Cinderella's Scandalous Secret
His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly above his hazel eyes. And his cynical half-smile was back. ‘When did I ever force you, cara mia? You were with me all the way, sì?’ His voice was so low and deep it sounded like it was coming through the floorboards. Deep enough to strike a chord in the secret core of her being, reverberating like the sound of a struck tuning fork.
Isla tried to block the storm of erotic memories that flooded her brain. Memories of her limbs entangled with his, her body singing with delight and satiation and super-heightened sensuality. The taste of him, the musky scent of their coupling in the air, the feel of his hands lazily stroking the flank of her thigh, so close to the pounding heart of her need. She drew in a sharp breath and went back to her trolley, grasping the handle to stop herself from touching him. Surely she was immune to him by now? She hadn’t felt a flicker of lust for anyone since they’d broken up.
She wondered if she ever would again.
‘I have to go.’ Isla pushed the trolley towards the door but before she could get any distance his voice stalled her.
‘One drink. In the bar downstairs. I promise I won’t keep you long.’ A tiny pause and he added, ‘Please, cara?’
Isla should have walked out without saying another word but something in the quality of his tone stopped her. If she refused it would make her look churlish. After all, she had been the one to end their relationship. If anyone should be feeling churlish it should be him. She had left a note at his home rather than tell him face to face. The most telling thing about their breakup was that she’d only received one phone call from him where he’d left a stinging voicemail. One final call that had allowed him to vent his anger and thus confirming to her she had done the right thing. If he had truly cared about her, wouldn’t he have called multiple times? Wouldn’t he have done everything in his power to find her? To meet with her in person and beg her to come back to him. Except men like Rafe Angeliri didn’t beg. They didn’t have to. Women never left him in the first place. They were the ones who begged to stay.
But spending time with Rafe was dangerous for her now. Dangerous on so many levels. She was only just starting to show her pregnancy; her bump was still in that is-she-or-isn’t-she? phase. A quick drink might be just enough contact to assure him she had well and truly moved on with her life. Moved on from him. Surely she owed him a few more minutes of her time? He was the father of her baby, even if she’d vowed never to let him know it. She would look upon having a quick drink with him as a fact-finding mission. She needed to know what his plans were so she could adjust her own. If he was going to spend time here in Edinburgh then she would have to leave. To disappear and hope he wouldn’t come looking for her.
Isla turned to face Rafe, her heart and mind still at war. When had she ever been able to resist him? A big fat never. Which was why she had to be careful around him now. ‘Okay. One drink.’
Once the door closed behind Isla, Rafe let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Five months had passed and he still couldn’t be in the same room as her without wanting her. The lust hit him like a sucker punch. Seeing her standing beside his bed had brought back so many memories. Memories he had never been able to erase from his mind, much less his body. It was as if Isla McBain had imprinted herself on his flesh. No one else could satisfy the burning, aching need she aroused. He had dated other women since but each time he had thought about sleeping with them something had made him pull back. He was turning into a damn monk and he had to sort it out so he could move on with his life.
Move on from her.
Rafe was annoyed at himself for still being bitter about their breakup. But usually it was him who called time on his relationships. He was the one who set the agenda and changed it when it suited him. It had been a new experience—an uncomfortable experience—to have Isla leave him, especially when he was out of town working on the biggest and most important deal of his career. And especially when he had taken her home to Sicily—the first lover he had ever taken to his private sanctuary.
His villa in Sicily was normally out of bounds for casual lovers. It blurred the boundaries to have lovers sleep over too many times, but for once he had relaxed his guard. He had taken Isla there for weeks on end, cancelled important work meetings just so he could spend time with her without the press documenting every moment. Something about their relationship had made him want to keep it out of the public eye. Not because he didn’t like being with her but because he did. A lot. A lot more than he had enjoyed being with other lovers.
But somehow he had read her wrong and that bothered him. Big time. What niggled him the most was that he suspected she had waited until he was preoccupied with that deal so she could maximise the impact.
