it behind—instead of sending it to her, almost intrigued as to how she might respond when even then he’d known that he couldn’t have anything more to do with her.
When it had arrived back with the torn note, then he should have thrown it out. But instead he’d instructed his housekeeper to hang it up and had refused to analyse why he’d done such a thing.
It was just a dress.
Thoroughly disgruntled now, and regretting the impulse he’d had earlier to ask Sam to accompany him this evening, Rafaele got dressed.
* * *
Sam was still tight-lipped in the back of one of Rafaele’s chauffeur-driven cars about an hour later. She was as far away from him as she could get without falling out of the door, and she hated the electric awareness that pulsed between them.
As they’d been leaving Milo had been holding Umberto’s hand in the grand hallway of the palazzo and he’d gasped. ‘Mummy, you look like a princess.’
Sam had gone red, and then grown even hotter when Rafaele had appeared, looking stupendously gorgeous in a classic tuxedo. Suddenly she’d been glad of the effort she’d made. She needed all the armour she could muster.
Her hair was up in a topknot, held in place with a jewelled pin loaned to her by Bridie. She’d put on more make-up than she’d normally wear, outlining her eyes and thickening her lashes. And wearing the vertiginous heels that had come with the dress Sam reached to Rafaele’s shoulder.
He hadn’t touched her while they were leaving. He’d merely indicated that she should precede him and, feeling horribly exposed under his cool gaze, Sam had walked out, praying she wouldn’t fall over.
Now they were pulling up outside the glittering façade of a building with men in uniforms waiting to assist all the guests in their finery. Butterflies swarmed into Sam’s belly.
She felt her arm being taken in a warm grip and showers of electric shocks seemed to spread through her body. Reluctantly she looked at Rafaele, and the momentarily unguarded look on his face took her by surprise.
‘I should have told you earlier... You look beautiful.’
‘I...’ Sam’s voice failed. ‘Thank you.’
And just like that she felt the animosity drain away. She realised that as soon as she’d seen the dress hanging up she’d harboured a very treacherous wish that Rafaele had kept it for sentimental reasons, and that was the basis for her lashing out at him. It had been anger at herself for her own pathetic weakness.
Rafaele had let her go. Sam’s door was being opened and someone was waiting for her to step out. When she did so, Rafaele was standing there, his face unreadable again. She wondered if she had imagined what he’d just said...
He took her arm and led her inside and Sam was glad he was supporting her, because nothing could have prepared her for the dazzling display of wealth and beauty as soon as they walked in.
She felt instantly gauche: both underdressed and overdressed. Rafaele got them drinks and almost immediately was surrounded by gushing acolytes—a mixture of men and women. As they stood there the number of women seemed to increase. They shot Sam glances ranging from the curious to the downright angry—as if he had no right to come here with a woman.
Clearly Rafaele was a prize to be fought over, and Sam really didn’t like the way her own hackles rose and her blood started to boil in response. She felt a very disturbing primal urge rise up within her to claim him in some way. The fact that she had borne his child seemed to resonate deep within her, and she wanted to snarl at the women to back off.
With a lazy insouciance that did nothing to help cool her blood, Rafaele reached out and drew her to his side. The level of malevolence coming from the women increased exponentially.
He said to the people surrounding them, ‘I’d like to introduce you to Samantha Rourke.’
Something in Sam went cold at this very bare introduction, which left her in some kind of limbo land—what exactly was she to him?
But what had she expected him to say? Meet the mother of my child, who is such a pushover that she lets me sleep with her even though she knows I hate her...?
Sam caught one or two smug looks from a couple of the women. As if to say, She’s no competition. Her blood boiled over.
She managed to keep it together until they were alone again and then she rounded on him. ‘If you brought me here just to deflect the attention from those man-eaters then I think I’ve done my bit. I’d prefer to be at home with Milo than to witness your simpering fan club line up to tell you how marvellous you are.’
Furious at herself for feeling so emotional, Sam stabbed Rafaele’s chest with a finger. ‘I’m the mother of your child—tell that to your next prospective mistress.’
Rafaele looked at Sam and felt something pierce his chest. Her words were lost to him for a second in the glare from those grey eyes. She looked so young, so stunning. Her neck was long and graceful, her skin so pale he could see the delicate veins underneath. The dress hugged and emphasised every curve, fitting her better now than it had four years ago. His eyes dropped down over the swell of her breasts and her words resounded within him: I’m the mother of your child.
Moments ago, when he’d reached out to pull her to him and introduce her, he’d felt a second of blind panic. The realisation had been immediate and stark: he’d just introduced his peers to Sam and when the news emerged of his son, and that she was his mother, they would assume that they were together. And that thought wasn’t making him want to flee.
Rafaele had not even considered this prospect when he’d asked Sam to the function. He’d just looked at her that morning and the words had spilled out... Proving once again how she scrambled his thought processes. How she effortlessly tapped into something deep and instinctive within him that led to choices and decisions that his head might normally balk at.
He couldn’t even blame her. It wasn’t as if she’d inveigled her way to an invitation—if anything she’d looked horrified at the suggestion. Rafaele’s blood simmered. He felt the imprint of Sam’s finger in his chest. The rest of the room died away and he saw only her. Need and desire rose up to strangle him and magnified his feeling of exposure.
Reaching out a hand, he snaked it around her neck and brought her closer. Something triumphant moved through him when he saw those eyes flare with awareness. But the realisation of how comfortable he was with people knowing who Sam was, assuming they were together, was too raw, too new. He needed to push it back. Push her back.
‘I have the only mistress I need right here, Sam. Why would I go looking when you’ve already proved yourself so amenable?’
Her cheeks went white and Rafaele felt the punch of something dirty and dark down low.
‘You bastard.’
She pulled away from him and spun around, moving through the crowd. It was a long second before Rafaele could function again, and then he set off after her, a dense darkness expanding in his chest when he thought of those huge eyes and the pain in their depths that he’d just witnessed. That he’d just caused. Wilfully. From weakness.
* * *
Sam could barely drag enough oxygen
