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