The Italian's Pregnant Prisoner Read online

  “Do you see her?”

  He laughed, hard and bitter. “No. I have no desire to. She only asks for more money, and while I do not begrudge her a certain amount...”

  “You never spoke of her. When we were together. You never told me about your mother.”

  “There are a great many things I never told you about.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said. “And I wonder why. You risked yourself to be with me... But then, it makes me wonder if you really did? If you assumed that we were doomed, I suppose it was much easier to play at love. Much simpler.”

  “I am not playing games with you now,” he said, her words striking him somewhere unsettling. “I will not be denied my children, Charlotte. I will not allow you to dictate the terms here.” He made an attempt to soften his tone. “You could be happy here. With me.”

  “If that were true, don’t you suppose I would have been happy in the tower that my father made too?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  RAFE SUCCESSFULLY AVOIDED her for the next week. Or maybe he wasn’t avoiding her; that was always a possibility.

  But she doubted it.

  He was far too much in control for anything to be accidental. If Rafe had wanted to see her, then she would have seen him. For the man left absolutely nothing to chance, and there was nothing that he did not manipulate in his domain.

  She sighed heavily, pacing back and forth in the solarium, which she had come to think of as her room. She did still go out to the gardens, in spite of the discussion that he’d had with her last week. He might have taken her hostage, but he was not going to dictate what she did with her time in her gilded little cage.

  There was nowhere for her to run, after all, and she was not going to forgo fresh air.

  Today, though, it was raining, and she was taking advantage of what weak, pale sunlight was coming through the windows.

  She grabbed hold of one of the settees and pushed it across the highly polished marble floor, positioning it in front of the window. Then she got the side table and did the same with that. It was much nicer with everything right by the window. For a while, she just wanted to sit and gaze out at the view; she wasn’t in the mood to go and brave Rafe.

  After a while she decided that it would be better if she had a cup of tea. She could ask one of Rafe’s staff members to get it for her. They were very attentive, and she often got the feeling that Della—his head of staff—disapproved of his keeping her here.

  It made her feel...if not safe, then at least as though she had an ally. It was nice to have an ally.

  Not that Della could do anything about it either. She needed the job, presumably. And going against Rafe would mean the loss of a job. He did not run a democracy. This was a dictatorship—no doubt about it.

  But Charlotte was feeling surprisingly good today, and she didn’t want anyone to wait on her. She wanted to get tea by her own power. She just needed to do something.

  That was the problem with being cooped up in this place. It reminded her too much of the past. And it gave her far too much time to think.

  There was a lot of brooding, of course. A lot of unhappiness about what Rafe had become. But then, inevitably, it led to memories of their time together. Bittersweet and painful feelings. How he had made her feel cared for, loved, for the first time in her memory.

  And that was why it was so difficult to hate him now. Why it was hard not to hope whenever she heard footsteps that it was Rafe coming into the room to see her.

  Because he was the one who had taught her what it meant to be cared for. And perhaps it had all faded, broken apart in the ensuing years. The lies from Josefina, the damage done in his injury and the time apart were all too much for that fledgling love to survive.

  It was as if they’d gone through a cold winter. A deep freeze. And that tender blossom had been killed.

  But nonetheless, she remembered it. As if it were the only flower she had ever seen.

  He was her only reference for it. And that made it...

  She couldn’t hate him. Even if she should.

  She wandered into the kitchen, found a pot of boiling water on the stove and set about making herself a cup of tea.

  When she arrived back at the solarium, she walked in to see Rafe, making his way across the room, and she saw the accident without enough time to prevent it. He charged straight through the center of the room near the windows, and then went over the end table that she had placed just by the settee, his knee going straight through the top of the thin wood as he, and the furniture, crashed down to the marble floor.

  Charlotte’s heart leaped up into her throat, and she released her hold on her cup of tea, the porcelain shattering on the ground, her penance, in some ways for what had just happened. For the broken table. That she needed to break something too. So that he wasn’t alone.

  It didn’t make sense; she knew it. But then, she didn’t have sense in her head right now. She had feeling. And nothing more.

  Regret. Anguish. That she had cost him his pride just now. And that he might be hurt.

  He was swearing in Italian, the words sharp and vile, even if she couldn’t understand them all. The intent was clear. And she was frozen.

  Then he extricated himself from the table, his dress pants torn, the skin beneath bloodied. He had obviously hit his forehead on something; a dark red circle was forming there.

  “I am so sorry,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “Did you move this?” His voice was terrifyingly cold. Arctic.

  She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see. And she almost broke. Just like the teacup. “I wasn’t thinking. I moved it so that I could sit closer to the window, and then I went into the kitchen to get a cup of tea. I didn’t think about you walking in. We haven’t crossed paths in a week. I thought the odds of you coming into the room where I was would be unlikely.”

  That wasn’t true. She hadn’t thought at all. Hadn’t thought that of course it would be dangerous to move something out of one of his well-worn paths.

