‘Now you are being ridiculous.’
‘So nothing, eh? Your grubby little spies could uncover nothing?’ She glared at him. ‘But it’s still left you wondering, hasn’t it? Whether maybe they missed something—maybe I do have a lover tucked away that you know nothing about?’
‘And do you?’ His voice was lethally low, his eyes warning her that she was entering very dangerous territory with this taunt.
‘No. I don’t, as it happens. But what if I did? What right do you have to poke your nose into my love-life when no doubt you have had a string of women in your bed?’ She paused, her pent-up breath swelling her breasts as she dared him, willed him to deny it.
But he just continued to glower at her, his egotism, his gall, the downright sexual arrogance of him fuelling her outrage and jealousy, bringing bile to the surface.
‘Any women I might have had are none of your damned business.’ The weight of his words broke the cruel silence.
Slipping off her stool, Lottie knew she had to get away from him. She was not going to fling herself into that bear-pit of torture. Not today, at any rate.
‘I’m going to bed.’
Suddenly he was beside her, pulling her towards him, locking his arms around her unyielding body in the steel ring of his embrace.
‘Get off me.’
She struggled to free herself from his arms but then stopped when the contact between them threatened to take a different, much more worrying turn. As he loosened his grip slightly, just enough to pull back and look into her face, Rafael’s blazing stare told her that he had felt it too.
Dropping his arms, he turned his back, walked away from her. ‘I think you need to remember what Dr Oveisi said.’ He spoke coldly over his shoulder. ‘You really shouldn’t get yourself all worked up, you know. It’s not good for you...’ He paused, hesitating over his choice of words. ‘Or for the chances of the pregnancy working.’
Could he be more arrogantly, impossibly infuriating? Lottie didn’t know what enraged her the most. His audacity in cross-examining her about her love-life or the patronising way he thought he could control her.
‘Don’t you dare start telling me how to behave.’ She fired off the words at the broad expanse of his back. ‘You started this fight—twisting my words, cross-examining me about my love-life. You are the one that needs to think about their behaviour.’
‘I suggest you try and get a good night’s sleep.’ Turning round, Rafael levelled cold dark eyes in her direction. ‘I’m sure you will feel better in the morning.’
* * *
Wandering out on to the terrace, Rafael followed the pathway down towards the ornate iron gates that opened directly onto the lake. Turning the heavy old key in the lock, he let the gates swing open and descended the steep flight of steps down to the water, his footsteps hollow against the worn stone. A row of striped mooring poles stood to attention in front of him, the furthest one having a sleek speedboat tethered to it, the water gently slapping at its sides.
Seating himself on the boardwalk, Rafael let his legs hang over the water, absently staring down into the rippling blackness.
Today had seen the first stage of his mission accomplished. His only hope of fatherhood had finally been given its chance of life. Whether it worked or not was now down to the tiny blob of cells, five days’ worth of shared genes, set free from its frozen prison, free to make its own decision about the future.
He should have been feeling elated—jubilant. This had been his goal ever since he had been delivered the devastating news that the accident had rendered him sterile. But there was no elation, just anger—with himself and with the situation.
What had he been thinking, getting into an argument with Lottie on the very first evening? Wasn’t he supposed to be making this a stress-free fortnight? It had come out of nowhere, that primal jealousy—fury, even—that she might have been with another man. He couldn’t think about it, couldn’t bear to go there. His investigations had revealed nothing, and she had said there was no one. He had to leave it at that.
But still the thought of her in the arms of another man tortured him as viciously now as it had when she had first left him. The idea that some bastard might have taken her to his bed, touched her, made love to her, poured a river of molten lava through his veins.
It wasn’t as if he had remained celibate. Lottie was right. There had been other women—probably not as many as she imagined, but women who had shared his bed, satisfied his needs. But none of them had meant anything. Since the day Lottie had left him, the day she had told him she had never loved him, it was as if that part of him had died—the part that was capable of really feeling, the part that was capable of love.