Cinderella's Scandalous Secret. Melanie Milburne
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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.
Isla knew she had to put a stop to this. Right here. Right now. She couldn’t agree to spending time with Rafe—not under any circumstances. He’d said she could name her price but wouldn’t she be paying the biggest price in the end? She pushed his hand off her knee. ‘Rafe, there’s something I need to tell you...’
‘What?’
She brought her gaze to his and swallowed against the restriction in her throat. ‘The reason I left you so abruptly...’ Oh, God, why was this so difficult? ‘I was scared about how you’d react and I—’
A frown carved into his forehead. ‘Did you cheat on me? Tell me, Isla. Were you unfaithful?’ His tone contained more hurt than anger. It seemed to bruise the atmosphere like mottled clouds.
Isla had a strange desire to laugh at the absurdity of the notion of her being unfaithful. He was the most amazing, exciting, thrilling lover and she had missed him every day since. And probably would for the rest of her life. No one would ever rise above the benchmark he had set. ‘No, of course not. No, it wasn’t anything like that.’
‘Then what was it?’
She took a deep breath and slowly released it. ‘I’m...pregnant.’
He looked at her blankly as if he hadn’t registered what she’d said.
‘Rafe, I’m having a baby.’ She undid the ties from around her waist, gradually revealing the swell of her abdomen. His eyebrows drew together as realisation slowly dawned on his features, leaching him of colour, stiffening every muscle on his face.
‘You’re...pregnant?’ His voice sounded nothing like his. Locked. Tight. Strangled. His Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, a host of emotions flickering over his face—shock, horror, anger. And, yes, hurt. Waves of it rippling like an eddying tide.
Isla pressed her hands together in her lap. Here it comes. The rejection. Cold dripped into her stomach, the icy shards slicing at her insides. I’m so sorry, little baby. This is all my fault. ‘I didn’t want to tell you because—’
He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times as if his voice had momentarily deserted him. ‘Is it...mine?’
‘I...’ Her voice deserted her for a moment as the pain of his question hit home. Of course, he had every right to ask but it hurt to think he thought her capable of such betrayal. She might not have been honest with him about her background but she would never cheat on a partner. It went against her moral code.
His eyes drilled into hers. ‘Answer the question, damn it.’
Isla gave a single nod. ‘Yes. Of course, it is. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before—’
Rafe shot to his feet like his chair had exploded. ‘Wait—I’m not having this discussion in a freaking wine bar. Upstairs. Now.’ His voice had that commanding edge that never failed to put her back up like a cornered cat.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea right now—’
‘You will do as I say. You owe me that, surely?’ His mouth was pulled so tight his lips were almost bloodless, his eyes flashing with livid sparks of anger.
Isla put up her chin. ‘You can tell me to get out of your life here. You don’t need me to go up to your room.’
He flinched as if she had struck him. ‘Is that how poorly you think of me?’
Isla no longer knew what to think. He wasn’t acting the way she’d expected. He was angry, yes, but for some reason she sensed he was angrier with himself than with her. She didn’t want to create a scene in a public place so gave in with as little grace as possible, not wanting him to think he could boss her around like one of his employees. She rose from her chair like a sulky teenager being sent to her room, her mouth set in a stubborn line. She hoisted her tote bag strap onto her shoulder and sent him a mutinous glare. ‘You can cool it with the caveman routine. You should know by now it doesn’t work with me.’
‘Nothing seems to work with you, does it?’ Rafe’s tone was so cutting it shredded her already frayed nerves like a sword slashing satin ribbons. He led her to the private elevator that went to his penthouse, his fingers firmly cupping her elbow. He stabbed at the call button, his expression thunderous, but underneath that dark brooding tension Isla could see tiny flickers of hurt. And it shamed her. She hadn’t thought in any detail about how he would feel if he ever found out about the pregnancy. Or at least she had tried not to think about it. She had been too concerned about protecting him from her past, protecting herself from the shame of it being splashed over every newspaper or online news or gossip outlet. She had fooled herself into thinking Rafe would be better off not knowing about his love-child—that it was easier for her to disappear than to risk him demanding she marry him or insist she have an abortion.
The elevator trip to the penthouse was conducted in a silence so thick Isla could feel it pressing against her like a dense invisible fog. Every breath she took in caught at the back of her throat, every second that passed heightened the tension in her body until she thought she would snap. The mirrored walls reflected Rafe’s demeanour—the tension rippling across his features as if he was recalling every moment of their fling and wondering how it had come to this point.
‘Rafe, I—’ she began.
‘Wait until we are inside.’ His tone was as commanding as a drill sergeant and the elevator doors whooshed open as if they too were frightened to disobey his orders.
Isla followed him into the penthouse, the door closing behind him with a resounding kerplunk that set her stomach churning fast enough to make butter. She let her bag drop to the floor with a thump, her legs feeling so feeble that they might go from beneath her. Tension was building behind her eyes and she worried she might be getting another one of the debilitating headaches that had plagued her during early pregnancy.
He came to where she was standing, his gaze focused, direct, searching. ‘So, let me get this straight. You knew you were pregnant before you left?’
Isla drew in a shaky breath. ‘Yes...’
His own inward breath sounded sharp and painful and he swallowed a couple of times, the tanned column of his throat moving up and down in an almost convulsive manner. ‘How did it happen?’
‘The usual way...’
He made an impatient sound in his throat. ‘You told me you were on the Pill and I always used condoms. You can’t get much safer than that.’ His gaze sharpened with accusation. ‘Unless you lied to me?’
‘I was on the Pill but I might have compromised its effectiveness that weekend we went to Paris. I got a stomach bug, if you remember? And you didn’t always use a condom.’ She lifted her chin and forced herself to hold his gaze. ‘We made love in the shower a couple of times without.’
Something passed through his gaze, as if he was recalling those passionate lovemaking sessions in intimate detail like replaying an erotic film. Images of them locked together with steamy shower water cascading over their rocking bodies. Images of him with his mouth sucking on her breast