  Of course Rafe knew the castle. If he didn’t, he would not be able to navigate it as he did. Most of the time she had seen him wandering the halls, it had been without his cane even. So she had to assume that to a degree, he had muscle memory associated with the place. And of course that meant things couldn’t simply be moved from their spots.

  “That isn’t true,” she said. “I was thoughtless. I’m sorry.”

  He crossed the room in her direction, following the sound of her voice. And she froze. He looked like a madman, enraged, almost out of his mind with it. His dark eyes were wild, fixed on nothing. His lip curled into a sneer.

  “Rafe...”

  He reached out, wrapping his arm around her waist and hauling her up against him. Then he gripped hold of her chin with his thumb and forefinger, holding her steady for a moment. He held her like that for one heartbeat. Two.

  Then his fingertips began to drift down the side of her neck, and he curved them around her throat, pressing his thumb against the place where her pulse was beating rapidly.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he rasped.

  “I’m afraid for you,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “There is no need to be afraid for me, cara. But if you truly think that I am like your father, then perhaps, fear of me is the reason that your heart should be racing so fast.”

  “You’re not my father.”

  “You must never move things in my home. This is not your domain. This is mine. We are not sharing this. It is not a happy household. You do not have free rein of it. You cannot go where you wish. You cannot touch just anything. It is not up to you to decide what goes where. This is mine. Mine alone.”

  She lifted a trembling hand, touched the side of his cheek, then reached up to his forehead, trying to soothe the angry red welt there. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER NINE

  RAFE’S BLOOD WAS pumping, his pride burning more than anything else. He despised this. Despised how ea
sily it was for him to be made to look like a fool. A bumbling idiot in his own home. How dependent he was on others doing exactly as he bade them. How remarkably like a child he felt at times. It was as appalling as it was enraging.

  And she was sorry.

  His blood was running hot. Rage over his injury. Desire from her nearness. That intoxicating scent that was only Charlotte.

  “If you want to show me how sorry you are, perhaps it would be best for you to start on your knees.” The words were hard-edged and cruel, and he expected very much for her to slap him across the face.

  Except she did not slap him. She continued to touch him as though he were a fragile thing and she was attempting to make sure he had not been cracked or dented.

  For God’s sake, he had been thrown from a tower and he had not allowed it to break him. This indignity—witnessed by one small woman—would not leave him reduced.

  He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, holding her like an iron manacle. Stopping her from stroking him as if he were a puppy.

  “I will not be placated,” he said. “Do you want to make up for your transgression, or not?”

  She was trembling now, and he didn’t know if it was from fear or from something else. He wasn’t sure if he cared.

  “You know I’m attracted to you,” she said, her voice thick. “But is this how you want it? You want to demand it? In anger?”

  “Yes. This is how I want it. You can always leave if this disturbs you. Otherwise, I suggest you apologize to me using that lush mouth of yours, and no words.”

  He expected her to run then. Expected her to flee his wrath.

  Instead, she began to lower herself before him. He curved his hand around to her hair, and almost as if on a reflex he pulled the pin from her long, silky locks.

  “Don’t,” she said. “I will keep that for myself.”

  He lowered his hand then, not trusting himself to comply with her wishes if he did not. And why the hell should he? He was the one who was injured. He was the one who had been made a mockery of in his own home.

  He was not the one who should feel guilty. She should feel guilty. She should feel full of contrition. She ought to be lowering herself in front of him. It was no less than he deserved.

  And yet, no matter how forcefully he spoke those words in his mind, he did not believe them.

  She did not touch his belt. Did not touch his zipper. Instead, he felt the thin fabric of his pants, being swept aside where they were torn at the knee.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said softly.

  She leaned in, blowing cool breath onto the wound, the sensation both soothing and arousing.

  “I know,” he responded, the words hard.

  “You’re bleeding, and it’s my fault.” Her words were choked. “And I understand why you think you need to make me bleed too.”

  “I don’t want your blood,” he spat, the words savage. “I want your mouth. On me.”

  “And I have no problem giving you that. But I suppose that robs you of something. I suppose that takes away the punishment.”

  But she didn’t move. Instead, she continued to blow on his knee, as though he were a child and she was soothing him as if he were having a tantrum after an injury.

  But then, then she moved. Letting her hand slide up his thigh and inward, cupping his arousal, moving her palm along his hardened length.

  “You’re angry at me, but you still want me,” she said. “How’s that for control?”

  “I did not ask for a commentary,” he bit out.

  “No, certainly not,” she murmured.

  “Your mouth should be busy.”

  He felt her shift, move up higher as she undid his belt, then undid the closure of his slacks. He heard her breath hiss through her teeth as she took his erection into her hand.

  He would give an inestimable amount of his fortune in that moment to be able to look down and see the way that she appeared then. Her blond hair wound into a tight coil of spun gold, her cheeks undoubtedly flushed from anger if not from arousal. And once she started to work on his arousal, her lips becoming slick and red. Swollen.