Coming home to an empty villa and a note from Isla propped up on the mantelpiece had blindsided him. And if there was one thing he detested more than anything else it was being blindsided. Hadn’t his duplicitous father set the bar for blindsiding? With his father’s two families operating simultaneously—two wives, two families, who each thought they were Tino Angeliri’s entire world until Rafe had discovered the truth when he was thirteen. A phone call from one of his father’s staff had changed everything. Revealed everything. When his father had been critically injured in a car crash while away on business, the staff member had felt compelled to inform Rafe and his mother of Tino’s life-threatening injuries. But when he and his mother flew to Florence to be by Tino’s bedside they discovered Tino already had visitors. Four of them. His other family. His wife and two sons. His father’s first family. His father’s official family. His father’s other life. Rafe had stood by the hospital bed and recounted every one of his father’s blatant lies. Years and years of bold-faced blatant lies.
Rafe was his father’s dirty little secret. His illegitimate son.
Coming home to that damn Dear John letter from Isla had enraged Rafe so much he had torn it into confetti-like shreds. It had reminded him of walking into that Florence hospital when everything he believed about himself and his family was found to be false. A pack of lies. Secrets and lies. He hadn’t realised he was capable of such anger until it hit him in sickening, gut-shredding waves. Why hadn’t he seen it coming? Surely there must have been a sign. Or had Isla deliberately misled him, lulling him into a false sense of security just as his father had done for all those years? Pretending, lying, misleading—the three deadly sins of any relationship.
He had called Isla as soon as he’d read the note and left a message. It wasn’t a message he was particularly proud of, but he was not one to hand out second chances. She hadn’t called him back and, in a way, he had been glad. Clean breaks were always to be advised. But nothing about their breakup felt clean to him. It felt rough around the edges, torn instead of neatly cut, ripped and raw instead of resolved.
Rafe paced the floor of the penthouse until he was sure he would wear his way through the carpet to the suite below. Something was off about her now. Her body language, her averted gaze, her caginess. Why had Isla had given up her Fine Arts degree and moved back to Scotland? She had been so passionate about her art and had said how much she enjoyed living in London. He had seen some of her drawings and he’d been amazed at her talent. What had made her turn her back on her dreams and work for a friend in a job that didn’t maximise her creativity? Had something happened in the time since their breakup? Something that had poisoned her artistic aspirations. But what?
He turned and looked at the neatly made bed, picturing her in it with her slim limbs wrapped around his. He let out a filthy curse and swung away, his guts twisting and tangling in disgust. Disgust at himself for allowing her to still get under his skin.
Isla was by far the feistiest and most fascinating woman he had ever been involved with and he couldn’t help wondering if that was why no one else since had measured up. He had found Isla’s quick wit and hair-trigger temper entertaining as well as frustrating. So few people stood up to him. So few women treated him as an equal instead of a meal ticket.
Isla had been different. She had made it virtually impossible for him to be satisfied by anyone else. He had enjoyed their heated debates, enjoyed how all their fights were settled between the sheets. He’d enjoyed goading her to get a rise out of her just so he could have her quaking and shuddering in his arms.
She looked the same but different somehow. Her figure was still slim but some of her curves had ripened, making him ache to touch her, to feel her, to smell and taste her. Her breasts were a little fuller. Dio. He had to stop thinking about her gorgeous breasts. How soft they felt in his hands, under his lips and tongue. How it felt to have her moving, thrashing beneath him as he took her screaming all the way to paradise.
The new energy that surrounded her now intrigued him. Her gaze blazing with defiance one minute and skittering away from his the next. Her skin paling and then flushing, her body turned away when before it had always turned towards him like a compass point finding true north.
Isla’s rejection was like a scabbed-over sore. Seeing her again had ripped off the scab and left the wound smarting, stinging, festering. He had to expunge her from his system so he could finally move forward. One drink with her and he would walk away without a backward glance. He owed it to himself to leave what they’d shared in the past where it belonged.
