The Secret Baby Scandal Read online

  The child his ex-wife had tricked him out of…twice.

  Rafe forced himself to relax, forced the dark memories back—memories of his own loveless childhood, and then the unhappy years of his marriage. The cold, cold gaze of his father as he surveyed the son he’d never loved. The way he’d often looked past him, as if Rafe wasn’t there. As if he didn’t want him to be. And only when he was an adult had he learned why.

  Things would be different now, Rafe promised himself. A new generation, a new day. He was the father now, not the unwanted child, and he loved his son. Nothing and no one would keep him from Max…and certainly not Freya Clark.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FREYA settled Max into his seat on Rafe Sandoval’s private jet, trying not to show her awe and intimidation at such luxurious surroundings. The scope of Rafe’s wealth and power had never been more apparent than now.

  Max wriggled, trying to peer out of the window in his excitement, and frustration, exacerbated by her nerves, caused Freya to raise her voice in a way she hardly ever did.

  ‘Max, settle down!’

  ‘He’s just excited—aren’t you, Max?’

  Rafe had appeared behind her without sound or warning, so Freya nearly jumped in surprise. Annoyance bit at her; the last thing she wanted was Rafe Sandoval seeing her lose her temper with his son. She turned around to face Rafe, smiling coolly, composure firmly restored.

  ‘Of course he is. This is an amazing aeroplane.’ She looked away from Rafe’s dark, knowing gaze to examine the inside of the jet, taking in its leather sofas and teak coffee tables. It looked like an upscale hotel lounge, not a mode of transport.

  ‘We’ll be taking off in a few minutes,’ Rafe said. ‘Once the plane is at altitude, we can have something to eat. I suppose Max must have missed his dinner?’

  Freya nodded. She’d spent the two hours between Rafe arriving this afternoon and now sorting and packing their things, answering Max’s ceaseless questions, and trying to quell her own nerves. This was so soon, so sudden, so much.

  She wanted to stay with Max, of course she did. Since hearing about Rafe Sandoval’s custody claim a week ago she’d thought of little else. But she hadn’t considered how quickly he would move, how much he would want Max…and what it would feel like to return to Spain after all these years.

  She pushed that thought—that memory—away. She never thought of her year in Spain, or the endless well of sorrow it opened up inside her. She wouldn’t start thinking about it now; she couldn’t afford to.

  Max was happily looking out of the window now, so Freya took the opportunity to speak privately—and professionally—to Rafe. ‘I just left the house—locked, of course.’

  ‘My solicitor will deal with it,’ Rafe dismissed, the matter dealt with easily, thoughtlessly.

  Freya thought of the terraced house where she’d spent so many happy days with Max over the last three years. She’d probably never see it again. Neither would Max. Those days, Rafe was effectively telling her with his dismissal and his dark stare, were over.

  She swallowed, the hugeness of Rafe’s decision—and her determination to stay with Max—reverberating through her. ‘You should sit down,’ Rafe told her. ‘The plane is about to take off.’

  Freya took her seat, holding her hands tightly in her lap, trying to remain calm. The events of the day were catching up with her with dizzying speed. She took a few slow, deep breaths and let them out, hoping Rafe wouldn’t notice her little exercise in self-control. She needed it now—needed to steady herself. Feelings and memories lingered on the fringes of her mind, in the recesses of her heart. If she let them, Freya knew, they would take her over completely.

  They didn’t speak as the plane took to the air, and for the next little while Freya kept herself occupied with Max, pointing things out on the ground, chatting mindlessly about the aeroplane and all its features. She could sense Rafe’s presence near her, felt awareness prickle along her skin and coil inside, yet she did not face him. He’d taken out a sheaf of papers, and out of the corner of her eye she saw he was focused on his work—which was just as well. Even just sitting there he was far too distracting. Too tempting.

  No, she couldn’t think that way. Freya stiffened, appalled by the nature of her own thoughts. She’d kept men strictly off-limits for years, and now this cold-blooded corporate type was causing her to stumble. Surely she was tougher than that? More experienced than that?