  Just the idea made him jump in her hand.

  She tested him with the tip of her tongue, the movement slow and slick and tantalizing, a lush glide into madness. And then the heat of her mouth engulfed him as she took him deep. As she gave an apology with her lips, her tongue and the controlled edge of her teeth. She gripped him firmly as she worked him just the way he had taught her all those years ago. She had not forgotten.

  And he knew there had been no other men. She had come to his bed a virgin, just as he had left her.

  Waiting for him. Waiting for him.

  It didn’t matter if it wasn’t true. It was the war cry that raged through his blood as Charlotte pleasured him. As his whole world broke apart and fireworks flashed in his mind, his entire being lighting up even while his vision remained dark.

  He spent himself. Pleasure a feral creature inside him tearing at his gut, dragging him down into an abyss that he could find no way out of. An abyss he wanted to stay in.

  And then, there was nothing but sound of their fractured breathing in the empty room, and he could think of nothing but the picture it must present. Charlotte on her knees before him, a broken cup—he presumed—on the floor nearby. Splintered furniture. And him standing there with torn dress pants and a bloodied knee.

  He was supposed to be seducing her. Seducing her body. Seducing her heart. And what had he done? He had growled at her like a bear and then forced her to give him pleasure at the first sign things were not going according to his plan. He had avoided her for the past week, and then at first contact he had done this.

  He had no control with her. He had made a plan, but he could not seem to stick to it, and that was untenable. Incomprehensible.

  And so he bent down and swept her up from the ground, holding her close to his chest.

  “Rafe...”

  “Is there anything else you’ve moved?”

  “No...”

  He swept through the solarium, back toward the quarters of the house where nothing had been touched. And at last he felt powerful again. At last he felt like the master.

  Carrying Charlotte. Like she was weak and he was strong. She was clinging to him, her arms around his neck, her body frozen. Probably in fear.

  Probably deserved.

  He had to fix this. One way or another. He had to find a way to make it so she would stay with him.

  She was carrying his children, after all, and it was imperative.

  He would not become his father.

  Never.

  He moved quickly down the corridor, then up a curved staircase, counting each stair in his head as he went, nearly unconscious exercise, and then finished perfectly, expectedly, before carrying her down another long corridor toward his chamber.

  He pushed the door open, took them across the threshold and then deposited her at the foot of his bed.

  “Do you see why things must never move?”

  “I see,” she said, her voice sounding thin.

  Something in him hurt, a sharp pain in his chest that outdid the one in his knee and forehead. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  He found that he actually cared what the answer was. Found that it actually would bother him if he had harmed her in some way.

  “I’m fine,” she said, still sounding somewhat dazed.

  “This distance between us cannot be,” he said, his voice rough.

  This was only part of his plan. He had to repair now what he had broken, and clearly he could not be trusted to do it by interacting with her. Clearly, if they spoke, he was going to destroy it. He did not know how to say the right things. But he could pleasure her. That much he knew he could do.

  He did not need to see to know the map of the castle. And just the same, he did not need to see in order to know the map of Charlotte’s body. It was burned into his mind. The last woman he had ever seen naked. He would remember he
r always, and even if he had seen a thousand women after her he would imagine that would be the case.

  “And what underwear do you have on today?” he asked.

  “They’re quite plain,” she said.

  “A pity. But then, you won’t mind taking them off for me.”

  “Did I say that I would take them off for you?” He supposed he deserved that.

  “Will you?” A request, which was painful, but necessary at this point.

  There was a slight hesitation. “Why?”

  “So that we can...so that we... I’m the one who’s blind,” he said. “I should think that you would be able to see quite clearly exactly what my body wants.” Unfamiliar shame lashed at him.

  “You want to have sex with me, but I want to know why. Is it to satisfy yourself, or do you want something else? Because I have been a weapon for men for a very long time, Rafe, and I would like this to be about something else. Something more than manipulation. Something more than just satisfying you.”

  He would be a liar if he told her it wasn’t about manipulation. But then, he had never fancied himself a man of great integrity. What did it matter? What did it matter if it was what she wanted to hear? If it would make her happy with him? Selfless reasons, after all.

  “What I did downstairs,” he said, “that was selfish. That was for my own pleasure, and more than that, for my ego. Because falling like that is never easy for a man like me. But now, now that I am seeing clearer...”

  “Orgasm does that for you, does it?”

  “Perhaps,” he responded drily. “Nonetheless, I want to pleasure you now. To give you a gift, as you just gave to me.”

  “Your knee looks terrible. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He lifted her up against him, wrapped her legs around his waist and then lowered them both to the bed. The brocade of the comforter rubbed into his wound, and he gritted his teeth, hating to acknowledge that she was right.

  “I told you,” she said softly, touching his face, and then tracing a path down his chin, down his neck, her fingertips landing at the base of his throat. “Your heart is beating fast,” she said.