It was over and the sooner he accepted it the better.
CHAPTER TWO
ISLA CHANGED OUT of her work uniform and back into her street clothes. Gone were the designer threads Rafe had bought her. She had left everything behind, wanting no reminders of their fling—other than the one she carried within her body. These days she wore practical and cheap off-the-peg casual outfits.
She stepped into her black leggings and pulled on her long-sleeved jersey top, but rather than disguise her shape, her clothes drew attention to it. She stroked her hand over the bulge of her belly. Surely the baby hadn’t grown in the last few minutes? She pulled the garment away from her abdomen but as soon as she let it go it lovingly draped across her body as if to say, Look at my baby bump!
Isla picked up her jacket even though it was a little warm to wear it inside. She fed her arms through the sleeves and tied the waist ties around her middle. She glanced at herself again in the changing room mirror, doing her best to ignore the niggling of her conscience over the lengths she was going to in order to keep her pregnancy concealed from Rafe.
She took out her small make-up kit from her tote bag and did what she could to freshen up her features. Concealer—her new best friend—was first, followed by a tinted moisturiser and some strategically placed eyeshadow to bring out the blue in her eyes. She followed that up with bronzer, highlighter, lip-gloss and a decent coat of mascara, a part of her wondering why she was going to so much trouble. But, in a way, make-up was another form of armour and, God knew, she needed a heck of a lot of armour around Rafe Angeliri.
Isla released the ties of her jacket and skimmed her hand over her belly again. Was it her imagination or was her baby more active than usual? She was so used to calling it her baby but it was Rafe’s baby too. The prod from her conscience was like the stab of a dart to the heart. Rafe’s baby. Of course, he had a right to know. Hadn’t she always believed that to be the case? His New York deal was finalised now, so why shouldn’t she tell him about the baby? There was a risk he might reject the child, but she wouldn’t insist on his involvement if he didn’t wish it.
The thought of her baby being rejected by Rafe made her heart tighten. The last thing she wanted for her child was a reluctant father. Isla had experienced one of those and look how that had turned out. Rejection. It might as well have been her middle name instead of Rebecca. Years and years in and out of foster homes, never belonging to anyone, never being chosen for an open adoption. Never feeling loved.
No. Her baby deserved better and she would do everything in her power to give her child the best upbringing she could, with or without Rafe’s support.
Isla drew in a shuddering breath and retied her jacket around her waist. She would look for an opportunity to tell him during their catch-up drink rather than dump it on him straight away. She knew that much about him—he didn’t like surprises.
The hotel bar was downstairs on a mezzanine level and Isla walked in with a tight band of tension around her head and her stomach like a nest of agitated ants. Rafe was seated in a quiet corner on one of two burgundy-coloured leather chesterfield tub chairs and, as if he sensed the precise moment she arrived, he looked up from his phone and locked gazes with her. A zap of awareness shot through her body. They might as well have been the only people in the bar—the only people on the planet. The only people in the universe. She couldn’t look away if she tried. Her gaze was tethered by his, her body under his command as if he had programmed her to his particular coordinates.
He was still wearing the dark blue business suit and white shirt but he had since put on a silver and black striped tie. That small gesture had a strange effect on her, momentarily ambushing her feelings. Feminist she might be, but she had always admired his attention to the old-fashioned manners of dating. During their fling, she hadn’t opened a single car door for herself. He had always walked on the road side of the footpath...he had never sat down before she was seated. It was so starkly different from the way other men in her past life had treated her and she had lapped it up, enjoying every moment of feeling like someone of value.
Rafe rose from the chair as she approached, his gaze sweeping over her in an assessing manner. ‘You look very beautiful but I quite liked you in that sexy housemaid outfit.’ His voice had a rough edge and his rich Italian accent seemed even more pronounced.
Isla had always been a sucker for his accent. She had worked on her regional Scottish accent for years, doing all she could to rid herself of any trace of her chaotic and underprivileged childhood. These days, no one would ever guess she hadn’t been educated at an exclusive fee-paying Edinburgh school and that was the way she wanted it.
