the pillow beneath her head now, as if she could punch the memories away too, Sam closed her eyes and promised herself that not for a second would she ever betray just how badly that man had hurt her.
* * *
‘Mummy, the man is still here. He’s downstairs in the book room.’
Sam responded to the none-too-gentle shaking of her son and opened her eyes. She’d finally fallen asleep somewhere around dawn. Again. Milo’s eyes were huge in his face and Sam struggled to sit up, pulling him into her, feeling her stomach clench at the reminder of who was here.
‘I told you that he’d be moving in with us for a while, don’t you remember?’ she prompted sleepily.
Milo nodded and then asked, ‘But where’s his house?’
Sam smiled wryly. Little did her son know that his father had a veritable portfolio of houses around the world.
‘He doesn’t have a house here in London.’
‘Okay.’ Milo clambered out of the bed and looked at her winsomely. ‘Can we get Cheerios now?’
Sam got out of bed and reached for her robe—and then thought better of it when she imagined Rafaele giving its threadbare appearance a caustic once-over. No doubt he would wonder what on earth he’d ever seen in her.
Hating to be so influenced by what he might think, Sam reached for jeans and a thin sweatshirt and yanked her sleep-mussed hair into a ponytail. No make-up. She cursed herself. She wasn’t trying to seduce Rafaele, for crying out loud.
Milo was jumping around now and then stopped. ‘Do you...do you think he’ll eat Cheerios too?’ He looked comically stricken. ‘What if he eats my Cheerios?’
Sam bent down and tweaked Milo’s nose. ‘He won’t touch your Cheerios while I’m around. Anyway, I happen to know for a fact that he only likes coffee for breakfast.’
Something poignant gripped her as she remembered lazy mornings when Rafaele would take great pleasure in feeding her but not himself, much to her amusement.
‘Ugh,’ declared Milo, already setting off out of the room, ‘Coffee is yuck.’
Sam heard him go downstairs, sounding like a herd of baby elephants, and took a deep breath before following him. The study door was ajar, and as she passed she could hear the low deep tones that had an instant effect on her insides.
Milo was pointing with his finger and saying in a very loud stage whisper, ‘He’s in there.’
Sam just nodded and put a finger to her lips, then herded Milo towards the kitchen, where he quickly got distracted helping to set the table.
And even though she knew Rafaele was in the house she still wasn’t prepared when she turned around and saw him standing in the doorway, looking dark and gorgeous in faded jeans and a thin jumper. It did little to disguise the inherent strength of his very powerful masculine form, akin to that of an athlete. He was so sexy. With that unmistakable foreign edge that no English man could ever hope to pull off.
The memory of his initial effect on her four years ago was still raw, but she forced herself to say civilly, ‘Good morning. I hope you slept well?’
He smiled faintly but she noticed it barely touched those luminous green eyes. ‘Like a log.’
Milo piped up, ‘That’s silly. Logs can’t sleep.’
Rafaele looked at his son and again Sam noticed the way something in his face and eyes softened. He came into the kitchen and sat down at the table near Milo. ‘Oh, really? What should I say, then?’
Milo was embarrassed now with the attention and started squirming in his chair. ‘Aunty Bridie says she sleeps like a baby, and babies sleep all the time.’
‘Okay,’ Rafaele said. ‘I slept like a baby. Is that right?’
Milo was still embarrassed and avoided Rafaele’s eyes, but then curiosity got the better of him and he squinted him a look. ‘You sound funny.’
Rafaele smiled. ‘That’s because I come from a place called Italy...so I speak Italian. That’s why I sound funny.’
Milo looked at Sam. ‘Mummy, how come we don’t sound like the man?’
Sam avoided Rafaele’s eyes. She put Milo’s bowl of cereal down in front of him and chided gently, ‘His name is Rafaele.’ And then, ‘Because we come from England and we speak English. To some people we would sound funny.’
But Milo was already engrossed in his food, oblivious to the undercurrents between the two adults in the small kitchen. Sam risked a glance at Rafaele and blanched. His look said it all: The reason he thinks I sound funny is because you’ve denied him his heritage.
Sam turned to the coffee machine as if it was the most interesting thing on the planet and said, too brightly, ‘Would you like some coffee?’
She heard a chair scrape and looked around to see Rafaele standing up. ‘I had some earlier. I have to go to the factory for a while today but I’ll be back later. Don’t worry about dinner or anything like that—I have to go out tonight to a function.’
‘Oh.’ Sam rested her hands on the counter behind her. She hated the sudden deflated feeling in her solar plexus. But hadn’t she expected this? So why was she feeling disappointed? And angry?
The words spilled out before she could stop them. ‘I forgot that weekends for you are just as important as any other day.’ Except for when he’d spent that whole last weekend in bed with her, and diverted his phone calls.
Rafaele’s eyes flashed. ‘We’re taking in delivery of some specially manufactured parts today and I need to make sure they’re up to spec because we start putting them into new cars next week. Something,’ he drawled, with that light of triumph in his eyes, ‘you’ll be dealing with next week when you come to work.’
Sam’s insides clenched hard even as a treacherous flicker of interest caught her. She’d forgotten for a moment.
Before she could respond, Rafaele had dismissed her and was bending down to Milo’s eye level. His ears had inevitably pricked up at the mention of cars. ‘I was thinking that maybe tomorrow you’d like to come for a drive in my car?’
Milo’s eyes lit up and he immediately looked at Sam with such a pleading expression that she would have had to be made of stone to resist.
‘Okay...if Rafaele still feels like it tomorrow. He might be tired, though, or—’
He cut her off with ice in his voice. ‘I won’t be tired.’
‘But you’re going out tonight,’ Sam reminded him.
Immediately her head was filled with visions of Rafaele and some blonde—of him creeping back into the house like a recalcitrant student at dawn, dishevelled and with stubble lining his jaw.
But he was shaking his head and the look in his eye was mocking, as if he could read her shameful thoughts. ‘I won’t be tired,’ he repeated.
He
