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And a mistake she’d never make again…and certainly not with Rafe.
Straightening, Freya turned to face Rafe. He was watching her, his eyes narrowed, his head cocked, his gaze so thoroughly assessing.
Smoothing her skirt, Freya sat on the sofa across from him. ‘Perhaps you should tell me a little bit about the arrangements in Spain.’
Rafe rolled the gold-plated fountain pen between his fingers; Freya’s gaze was unwillingly yet unstoppably drawn to the small movement of those long, lean fingers.
‘We will land in Madrid and spend a few days there. I have business to attend to. When it is taken care of I will take Max to my property in Andalusia.’
‘And what is it like there? Is it accessible to a town? Will Max be able to attend nursery?’
Rafe frowned. ‘I assume he will not. There is enough for him to get used to already.’
‘I think it would help him settle,’ Freya said firmly. ‘Give him a routine, friends—’
‘I’ll look into it, Miss Clark.’
‘Please, call me Freya. If we are to be living together—’ She stopped abruptly, felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment. ‘Sharing living space,’ she amended, and Rafe’s mouth quirked upwards. It was the first time she’d seen him smile.
‘Don’t worry,’ he told her dryly. ‘I took your meaning.’
Freya nodded stiffly, yet she could not keep a hot rush of awareness from coursing through her body and she shifted in her seat. Those innocent words had caused a reel of provocative images to flip through her mind—images of Rafe that had no business taking up space in her brain. Yes, he was a handsome, arresting, intimidating man, but she was not attracted to him. She couldn’t be. She didn’t do relationships, wasn’t looking for a man. Didn’t need or even deserve one, considering all that had happened before. And she could not afford the slightest slip when it came to caring for Max.
Rafe watched colour wash Freya’s face, turn her eyes to smoke. Her tongue darted out and moistened her lower lip, and he experienced a sudden fierce jolt of lust. It surprised him because, while he hadn’t been completely celibate since his divorce, he focused on business, not pleasure. Not desire. And yet now he felt it uncoil within him, and he could hardly credit that Freya Clark, with her neat ponytail and sensible shoes, was its source.
There was something unsettling about how still she kept herself, how those fog-coloured eyes gave nothing away. The fact that she was embarrassed by her silly slip of the tongue intrigued him, for Freya Clark seemed utterly in control of her emotions…if she had them at all. She felt passionately about staying with his son, he knew that, but it was still a careful, controlled ambition, and he knew that it was intentional—just like her expressionless face. Was it just a mask? What secrets and emotions could Freya Clark be hiding so carefully? For surely she was hiding something? Desire aside, his instinct told him not to trust her.
He capped his fountain pen and closed the folder of business documents that had been spread out on the table before him. ‘How long have you been taking care of Max?’
‘Three years.’ She spoke firmly, clearly on familiar territory. ‘Since he was three months old.’
Three years ago… That would have been less than a year after Rosalia had left him. She would have been four or five months pregnant; she would have known. And she’d never said. She had, in fact, told him the opposite. ‘I never mean to fall pregnant—ever.’ Even now the memory sent a fresh rage rushing through him. He forced himself to relax.
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‘And how did you meet my ex-wife?’
‘I answered an advert in a newspaper,’ Freya replied. ‘For a nanny. Rosalia’s English wasn’t exceptional, and she wanted someone who was fluent in Spanish to converse with her, but who could also teach her son English.’ She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, the movement both delicate and graceful. ‘I fit those requirements.’
Unusual requirements, Rafe thought. There were so many things he wanted to know: what Rosalia had said of him, how she had explained his absence. What lies she had told. And more, too, more about Freya herself: why was she a nanny? Why was she fluent in Spanish? What was she hiding?
For surely those clear grey eyes held some secrets.
‘And have you been a professional nanny for very long?’ he asked. ‘Did you have a position before Max?’ He supposed he should have asked for a reference before bringing her to Spain. He’d been so overwhelmed by meeting Max, by wanting to get him back to Spain—back home—that such considerations had completely slipped his mind. Still, he trusted Freya at least to care for Max. Beyond that…