‘A bit melodramatic, don’t you think?’
‘No, I don’t think. You need an heir. If these …’ she placed a hand low over her tummy, cradling the place her babies were growing deep below ‘ … turn out to be girls, that doesn’t help you one bit, does it? A daughter cannot become a prince. A daughter does not solve Montvelatte’s problem. You need a son.’
‘They will be boys; I know it.’
‘How can you know it? There is no way of telling at this stage, no way of knowing. And if you’re wrong, and neither of these babies is male, what will my job be?’ She nodded, drawing herself up as still and tall as she could. ‘I’ll be expected to keep on breeding until you have an heir and a spare. But will that be enough, I wonder, given what happened to your brothers? Two sons may not be enough. So how many children must I be expected to bear? How many times will I be expected to share your bed so that you might inject me with your seed and get me pregnant? Don’t even pretend you don’t expect me to be some kind of brood mare for you.’
‘Enough!’ He drew closer. So close she could see the corded tension in his throat, the thump of his heart beating in his temples. ‘And you would have me believe that you do not enjoy sharing my bed? Dio, who was it who dressed herself like a temptress and paraded herself in front of Montvelatte’s wealthiest like some high-society whore, trawling for sex, smelling for all the world like a bitch in heat—’
Her open palm collided against his face with a crack that slammed his head sideways and left a deep red stain upon his olive-skinned cheek.
‘You bastard! I am nobody’s whore!’
He raised a hand to his face, rubbing the place she had hit and all the while he looked down at her. ‘All I am trying to do is make the best of a situation.’
‘Take advantage of it, you mean!’
‘Which is better than pretending it doesn’t exist! Don’t you think it’s about time you faced the facts? You’re pregnant with twins. My twins. What the hell else are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. But maybe you might have bloody well asked me to marry you, instead of just demanding I do.’
‘And would you have said yes?’
‘Not a snowball’s chance in hell.’
His jaw worked overtime, his eyes cold as flint. ‘Then maybe it’s just as well I didn’t ask.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE engines slowed as they entered the harbour, and Rafe went and stood at the opposite side of the launch as the pilot skilfully negotiated their way into the marina and to the private landing where Sebastiano stood to attention, waiting for them to dock, the buttons on his jacket gleaming under the sun. He was looking from one to the other, a small frown creasing the skin between his wiry eyebrows.
‘What is it?’ Rafe asked before they’d berthed, obviously eager for a change of topic.
‘The Princess Marietta has arrived. She’s waiting for you at the Castello.’
‘Marietta is here? Already?’ He leapt onto the dock. ‘I’ll take the Alfa. Sebastiano, you take Signorina Wainwright and drive carefully. She’s feeling a little off-colour.’
And then he was gone, and it was Sebastiano’s duty to hand her from the boat. ‘You’re not well, Signorina Wainwright?’ he inquired as intelligent eyes scanned her features, and she gained the distinct impression he missed nothing, not even the residual spark of fury that coloured her vision.
‘I’m fine,’ she answered, taking his hand as she stepped onto the dock. ‘Rafe worries too much.’
‘Prince Raphael has not seen his sister in some years. They have a lot to catch up on.’
‘Lucky Marietta,’ was the best response she could dredge up. He’d tried. He’d cancelled his appointments and taken her out on a cruise around the island. He’d shown her the tiny coves and beaches that dotted the coastline, tutored her in the names of the villages and what specialities each was renowned for, whether it was to do with wine, olives, oranges or seafood.
Rafe took a hairpin bend, his tyres squealing in protest, and slammed his fist against the steering wheel. He’d done everything he could. And still she railed against him, blaming him, fighting the inevitable as if she were some innocent lamb being led to the slaughter.
Christo! What was her problem?
Last night she’d been the one to come to him, calling to every last sexual sense he had, the siren, beckoning him, wanting him to make love to her.
Hadn’t he given her what she’d wanted? She’d seemed fine with their arrangement then. What the hell had changed between then and now?