  Yet, even so, her gaze wandered past Max, now busily exploring the plane, to Rafe. He was tapping a pen against his thigh—the fabric pulled taut over lean, hard muscle—as he gazed, frowning, at the papers spread across the table. Freya couldn’t look away, even when he looked up. His gaze settled on his son, and there was such longing and sadness in that dark look that Freya’s breath caught in her chest. She was not mistaking the depth of emotion in Rafe’s eyes, for she still saw it when his gaze swung to her and pinned her in place. She could not look away…and neither could he. They stared at each other, and Freya felt heat break out over her body. Awareness. Desire.

  Rafe’s gaze moved slowly over her body, and Freya felt her face flush. Then his expression hardened, his mouth thinning, and he looked away. Freya sagged against her seat, amazed and unnerved by how affected she’d been by a simple look. Except there had been nothing simple about it. It had been dark and dangerous and far too tempting.

  After dinner—which was thankfully dominated by Max’s childish questions—Freya tucked him in and sat stroking his hair until he dropped off to sleep. The flight would land in just another couple of hours, and there was nothing keeping her from talking to Rafe. Why did the thought bother her so much? Why did he bother her so much? There was something about him, Freya thought. The blackness of his eyes and the tense energy he radiated, the overwhelming, charismatic maleness of him. It made her nervous.

  Made her remember.

  Which was ridiculous because, while Spain certainly held many painful memories, Rafe Sandoval looked nothing like Timeo. Timeo had been slighter, shorter, less imposing—if charming in his own way. Just thinking of Timeo, of everything that had happened, made her feel dizzy, and she forced herself to push it away. It had all happened ten years ago. A lifetime ago. A lifetime she’d never forget.

  And a mistake she’d never make again…and certainly not with Rafe.

  Straightening, Freya turned to face Rafe. He was watching her, his eyes narrowed, his head cocked, his gaze so thoroughly assessing.

  Smoothing her skirt, Freya sat on the sofa across from him. ‘Perhaps you should tell me a little bit about the arrangements in Spain.’

  Rafe rolled the gold-plated fountain pen between his fingers; Freya’s gaze was unwillingly yet unstoppably drawn to the small movement of those long, lean fingers.

  ‘We will land in Madrid and spend a few days there. I have business to attend to. When it is taken care of I will take Max to my property in Andalusia.’

  ‘And what is it like there? Is it accessible to a town? Will Max be able to attend nursery?’

  Rafe frowned. ‘I assume he will not. There is enough for him to get used to already.’

  ‘I think it would help him settle,’ Freya said firmly. ‘Give him a routine, friends—’

  ‘I’ll look into it, Miss Clark.’

  ‘Please, call me Freya. If we are to be living together—’ She stopped abruptly, felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment. ‘Sharing living space,’ she amended, and Rafe’s mouth quirked upwards. It was the first time she’d seen him smile.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he told her dryly. ‘I took your meaning.’

  Freya nodded stiffly, yet she could not keep a hot rush of awareness from coursing through her body and she shifted in her seat. Those innocent words had caused a reel of provocative images to flip through her mind—images of Rafe that had no business taking up space in her brain. Yes, he was a handsome, arresting, intimidating man, but she was not attracted to him. She couldn’t be. She didn’t do relationships, wasn�
�t looking for a man. Didn’t need or even deserve one, considering all that had happened before. And she could not afford the slightest slip when it came to caring for Max.

  Rafe watched colour wash Freya’s face, turn her eyes to smoke. Her tongue darted out and moistened her lower lip, and he experienced a sudden fierce jolt of lust. It surprised him because, while he hadn’t been completely celibate since his divorce, he focused on business, not pleasure. Not desire. And yet now he felt it uncoil within him, and he could hardly credit that Freya Clark, with her neat ponytail and sensible shoes, was its source.

