‘I’d like to see somebody try.’
Sophie absorbed this as he picked up his papers again and she stared at the white clouds billowing outside the aircraft window. Her comparison hadn’t been made lightly. Their journey from Poonbarra had been so smooth that at times it had felt like being part of a royal convoy again. Yet she’d been sad at having to say goodbye to the Outback station where everyone had just accepted her as she was. To them she was an ordinary woman who’d learnt how to cook and mop floors and use a dishwasher. She had been dreading the moment of confessing her identity to Andy and the other men, knowing it would change everything. But she had been wrong, because they’d acted as if it meant nothing. They’d gruffly told her they wished she weren’t going. And hadn’t tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as the car had left Poonbarra for ever, her feeling as though she was leaving behind a peace and a freedom she would never know again?
They had flown in a light aircraft to Brisbane airport, where Rafe’s private jet had been fuelled and ready to go. He’d made her telephone her brother and tell him that she was flying to England under his protection. And although Myron had been angry, his relief at being able to speak to her after so long, and knowing she was ‘in safe hands’, was almost palpable. And now they were flying towards the UK and it felt unreal. It was unreal. She was going to England to meet the family of a man who clearly couldn’t stand her—and she didn’t have a clue what she was going to do afterwards.
Her heart sank. Everything had been fine until he’d turned up at Poonbarra. She’d thought she’d have another couple of months before she needed to make any major decisions about her future, but Rafe Carter’s seduction had changed everything. Should she ask him about flights to Isolaverde once the ceremony was over? She stared at his proud, carved profile. Maybe not right now. Why not prepare herself for what lay ahead instead?
She cleared her throat. ‘Maybe you should tell me something about your family.’
He looked up, his face not particularly friendly. ‘Like what?’
‘A few facts would help. Who’s going to be at this Christening. That sort of thing.’
Answering questions of a personal nature was an activity Rafe habitually avoided and, besides, he wasn’t in the mood to talk to Sophie. He was still angry with her. For her deception. For not telling him who she really was. For coming onto him and failing to tell him she was a virgin.
Yet his body was refusing to listen to the disapproval which was clouding his mind. The single thought which consumed him was how much he wanted to have sex with her by daylight—with the sun streaming in through the cabin windows and illuminating her creamy body. His throat thickened as he imagined her arching that elegant back, those long legs stiffening helplessly as she came. He didn’t usually bring lovers on long-haul flights because being trapped in an enclosed space for so many hours meant the possibility of boredom was very high. But for once there had been no other option.
Pushing his erotic thoughts away, he met the questioning look in her eyes.
‘It’s my nephew’s christening,’ he said shortly.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘So is it your brother or your sister who is the parent?’
‘My half-brother. Or at least, one of them.’
‘Right. And how many half-brothers do you have?’
With a barely stifled sigh of irritation, Rafe put down his pen. ‘Three. Or at least, three that I know about,’ he answered. ‘And a half-sister named Amber.’
‘Gosh. That’s a lot. How come?’
His instinct was to snap back: how do you think? Until he remembered that her privileged life had probably protected her from the worst excesses of relationships—of children born in and out of wedlock and illicit affairs which wrecked marriages.
‘Because my father liked women. Ambrose Carter was something of a darling in his day, which is probably why he married four times and why I have so many half-siblings. There’s Amber, Chase, Gianluca and Nick—he’s the one who’s just had the baby—or rather, his wife, Molly, did.’
‘Are they’re all going to be there?’
‘Everyone except Chase. He’s in South America, halfway up the Amazon. Molly’s parents are both dead.’ There was a split-second pause. ‘But her twin sister is going to be there. Like I said, it’s complicated.’
‘Okay.’ She shifted her gaze to his. ‘And does your father—Ambrose—have a good relationship with his children?’
‘As much as each mother would allow.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘Because a child’s welfare is primarily down to the mother, isn’t it? And the kind of woman who marries a man for the size of his wallet probably isn’t going to be the kind of person who puts her child’s welfare first.’
Sophie hesitated. ‘And was...was your mother that kind of woman?’
‘You could say that.’ His laugh was bitter. ‘My mother was the kind of woman for whom the term gold-digger might have been invented.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why be sorry? It’s the hand I was dealt and I learned how to play it.’
‘And was it...tough?’
For a moment he thought about ignoring her probing questions, until he reminded himself that he was over this stuff. He shrugged. ‘A lot of her behaviour was thoughtless and I was left alone to fend for myself a lot of the time. But something like that is probably outside your level of understanding.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Presumably you’ve always been protected from the more sordid side of life.’
Sophie hated his assumptions—the same ones people always made. As if the material wealth which accompanied a royal title made you immune to the pain and hurt every human being had to contend with. As if you lacked the imagination to realise what most people’s lives were like. ‘Yes, I’m just a poor little rich girl,’ she said. ‘Scratch my skin and I’ll bleed oil.’
‘If you’re trying to play on my sympathy, Sophie, don’t bother.’
‘I doubt whether you’ve a sympathetic bone in your body,’ she bit back. ‘ People think it’s so easy, being a princess. That you swan around all day wearing a diamond crown.’
‘Poor you,’ he mocked.
She glared at him, wanting to make him see the reality, wanting him to understand instead of being so damned judgemental. ‘Try to imagine never being able to go anywhere without people knowing who you are. Everyone listening to what you say so that they can tell their friends—or a reporter—what they thought you meant. Imagine people watching every move you make. Analysing you. Assessing you. Obsessing about your weight. Working out where you bought your outfit and how much it cost and deciding that colour makes you look washed out, or plain, or fat—and then writing a whole article about it. Imagine everyone knowing that you’d been saving yourself for your fairy-tale prince, only he decided at the last moment to have his fairy tale with someone else and their new baby.’
‘I can imagine that must have been difficult,’ he conceded.
She
