stared up at the ceiling. Not really. It had been... He shook his head. He thought a burglar could have walked in and ransacked the room and he doubted he would have noticed. What was it about Sophie Doukas, this woman who’d had sex just a handful of times who could bewitch him like this? Lifting his forearm, he forced himself to glance at his wristwatch and to ignore the renewed lust which was hardening his groin again. He yawned. ‘I ought to go and help my brother clear the snow from the paths.’
‘Can I help?’
He turned to look at her, propped up on one elbow, her glossy hair spilling down all over her bare shoulders and flushed face.
‘You?’ he said.
‘Is that such an extraordinary proposition?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Totally serious. What’s the matter, Rafe—do you think the Princess isn’t capable of hard, physical work?’ Her blue eyes gleamed. ‘I travelled halfway across the globe to get to Poonbarra. Even you were surprised that I’d sailed across the Pacific. Shifting a little snow will be child’s play.’
IT WAS EASY to be nonchalant about your lover’s ex-girlfriend when he had just given you the most amazing orgasm, but not quite so easy once that euphoric blitz of hormones had subsided and you were confronted with the reality. And the reality was sitting right in front of her in church—an ex-girlfriend known as one of the most beautiful women in the world, and Sophie could instantly see why.
She tried to focus her attention on baby Oliver, who was swathed in a shawl of cobwebby white, and not stare at the eye-catching vision who was drawing her gaze like a magnet, but it was proving impossible. She’d seen pictures of Sharla, of course—who hadn’t? You didn’t get to command thousands of dollars a day without having a high profile, but nothing could have prepared her for actually seeing the supermodel in the flesh. Sophie had met some beautiful women in her time—indeed, her brother had dated a seemingly endless stream of them—but Sharla was in a league of her own. Sophie found herself thinking how weird it was that twin sisters with identical colouring could look so different. Molly was exceptionally pretty, with her strawberry-blonde hair, pale skin and wide green eyes—but Sharla took those same characteristics and turned them into something quite breathtaking.
Maybe it was the high maintenance of her appearance which made her so mesmerising, because she looked as perfect and as glossy as an airbrushed magazine photo. Unlike Molly, Sharla’s hair was shot with highlights of deep gold and rippled down to her waist. And unlike Molly, her endless legs were enhanced by a tiny pair of leather shorts and black thigh-length boots. This bizarre combination was topped with an iconic Chanel jacket and a kooky hat, which was an explosion of black and dark pink feathers. It should have looked ridiculous for a family christening in a small country church and in a way it did—yet the overall effect was one of beauty and originality. In her ice-blue cashmere jacket and skirt, Sophie felt strait-laced and conservative in comparison.
She risked a glance at Rafe but, judging from his cold expression, it was difficult to believe that a little while ago he’d been making love to her. Back then he had been animated and alive but he now seemed to have been carved from a block of dark and unforgiving stone. The ebony material of his overcoat hugged the broad width of his shoulders and echoed the blackness of his hair. There was stuff going on—she could tell. Stuff to do with Sharla. And much as she had been longing to ask more questions about the relationship he’d had with the supermodel, Sophie had bitten them back. She’d sensed he would tell her only as much as he wanted to. That she should be careful how far she pushed him because his defences were up and she wasn’t sure why.
She had seen the unfathomable look Sharla had slanted him when she’d sashayed into the fairy-tale church with its high grey walls and flagstone floors. Was that a normal look for a former lover to give? Sophie didn’t know. Would she, one day—in the unlikely event of ever running into Rafe Carter again—give him a similar look?
Apart from the godparents, the only other guest who had made it through the snow in time for the ceremony was Rafe’s father, Ambrose, a towering man with greying hair and piercing eyes, which were very like those of both his sons. Sophie felt as if she was being given a glimpse of what Rafe might look like one day and she was unprepared for the wistful way that made her feel. Afterwards, as they crunched their way over the salt-sprinkled path back to the house, Ambrose confided in her that he’d recently called off his engagement to a young yoga teacher.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Sophie cautiously, not quite sure about the protocol of discussing romance with your lover’s father. And people randomly confiding in her like this was something else she’d never encountered either, since normally her status kept her well away from idle chatter. It was yet another thing she was getting used to, along with sex straight after breakfast and sharing a shower with a man when you were both damp with melted snow and red-cheeked with exertion.
‘Yes,’ said Ambrose thoughtfully. ‘I decided maybe I should throw in the towel and admit that, after four failed attempts, I’m just not husband material. I always thought marriage avoidance was more Rafe’s bag than mine, but maybe I was wrong.’ He shot her a mischievous smile. ‘He hasn’t ever brought a woman to a family function before and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed that he’s turned up with a beautiful princess.’
Sophie knew this was her opportunity to make light of her relationship with Rafe and tell his father she was only there because of circumstance, but something stopped her. She told herself it was pointless to start a conversation which would only generate curiosity and more questions, but wasn’t the truth rather different?
Wasn’t she enjoying being Rafe’s lover and revelling in the fantasy while it lasted? Why end it before she needed to?
So she offered Ambrose no explanation about her role in his son’s life. She didn’t tell him that she had put her decisions about the future on hold. She simply smiled and said how pretty the house looked. And it did. The two Christmas trees glittered with rainbow fairy lights and somebody had lit tall red candles, which flickered all along a wide mantelpiece decked with garlands of greenery. Old-fashioned carols sung by a visiting group of singers provided just the right amount of nostalgia and Sophie watched Bernadette serving drinks and food—along with some young girls who must have been drafted in from the village to help.
She thought about the total lack of formality which existed here, despite the fact that Nick Carter was obviously a hugely successful man. It was nothing like her own home life back in Isolaverde. There was no procedure which had to be followed. No rigid timetable worked out to the nearest second. And best of all, she wasn’t weighed down with the family jewels she was always expected to wear. She felt light. Free. Fulfilled. And more than a little wistful.
Her gaze strayed across the room to Rafe, thinking how gorgeous he looked as he stood next to the Christmas tree, deep in conversation with his father. She was doing her best not to think about the powerful body which lay beneath his charcoal suit. Just as she was trying not to constantly hover at his side, telling herself he wouldn’t thank her for behaving like a real girlfriend. But once again she’d noticed the undeniable tension as Sharla had strutted up to him earlier, minus her hat and jacket, her perfectly toned arms glowing in the firelight. Whatever they’d said to one another had been brief but tense and there had been an angry glitter in the supermodel’s eyes as she’d marched from the room afterwards, announcing that she needed to make a phone call.
Sophie saw Molly go over to Rafe and hold out his