  There was something unsettling about how still she kept herself, how those fog-coloured eyes gave nothing away. The fact that she was embarrassed by her silly slip of the tongue intrigued him, for Freya Clark seemed utterly in control of her emotions…if she had them at all. She felt passionately about staying with his son, he knew that, but it was still a careful, controlled ambition, and he knew that it was intentional—just like her expressionless face. Was it just a mask? What secrets and emotions could Freya Clark be hiding so carefully? For surely she was hiding something? Desire aside, his instinct told him not to trust her.

  He capped his fountain pen and closed the folder of business documents that had been spread out on the table before him. ‘How long have you been taking care of Max?’

  ‘Three years.’ She spoke firmly, clearly on familiar territory. ‘Since he was three months old.’

  Three years ago… That would have been less than a year after Rosalia had left him. She would have been four or five months pregnant; she would have known. And she’d never said. She had, in fact, told him the opposite. ‘I never mean to fall pregnant—ever.’ Even now the memory sent a fresh rage rushing through him. He forced himself to relax.

  ‘And how did you meet my ex-wife?’

  ‘I answered an advert in a newspaper,’ Freya replied. ‘For a nanny. Rosalia’s English wasn’t exceptional, and she wanted someone who was fluent in Spanish to converse with her, but who could also teach her son English.’ She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, the movement both delicate and graceful. ‘I fit those requirements.’

  Unusual requirements, Rafe thought. There were so many things he wanted to know: what Rosalia had said of him, how she had explained his absence. What lies she had told. And more, too, more about Freya herself: why was she a nanny? Why was she fluent in Spanish? What was she hiding?

  For surely those clear grey eyes held some secrets.

  ‘And have you been a professional nanny for very long?’ he asked. ‘Did you have a position before Max?’ He supposed he should have asked for a reference before bringing her to Spain. He’d been so overwhelmed by meeting Max, by wanting to get him back to Spain—back home—that such considerations had completely slipped his mind. Still, he trusted Freya at least to care for Max. Beyond that…

  Freya hesitated, causing Rafe to refocus, swinging his gaze back on her sharply. She bit her lip, looking unsure for only a second before she answered, ‘I was a student before I cared for Max.’

  ‘A student?’ He’d assumed she was in her late twenties, simply based on the assured way she held herself. Despite that brief flash of uncertainty, Freya Clark had the composure and confidence of a woman, not a girl.

  ‘Yes, I took am MPhil in pure mathematics,’ she elaborated, although with seeming reluctance.

  Rafe sat back, saying nothing. This woman had no end of surprises. She possessed an advance degree in an abstract and technical field, and yet she had been nannying for the last three years and seemed content—in fact, intent—on continuing to do so.

  ‘And you did not wish to pursue a position in your field of study?’

  Freya lifted her shoulders in a defensive shrug. ‘No,’ she said simply, and Rafe’s gaze narrowed.

  Something wasn’t right. She was hiding something; he was sure of it now. She stared at him steadily, without a flicker or tremor, refusing to give anything away. Yet there was something silently defiant about that stare, and it told Rafe that Freya Clark was not telling him everything he needed to know. Or was he simply suspicious, because he wasn’t used to taking women at face value? The two women he’d let into his heart—his mother and his wife—had both deceived him in the most devastating ways possible. Over and over again. He didn’t trust Freya, but he didn’t know if that was because of him…or her.

  ‘What an interesting choice of study,’ he finally said mildly. Was he imagining her relaxing, no more than the tiniest fraction of a movement, shoulders lowering, expression ironed out?

  ‘It was,’ Freya said in that same firm, cool voice. ‘But caring for Max has been far more rewarding.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He steepled his fingers together, watched her over their tips. She’d tensed again; it was something he felt, as if they were connected by an invisible thread, a live wire. She didn’t want to talk about herself, Rafe thought. She was afraid of revealing something—but what? ‘And will you return to mathematics when your position here is finished?’

  Pain flashed across her features, a lightning streak through her eyes before she composed herself again. Perhaps he had been needlessly cruel, reminding her that her position would end, but she needed to know it. He had no intention of Freya Clark staying around any longer than necessary.