Isla gave him a stiff-lipped, no-teeth smile and, finally tearing her gaze away, sat in the chair beside his, placing her tote bag on the floor next to her chair. ‘I hope there isn’t a policy about hotel cleaning staff fraternising with guests but here goes.’
‘If there is any issue I will deal with it,’ Rafe said and then frowned. ‘Don’t you want to take off your coat? It’s warm in here.’
‘No. Not yet.’ Isla couldn’t meet his gaze and picked up the cocktails menu and pretended an avid interest in the selection.
‘What would you like to drink?’ Rafe signalled the drinks waiter.
‘Something soft—lemonade.’
His ink-black eyebrows rose. ‘What about some champagne? Or a cocktail? You used to love—’
‘You know that saying: when life hands you lemons?’ Isla sent him a wry look and leaned forward to place the cocktail menu back on the table between them. ‘Suffice it to say, I’ve developed quite a taste for lemonade.’
Rafe gave the order for drinks to the waiter, who had just then approached, and once the young man had left Rafe turned back to study Isla’s expression for a long moment. ‘You don’t seem yourself. Does my company distress you that much?’
Isla could feel the heat crawling into her cheeks and right now the last thing she needed was more warmth on her person. Her jacket was making her feel as if she were sitting in a sauna. ‘It was quite a shock running into you like that while I was doing your room. I...I haven’t quite recovered.’ She was pleased with her response. It sounded reasonable and it was more or less the truth. She would probably never recover.
‘Yes, indeed it was.’
The silence contained an undertow of tension that tugged at Isla’s already fraught nerves.
The waiter came over with their drinks, setting them down in front of them and discreetly melting away.
Rafe watched Isla take a generous sip of her lemonade with a slight frown between his eyes as if he couldn’t quite understand why she wasn’t sipping a Bellini instead. The lemonade was cold and sweet but it did nothing to reduce the tide of colour she could feel in her cheeks. Beads of perspiration formed under her hairline and between her shoulder blades but the thought of removing her jacket and letting her body deliver the message for her was suddenly too daunting.
Isla put her glass back on the table and forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘You’re not happy.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Isla pushed a strand of sticky hair back off her face, uncomfortable with his probing scrutiny. Uncomfortable that he could see things she had fought so hard to conceal. ‘I hardly see why that is any business of yours.’
‘I could have made you happy, cara.’ The pitch of his voice lowered to a low growl of bitterness.
She crossed one leg over the other and moved her top foot up and down in jerky movements. ‘How? By dressing me up like some sort of doll? A toy you played with only when the fancy took you. No thanks.’
A brooding frown entered his gaze. ‘I told you how important that deal was to me. Bruno Romano was a nightmare to negotiate a coffee date with, let alone a hotel chain that size. I’m sorry if you read that as neglect.’
Isla picked up her glass of lemonade again, the ice cubes rattling against the glass betraying her nervousness in Rafe’s presence. She had to find a way to tell him about the baby, but how? Meeting him like this was crazy, but hadn’t she always been a little crazy where he was concerned? Her feelings for him were so confusing. There were times when she didn’t even like him and yet her body adored him. Her body craved him like a powerful drug. Damn it, her body even recognised him. She could feel the tingles and fizzes moving through her flesh just by sitting within reach of him, every cell of her body vibrating.
She took another sip of her lemonade. ‘So, why are you interested in this hotel? I didn’t realise Scotland was on your radar.’
‘It wasn’t until I met you. You awakened my interest.’ Rafe lifted his small dram of whisky to his mouth and took a measured sip, savouring the taste for a moment before he swallowed. Isla couldn’t tear her gaze away from the up and down movement of his tanned throat, her eyes drifting to the dark stubble around his mouth and jaw. She tightened her hand around her glass, remembering how it felt to run her fingertips over that sexy regrowth, remembering the way it felt grazing against the soft skin of her breasts. On her inner thighs...
