‘The principality is my number one priority. Generations of Revaldis have held the title of Conte di Monterrato. Now it is my turn and I will do everything within my power to ensure its protection and prosperity.’ He paused, conviction pushing back his shoulders, swelling his chest. ‘As you well know, Charlotte, I am the last in line...’ he shot her a piercing stare ‘...and as such it is my duty to provide an heir.’
Monterrato. An heir.
Lottie felt the cold fingers of the past reach out to grasp her. So nothing had changed. It was still all about Monterrato, about providing for its future, continuing the line. The place was like an obsession with Rafael—everything to him; his life, his blood. She was also the last in line, as it happened—the sole daughter of John Lamb, deceased, and Greta Lamb, now Lawrence, remarried and living in South America. But you didn’t hear her banging on about it.
‘Well, if you are so keen to have a child I suggest you find someone else to have one with.’ Twisting her bottom on the seat, she sniped back at him, chin high, chest forward. She knew she sounded like a bitter old crow but she couldn’t help herself. ‘Judging by the number of women that seem to constantly surround you, I’m sure you could have the pick of party socialites only too happy to produce endless beautiful Monterrato heirs for you.’
Thunder rolled across Rafael’s face.
‘For God’s sake, Charlotte.’ His fist banged down on the desk, rattling the ormolu inkstand on its lion’s paws feet. His eyes were glaring wildly with some unseen force as they locked with Lottie’s, now saucer-shaped with alarm. ‘Why can’t I make you understand? It is our baby I want.’
Lottie’s mouth fell open, soft with astonishment. This was not the calm, composed Rafael that she knew. The man who was so totally in control of his emotions that she had never seen him break down—not even when their baby had died. He was certainly not the kind of man to lose his temper. At least he never had been.
A thought suddenly occurred to her. He had been in a terrible accident—an accident that had resulted in injuries to his head. Was it possible that he was suffering from some sort of post-traumatic mood disorder? Would that explain the jumpy, volatile, almost out of control man before her?
‘You are right, Rafe, I don’t understand.’ She lowered her voice to try and coax the truth out of him. ‘Is it something to do with the accident? Has it affected you in some way?’
The scrape of his chair across the polished parquet floor made Lottie start as he lunged to his feet, leaning forward across the desk with the stillness of a viper about to strike.
‘Why would you say that?’
‘I don’t know. I just wondered...’ And, judging by his attitude, she had hit the nail squarely on the head. ‘Do you want to talk about it? You never know—it might help.’
Turning his back Rafael strode towards the windows, the floor creaking beneath his forceful steps. ‘There is nothing to talk about. It happened. That’s all there is to it.’ He all but growled the words over his shoulder.
Maledizione. Talking about it was the very last thing he wanted to do. He felt his breath heaving in his chest with the wretched frustration of it all, felt the unfamiliar sense of powerlessness fuelling his temper.
But what had he expected? That Lottie would agree, with no further explanation, to bear him a child just like that?
He could have lied, of course. Wooed her back until he’d achieved his goal, then told her it was all a sham. Just the thought of the challenge heated the blood in his veins. He could feel her eyes scanning his rear view, sense her biting the inside of her cheek as she waited, the rise and fall of her breasts with each shallow breath, the way she slid her hands between tightly pressed thighs as she perched on the edge of her seat. All of which sent hot waves of desire through his body that would make taking her to his bed—hell, taking her across the desk there and then, for that matter—the easiest thing in the world. And who would blame him, after the way she had treated him, if he used her for his own pleasure? But, no, sex wasn’t the answer—no matter how tempting it was.
Outside the light was starting to fade, and with the lamps still not lit the room had taken on a grey, almost smoky hue. Lottie feasted her eyes on the proud silhouette, tall, muscular, brooding against the dying light, committing the image to memory before wrenching her gaze away again.
‘Well, in that case there is nothing more to be said.’ Her breath juddered and she rose to her feet. ‘There is no point in my being here.’
‘No! Stop!’ Despite his injuries he was beside her in a couple of long strides, grabbing hold of her arm as she reached down to pick up her handbag.