful enough, evidently—and if you want a paternity test, I’ll be happy to—”
“No test is necessary. I believe you.”
I believe you. The soft-spoken, calm words echoed in her head.
And she knew relief, just a hint of it, like a slight breeze in a close room. So, then. She had told him at last. And he hadn’t denied her, hadn’t turned away from her. He was still standing there right in front of her, still watching her patiently without a hint of rancor or accusation.
Letting her head drop against the soft back of the white chair, she closed her eyes and released a long sigh. “Well. There. It’s out at last.”
“Are you well?” His voice came from down at her level again.
She opened her eyes to find he had dropped to his knees in front of her once more. “Perfectly,” she told him.
“Have you been to your doctor?”
“Not yet. But I took four home tests. They were all positive. And the instructions on the box promised that the test was completely dependable.”
“You should see a doctor.”
“I know. I’ll do that soon—but I’m perfectly healthy.” She frowned. “Or maybe you somehow think I’m not pregnant after all.”
“I told you, I believe you. But I think a visit to the doctor is in order.”
“I... Yes. Of course. All right.”
“I’ll take care of everything.” His gaze never wavered.
Her stomach lurched. “What does that mean?”
“We’ll be married.” He said it without a pause, without the slightest hesitation.
And she wanted to cry again—partly from another, stronger wave of relief. And partly because, really, it was all wrong.
Once she’d dreamed of marrying his brother. It had to
