‘All my life I’ve been put on a pedestal, like some kind of marble statue,’ she said. ‘And when you made love to me, you made me feel like a real woman. Only then I realised that you’ve imposed all these rules and guidelines about what I’m allowed to do and what I’m allowed to say. I’m not allowed to love you, but presumably I was going to be allowed to love our children. Only love isn’t something you can limit, or siphon off. It’s supposed to grow, Rafe. We’re supposed to spread as much of it around as we possibly can.’
‘Then spread some over me,’ he said softly, but still she shook her head.
‘What if I’m frigid?’ she demanded. ‘If that night we had sex at the palace is the way it’s going to be from now on?’
‘You think that?’
‘It’s your opinion I’m asking, Rafe.’
‘I thought you must be uptight about being in the palace and so I decided to back off—to give you the space you needed.’
Her voice trembled. ‘I thought you’d gone off me.’
‘Gone off you? Are you out of your mind? We were having a communication breakdown, which wasn’t exactly helped by palace protocol.’
He met her gaze and wondered if she could read the longing in his. She still hadn’t touched him and he thought there was still some defiance in her attitude.
‘I’m going to Paris next month. I’m taking a professional pastry course to capitalise on all the cooking I did at Poonbarra.’
‘Then I can come to Paris and work from there.’
‘Maybe I want the chance to spread my wings and live on my own for a while.’
‘Then I’ll wait until you’re ready to fly back to me.’
‘You’re so sure I would?’
‘That’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’
She looked at him. ‘Do you think you have the answer to everything, Rafe Carter?’
‘I hope so,’ he said, his voice suddenly serious. ‘Because I feel like I’m fighting for my life here. All I’m asking for is one more chance, Sophie. A chance to make it right. A chance to show you just how much you mean to me.’
Her lips pressed in on themselves but he could sense she was softening.
‘If you ever, ever hurt me—’
‘I won’t ever hurt you again,’ he vowed. ‘I will love and cherish you for the rest of my days. Just so long as you...’ His words tailed off, but he knew that he had to say them. Because they were equals. Because his love for her was fierce and strong, but that didn’t make him any less vulnerable. And because there was no shame attached in admitting that to the woman you loved. He swallowed. ‘Promise never to hurt me either.’
‘Oh, Rafe.’ And now the unshed tears were spilling down her face and she brushed them away as she shook her head from side to side. ‘I will never do that,’ she whispered. ‘Never.’
His own eyes were pricking as he framed her face in his hands and a swell of emotion so powerful came over him that the world seemed to tilt on its axis. For a moment there was nothing but stillness as their gazes met.
His voice was full of tenderness. ‘Do you want to sail your yacht off into the sunset?’
She smiled as she lifted her face to his. ‘It’s a long time until sundown. I think I’d rather kiss you instead.’
A GHOSTLY WAIL shattered the night calm and Sophie rolled over lazily to curl her naked body comfortably against Rafe.
‘That’s a curlew,’ she murmured sleepily, her breath warm against his chest.
‘Congratulations.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Soon you’ll be eligible for membership of the Australian Ornithological Society.’
‘That’s not fair,’ she protested. ‘I know lots about the indigenous birdlife. I can easily recognise a bowerbird.’
He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Only because their colouring is as blue as your beautiful eyes.’
‘Oh, Rafe,’ she whispered as she wriggled luxuriously against him. ‘I do love you.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ he said steadily, though he could do nothing about the sudden lump which had risen in his throat. ‘Because I love you too.’
He pulled her closer, reflecting on the last three eventful years. It had been an interesting road they’d travelled together before Princess Sophie of Isolaverde had finally consented to become his wife. She’d meant what she said about doing a cookery course in Paris, but Rafe had quickly established a branch of Carter Communications in the Eighth Arrondissement and they had set up home nearby.
Sophie had graduated from the famous patisserie school with honours and soon afterwards they had married in the Isolaverdian cathedral in a ceremony which included royalty, magnates and film stars. But the glittering congregation might as well not have existed, because all Rafe had been able to see was his beautiful bride, wearing the ruby and diamond necklace which had belonged to her mother and which he had presented to her the day before their wedding, to the accompaniment of her tear-filled eyes and trembling lips. Rafe had been planning to pay any price to get it back from Prince Luc, but the Mardovian royal had insisted on gifting it to them.
‘It is yours,’ he’d said gruffly. ‘For it was always intended for Sophie.’
But there were no hard feelings between Sophie and the man to whom she had once been betrothed—and Luc and his wife Lisa were both guests at the royal wedding. So was Amber, with Conall. Nick, Molly and Oliver. Chase had defied logic and schedules and somehow managed to get himself there from the depths of the Amazonian rainforest and Gianluca was there, too. Even Bernadette had accepted an invitation and Ambrose surprised them all by spending most of the evening dancing with the Irish housekeeper.
And when Rafe had laughingly enquired whether there was some kind of romantic attachment brewing, Bernadette had silenced him with a stern look. ‘There is not!’ she’d declared. ‘Sure and all he wants to talk about is his gout!’
After the wedding, Rafe had asked Sophie where she wanted to live, telling her that they could go anywhere she wanted—but her answer hadn’t really surprised him. For although they visited Europe and America from time to time, their main base was in Poonbarra, where the skies were huge and the air was clean. It was the only place she’d ever really felt free, she told him. And he felt the same. It was their place, now shared with their firstborn—a beautiful bouncing baby boy they named Myron Ambrose Carter.
But before she’d become pregnant, Sophie had experimented with everything she’d learned in Paris and added a few twists of her own—which was how Princess Pastries had come about. Her second cookbook had just been published to great international acclaim and had become an instant bestseller, with all the profits going to an Isolaverdian children’s charity. Despite a lot of pressure from the major networks, Sophie had refused all offers to do her own television show. Why would she want to do anything which took her away from her family? she’d asked Rafe quietly.
Why, indeed?
Rafe stroked the hair which lay so silkily against his skin. Family. And love. It was that simple. He sighed. How could something so simple be this good?
‘What time is it?’ Sophie murmured, her arms tightening around him.
The dawn had not yet streaked the sky and it would be several hours before the wild and beautiful Australian bush sprang into new life. But for now they had