CHAPTER FIVE

      WHEN SAM HEARD the telltale purr of a powerful engine as she lay in bed that night she looked at her clock in disbelief. It was before midnight and Rafaele was home? Home. She grimaced at how easily that had slipped into her mind.

      Feeling like a teenager, but unable to help herself, she got out of bed and went to her window, pulling back the curtain ever so slightly. Her heart was thumping. Rafaele hadn’t got out of the car yet, and even from here she could see his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

      Sam had the uncanny feeling that he was imagining the wheel was her neck. Then suddenly the door opened and he got out, unfolding his huge frame from the sleek low-slung vehicle. In any other instance Sam would have sighed in sheer awe at the stunningly designed lines.

      She stopped breathing as she took in Rafaele, just standing there for a moment. He wore a tuxedo. Sam knew from past experience that he had a dressing room and fully stocked wardrobe at his office. His shirt was open at the throat, his bow tie hanging rakishly undone.

      Rafaele shut the car door and then surprised her by leaning back against the car and putting his hands deep in his pockets, crossing his long legs at the ankle. He looked down, and something about him was so intensely lonely that Sam felt like a voyeur. She hated the way her heart clenched.

      She’d been so stunned to see him again that she hadn’t really contemplated how much of a shock it must have been for him discovering he had a son. He would never forgive her.

      Sam quickly shut the curtain again and climbed back into bed, feeling cold from the inside. Eventually she heard the opening and closing of the front door, and then heavy footsteps. She held her breath for a moment when she fancied they stopped outside her door, and then, when she heard the faintest sounds of another door closing, let her breath out in a shuddery whoosh.

      About an hour later Sam gave up any pretence of trying to sleep. She threw back the covers and padded softly out of her bedroom. All was quiet and still. She looked in on Milo, who was sprawled across his bed fast asleep, and then made her way to the kitchen to get some water. She was halfway into the room before she realised she wasn’t alone.

      She gave a small yelp of shock when she saw Rafaele in the corner of the kitchen, in low-slung faded jeans, bare feet and a T-shirt, calmly lifting a coffee cup to his lips.

      She put a hand to her rapid heart. ‘You scared me. I thought you were in bed.’

      Rafaele arched a brow mockingly. ‘Don’t tell me—you couldn’t sleep until you knew I was home safe?’

      Sam scowled and hated that he’d caught her like this: sleep-mussed, wearing nothing but brief pants and a threadbare V-necked T-shirt.

      Anger rushed through her. Anger at the day she’d spent with her thoughts revolving sickeningly around one person—him. Anger that she had to face him like this in what she would have once considered her sanctuary. And, worst of all, anger at herself for not having told him about Milo when she should have.

      Feeling emotional, and terrified he’d see it, she stalked to the sink. ‘I’m just getting some water. I couldn’t sleep and it has nothing to do with you coming home or not.’

      Liar.

      Sam heard his voice over the gush of water.

      ‘I couldn’t sleep either.’

      Sam remembered the intensely lonely air about him as he’d waited outside before coming in. Now she felt guilty for having witnessed it. She held the glass of water in both hands and turned, feeling disorientated.

      She looked at the coffee cup and remarked dryly, ‘Well, that’s hardly likely to help matters.’

      Rafaele shrugged and drained the coffee, the strong column of his throat working. He put the cup down. ‘When I couldn’t sleep I came down to do some work.’

      His gaze narrowed on her then, and Sam’s skin prickled. She gripped the glass tighter.

      He drawled, ‘But as I’m just a guest in your house perhaps I should ask for permission?’

      Sam’s anger was back just like that. Anger at herself for thinking she’d seen Rafaele vulnerable even for a moment. ‘But you’re not really a guest, are you? You’re here to punish me, to make me pay for not telling you about your son.’

      Feeling agitated, Sam put down the glass, sloshing some water over the side. She clenched her hands and rounded on Rafaele. ‘I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about Milo. I should have, and I didn’t. And I’m sorry.’

      Rafaele went very still and put his hands in his pockets. The air thickened between them and swirled with electricity. He looked relaxed, but Sam could tell he was as tense as she was.

      ‘Why?’

      One word, a simple question, and Sam felt something crumble inside her. He hadn’t actually asked her that yet. He’d asked her how she could have, but not why.

      She looked down and put her arms around herself in an unconscious gesture of defence, unaware of how it pushed her breasts up and unaware of how Rafaele’s eyes dropped there for a moment or the flush that darkened his cheekbones. She was only aware of her own inner turmoil. She would never be brave enough to tell him of her hurt and her own secret suspicion that it had been that weak emotion that had been her main motivator. She was too ashamed.

      She steeled herself and looked up. Rafaele’s eyes glittered in the gloom. ‘It was for all the reasons I’ve already told you, Rafaele. I was in shock. I’d almost lost my baby only days after finding out that I was pregnant in the first place. It was all...too much. And I truly believed you had no interest—that you would prefer if I just went away and didn’t bother you again.’

      She almost quailed at the way his jaw tightened but went on. ‘My father was not really there for me. Ever. Even though he brought me up and we lived in this house together. He didn’t know how to relate to me. What I needed. I think...I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping Milo from a similar experience.’

      Rafaele crossed his arms too, making his muscles bunch. It felt as if something was fizzing between them under the words. A subtext that was alive. All she could see was that powerful body. Lean and hard.

      ‘You had no right.’

      Sam looked at him, willing down the way her body insisted on being divorced from her mind, becoming aroused as if nothing had happened between them. As if he didn’t hate her.

      ‘I know,’ she