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 nephew towards him. But although Rafe gave an emphatic shake of his head, Molly wasn’t having any of it and laughingly placed the baby in his arms. And it was as if someone had turned him to stone. The sudden tautness of his face and tension in his body sent a chill of apprehension down Sophie’s spine. She looked at him uneasily. What was the matter with him? Did he really dislike babies so much that he couldn’t even bear to hold one for a couple of minutes?
On the other side of the room, Rafe felt the baby wriggling against his chest and a dagger of pure pain lanced through his heart. His forehead was beaded with sweat and he felt an overwhelming desire to escape—even though on one level he could acknowledge the undeniable cuteness of his young nephew. But that didn’t take away the complicated feelings of regret and guilt which still raged inside him. It was the reason why he never held babies. Because it hurt. Because it made him remember and think, what if? Because, because, because...
Did Oliver sense his tension? Was that why the infant suddenly screwed up his little face, as if he was about to cry?
‘Bounce him up and down a bit,’ advised Ambrose, and Rafe shot him a silent look over the top of Oliver’s curly hair.
‘What do you know about dealing with babies?’ he questioned, as he tried to replicate what he’d seen Sophie doing that morning. ‘You certainly weren’t around for any of your own. Do you remember the time you turned up unexpectedly and Chase thought you were the postman?’
‘I know. I know. I hold my hands up to all accusations of being a bad father,’ said Ambrose, with a sigh. ‘I married too young and too often and behaved like a fool. But at least you’ve taken your time choosing a wife, which might mean you’ve got a better chance than I had.’ He looked across the room. ‘And she’s very beautiful.’
Rafe froze as the door swung open, and as Sharla reappeared he thought about the things she’d said to him earlier. ‘Sharla?’ he demanded, his mouth twisting.
‘No, not Sharla.’ Ambrose snorted. ‘Sharla’s like one of those hothouse plants you see—requires constant maintenance and remains as unpredictable as hell. I’m talking about your blue-eyed princess, who, for all her upbringing, seems surprisingly normal.’
Rafe opened his mouth to say that Sophie wasn’t ‘his’ anything, but something stopped him. He certainly wasn’t in any position to be able to offer any definitive judgement of the Princess, but privately he found himself agreeing with Ambrose. She was surprising, that was for sure, and not just because she hadn’t pulled rank—not once. Or because she’d amazed them all by shovelling her way through an icy bank of snow, wearing some of Molly’s old ski clothes and an unflattering woollen hat. Or even because she was fast proving the most enthusiastic lover he’d ever known as her acrobatic feats in the shower a while back had proved. One who had, despite her inexperience, chipped away at his habitual cynicism and reawakened a sexual appetite which had been in danger of becoming jaded.
Oliver began to wriggle in his arms and as Rafe lifted him up in the air again the baby gave a gurgle of pleasure. Grey eyes not unlike his own met his and Rafe felt a powerful pang of something inexplicable as he stared at the newest member of the Carter family.
‘Ever thought about having children of your own?’ questioned Ambrose, with a sideways look.
‘No,’ said Rafe as Oliver’s chubby little fingers strayed towards his face, seemingly fascinated by the tiny cleft in his chin which all the Carter men carried.
‘Or thought about who you’re going to leave your fortune to if you don’t have children of your own?’ Ambrose continued.
Rafe stared down into the baby’s trusting eyes, trying to ignore the sudden ache in his heart. ‘There are countless charities who will be glad to benefit from my wealth.’
‘But that isn’t the same thing,’ said Ambrose. ‘Believe me when I tell you that it all boils down to flesh and blood. And that, in the end, nothing else matters.’
The sudden reedy quality in his father’s voice made Rafe realise that the old man was thinking about the end of his own life and it was a sobering thought. He reflected on Ambrose’s words during the champagne toast and the cutting of the cake afterwards. It had never particularly bothered him to think that he would not pass on his own genes, but suddenly a wave of emptiness and futility swept over him. Would he one day stand in a room like this, as his father was doing? Only the difference would be that he wouldn’t have adult children of his own. He would be standing there protected by the icy shell he had constructed—a lonely old man with nobody to leave his vast fortune to.
The walls seemed to be closing in on him and he found himself walking across the room to where Sophie stood, chatting to one of the godparents. Sliding his arm round her waist, he manoeuvred her away from the conversation, wanting the oblivion-giving