  ‘I’ll have to see,’ she told him, her voice and gaze both level. ‘When the time comes.’

  Max stirred then, letting out a little cry. Freya rose and went to him. Rafe watched her bending over the child, speaking in a low, soothing voice as she swept the silky dark hair from his forehead.

  Watching her, the cheap material of her black skirt moulding itself over her hips, Rafe felt another lick of lust uncurl inside him, and he yanked his gaze away impatiently. His unexpected desire for Freya Clark was yet another reason to have her return to England as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT WAS nearing midnight when they were finally driven to Rafe’s home in Madrid. Freya hadn’t really spoken to him again since that tense exchange on the aeroplane, and for that she could only feel relief. She didn’t like the way Rafe looked at her—so assessing, so knowing. She saw suspicion in those dark eyes, and she wondered what he suspected. It wasn’t as if she was hiding anything relevant from him. She had no secrets when it came to Max and her care of him. Yet still Rafe looked at her as if she did…and he intended on finding them out.

  Max was exhausted from the flight, and he’d barely woken up as they’d left the plane. Freya had been bending to lift him when Rafe had stepped forward. ‘Let me.’

  Silently she had watched as he’d scooped his son into his arms, so gently that Max had barely stirred before nestling closer against Rafe—almost as if he instinctively recognised and trusted this stranger who had come so suddenly into his life.

  The sight of Rafe cradling his son had made Freya’s throat close up. This was how it was meant to be—parents and children. This was what she was missing out on being just Max’s nanny. This was what she would forever miss out on. She’d turned away, unable to watch, unwilling to feel…yet the pain and memory still lanced through her.

  A limo had been waiting on the tarmac to take them into the city.

  Freya breathed in the warm, sultry air, so different from the chill of early spring back in London. She remembered how she’d loved stepping into the sunshine when she’d flown into Barcelona ten years ago, her heart buoyant with the opportunities and possibilities ahead of her.

  If only she’d known…

  Would she have averted the heartbreak and loss that had come later? Could she have kept herself from that consuming despair? Or had the weaknesses which had led to so much heartache been there inside her, fault lines waiting to crack open and destroy everything she’d ever held dear?

  Her gaze travelled to Rafe, the breadth of his shoulders, the darkness of his hair. Those fault lines were still there, she knew. Papered over, perhaps, but still visible. Still a threat. She had to be careful. Perhaps it was b
ecause he was Spanish, or simply because he was an unbearably handsome and charismatic man, but Rafe Sandoval presented her with a lethal temptation—and it was one she had to resist.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rafe asked over Max’s head. He was still holding his son, and Freya had slid into the seat next to them in the limo.

  He must have felt her tension, sensed her anxiety. She forced herself to relax. Smile.

  ‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired.’

  Rafe nodded, accepting, and Freya turned her face to the window and watched the darkened streets slide by. Neither of them spoke, and Max didn’t stir, yet the tension in the limo felt palpable—at least to Freya.

  She was conscious of how close Rafe was sitting to her, his strong, muscled thigh just inches from her own, and how easily and gently he held Max. She could hear the steady sound of his breathing, could inhale the musk of his aftershave. All of it conspired to make her feel tense enough to snap. Break. There was simply too much about this whole situation that she didn’t like. The rawness of old memories, the uncertainty of her present situation. Her unwanted attraction to Rafe Sandoval.

  She took several slow, deep breaths, forced her fists to unclench even if her insides wouldn’t.

  ‘We’re here.’ The limo had pulled up to a stately building with ornamented pillars and portico, and a general aura of privilege and wealth. A liveried doorman opened the door. ‘Señor Sandoval. Buenas noches.’

  ‘Good evening,’ Rafe returned in Spanish. ‘Has my apartment been prepared?’

  ‘Of course, señor.’

  ‘Bueno.’

  Rafe turned to his sleeping son, and in the wash of the streetlight Freya could see how his face softened, was suffused with tenderness. Her insides clenched again, this time with a nameless longing. She had not expected Rafe to seem so vulnerable when it came to his son. And so cold with her.