She glanced at him again with her making-polite-conversation expression in place. ‘So, are you going to buy it?’
He cradled the whisky glass in two hands, his long strong fingers overlapping. That was another thing she remembered—how those clever fingers could wreak such havoc on her senses when they got down to business on her body. His gaze tethered hers in a lock that made her inner core contract like the tightening of a small fist. ‘I like what I’ve seen so far.’ Somehow, she didn’t think he was still talking about the hotel.
Isla released a shuddery breath and took another sip of her lemonade, acutely conscious of his probing gaze. She was too warm from still wearing her jacket, or maybe it was being within touching distance of the man who had scorched every inch of her body with his touch.
Rafe leaned forward and put his whisky glass on the small table between their chairs and then sat back, his hands resting on his thighs. ‘Tell me why you quit your Fine Arts degree.’
Isla shrugged one shoulder and rolled one of her ankles to burn off restless energy. You should have told him by now. Her conscience was jabbing at her but she couldn’t work up the courage. ‘I lost interest after I came back to the UK. I’d already missed half of one semester by staying in Italy with you. I only planned on going for a two-week sketching holiday if you remember.’
‘But you could have made it up, surely?’
‘I couldn’t be bothered.’ She looked into the contents of her glass rather than hold his gaze. ‘It was a pipe dream to think I could make a career out of painting portraits. I decided it wasn’t worth the effort of trying.’
His frown deepened. ‘But surely cleaning hotel rooms isn’t going to satisfy you long-term?’
Pride stiffened Isla’s shoulders and sharpened her gaze. ‘Careful, Rafe. Your privileged upbringing is showing. Anyway, my friend Layla has made a career out of it—or is starting to.’
‘But you’re an artist, not a businesswoman.’
Isla affected a laugh. ‘You make it sound like you know me. You don’t.’
‘I know you well enough to know you will not be satisfied unless you express your creativity.’ Rafe leaned forward so his forearms were resting on his thighs, his gaze trained intently on hers. ‘I have a proposition for you. Business, not personal.’
Isla raised her brows. ‘Oh? Let me guess... You want me to paint your portrait?’
He gave a twisted smile. ‘No. My grandmother, actually. My mother’s mother. She’s about to turn ninety. She’s difficult to please. I don’t think she’s liked a single thing I’ve bought for her. But I thought a portrait would make a nice birthday present for her.’
Isla chewed at one side of her mouth. How ironic her first ever commission offer came from Rafe. Of course, she couldn’t accept. But the thought of the money he might be prepared to pay her gave her pause. Why would he want to commission her, though? Did he think he could talk her into another fling with him? But, even so, she couldn’t help feeling intrigued about his family. He had rarely mentioned anything about his background and she’d been deliberately evasive about hers. They had somehow come to a tacit agreement to leave the topic of families alone.
‘Surely there are other artists, much more established artists, you could commission?’ she asked.
‘I want you.’ His eyes glittered with something that seemed to suggest it wasn’t just her artistic ability he was solely interested in.
The thought of resuming their affair was strangely exciting. Thrilling and exciting and dangerous.
But completely and utterly out of the question.
Isla leaned forward to put her drink on the table and began to rise from her chair. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not available.’
Rafe placed a hand on her knee before she could stand, locking his gaze with hers. ‘Think about it, Isla. You can name your price.’
She was close enough to him to smell his citrus-based aftershave. Close enough to see the flecks of brown and green in his eyes that made his irises look kaleidoscopic. The warm press of his hand on her knee sent a wave of heat straight to her core, stirring wickedly erotic memories in her flesh.
The air seemed to vibrate with energy. Sexual energy so powerful she could feel its tug-tug-tug on her insides, reminding her of the wickedly erotic delights she had experienced in his arms. Delights she had not been able to erase from her memory. They were seared into her brain and body so that every time he was within reach of her, her flesh tingled and prickled with excitement.