Royal Baby: Forced Wife, Royal Love-Child / Cavelli's Lost Heir / Prince of Montéz, Pregnant Mistress. Sabrina Philips
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was telling him how it was to be. She must be insane to think she could get away with it. But damn it, nothing gave him the excuse to act the way he did.
Nothing!
He glowered at her again, took a step closer that had her wanting to reel right away, before his tightly drawn lips finally gave way to sound. ‘Have it your way.’
It was a perfect day, the rising sun already high in the sky, dazzling with the promise of heat. The infinity pool set into the gardens below sparkled and merged with the sea beyond, the perfect diamante-set blue, which in turn merged into a perfect azure sky.
A perfect day. And the perfectly wrong day for a foul mood.
Rafe sat on the terrace, holding his coffee, staring out resentfully over the beauty of the surroundings. His plans to seduce her into submission had come unstuck. So be it. If she wanted out so badly, she could have it. It was no real loss.
The chopper waited on the helipad for its pilot. He’d watched its arrival half an hour ago. He was surprised, given her vehemence of last night, that she hadn’t already left.
He took a sip. Dio! Even the coffee tasted bitter today. He put down his cup with a clatter and stood. What was he waiting for? She was leaving. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing him watching out for her departure.
Something made him turn then, a noise, a movement, and he saw her, standing in the doorway staring at him like a frightened animal stuck in the glare of oncoming headlights. Memories of last night’s argument bubbled up like boiling mud, and his gut squeezed tight.
The only compensation was that she looked as bad as he felt. Her skin was pale. So pale against the Titian gold framing her face, even though pulled tight into that damned braid she favoured. And her eyes were smudged with dark circles that spoke of a lack of sleep that he could only hope matched his own.
What was she so scared of? Did she think he’d make another move on her? Not a chance!
‘I just wanted to say goodbye,’ she said, in a voice so tiny it almost got lost in the space between them.
He gave a brief nod. ‘Have you eaten?’
Her face seemed to lose even more colour, if that were possible, and as he looked closer, he could see she was clutching at the door beside her for support, her grip so tight that her knuckles were white.
She shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together, her whole face looking pinched and drawn. She’d had a worst night than he had. Good. But as he edged nearer, he noticed for the first time that there was colour in her face after all, a strange shade of grey. ‘Shouldn’t you have breakfast before you go? At least some coffee?’
‘I have to go,’ she squeezed out between barely open lips, her eyes wider than ever as he approached. ‘Thank you for your … Well, thank you.’
He nodded again, determined not to care one way or another how she felt. ‘I’ll have Sebastiano take you down to the helipad.’
She nodded and turned to go then, letting go of the side of the door to melt back into the house, but something about the way she moved, a slight stagger, a waver in her step, had him at her side in a heartbeat.
He reached for her arm, felt the momentary resistance in her slight frame before she sagged against him in a dead faint.
‘Sebastiano,’ he yelled, collecting her into his arms. ‘Get the doctor!’
‘She’s resting now.’
Rafe stopped pretending not to be interested at the sound of the dottore’s voice.
‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s fine, but I’ve advised her to get a complete checkup when she gets home. And to think about avoiding flying while she feels like this, of course. But she’ll feel better a little later on in the day. That’s usually how morning sickness works.’
Clouds of black filled the space behind Rafe’s eyes, an unexpected explosion of red following close behind as his heart pumped loud in his chest. ‘She’s pregnant, then?’
‘Six to eight weeks, at a guess,’ replied the doctor, oblivious to the bombshell he’d just dropped. ‘So if you can do anything to reduce her stress levels, that will probably help her through this period. She does present as being very stressed.’
The doctor continued his diagnosis but Rafe heard nothing. Not while his mind processed the news, peeling back time, trying to remember. Six to eight weeks. Was it possible?
He’d used protection. He would never be that careless.
Except he hadn’t!
He had been that careless.
The details came back in a blinding flash. He’d heard of his half-brothers’ arrests and of their implication in their father’s death. He’d learned that Montvelatte’s existence balanced on a knife edge. And he’d been blind with anger and fury and rage that they could have been so arrogant and so self-absorbed that they had done this with pure greed in mind, and that they hadn’t seen where they were heading. So blind with anger that he hadn’t stopped to think, hadn’t hesitated before burying himself one last time deep inside the woman who’d just happened to be there.
Had that momentary loss of control done this, resulted in a child? Was it his?
She’d almost got away. He’d been that close to letting her go, angry that she could deny him the pleasure he’d find with her, and so close to letting her walk out of his life for ever.
Would he ever have found out if she’d gone? She might never have told him.
Six weeks. Coincidence? Or fate?
Whichever, she wasn’t getting away before he found out for sure.
The doctor had finished his report. ‘Can I see her?’
‘Certainly. Though be gentle. Right now she’s a little emotionally fragile.’
Rafe blew out his breath in a rush. ‘I’ll just bet she is.’
Moments later he paused outside her room, his anger festering inside him, a living thing. He’d paced the terrace for endless minutes, working out the possibilities. If she’d told him last night that she was pregnant with someone else’s child, if she’d thrown it in his face then and there, he would have left her alone. But she hadn’t said a word. And six to eight weeks? Surely she must have known something? Was that the real reason she’d declined to have any wine?
He thought back on her determination to escape the island. She’d been desperate to get away. So desperate to escape that she’d risk flying a helicopter when she was in danger of passing out at the controls. If those facts weren’t enough to spell out her guilt, he didn’t know what was.
She didn’t want him to know.
Which could only mean one thing.
It had to be his.
He hauled in a lungful of air, felt the oxygen fuel the fury inside him until it was in danger of combusting, until he wanted to howl at the irony.
All that time Sebastiano had been doing his utmost to find Montvelatte the perfect breeding stock.
All that time Sebastiano had spent ensuring Montvelatte would not be left without an heir.
And all that time there had been one all along.
It was a disaster. Sienna pushed herself back into pillows damp with tears, unable to assimilate the new-found knowledge, unable to come to terms with the physician’s declaration.
There was nothing wrong with her, he’d calmly informed her, in the very same breath he’d dropped the bombshell that she was pregnant and suffering nothing more debilitating than morning sickness.
Nothing wrong. That was a laugh, when her entire world was