Millionaires: Rafaello's Mistress / Damiano's Return / Contract Baby. LYNNE GRAHAM

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СКАЧАТЬ that shout, she tensed and saw Rafaello running through the surf towards the rocks. His pale shirt and trousers glimmered in the moonlight. Evidently he had come out in as much of a hurry as she had, for he was barefoot. The wind whipped his shirt back from his bronzed, muscular chest.

      ‘Glory!’ He sounded frantic and she felt childish hiding from him.

      Slowly and stiffly, because her chilled limbs were numb, she emerged from her shelter. For a split-second, Rafaello stilled when he saw her and then he powered over to her at even greater speed. He caught her to him. ‘When I couldn’t find you I thought you had drowned,’ he launched down at her in raw condemnation. ‘Don’t you ever do this to me again!’

      Glory looked up at him in astonishment. Drowned? His lean, strong hands were biting into her slight shoulders. That he had been genuinely scared that something might have happened to her was etched into the fierce lines of his hard-boned features and the intensity with which he was staring down at her. ‘Oh, you’d have managed to come to terms with me drowning,’ Glory heard herself say none the less. ‘After all, if I was pregnant my death would be a very cost-effective solution.’

      ‘Per amor di Dio … how can you even say such a thing?’ Rafaello dealt her a hard look of censure, dark, deep-set eyes scanning her with angry disbelief. ‘What sort of a bastard do you think I am?’

      ‘You said it,’ Glory told him unsteadily, and she shivered.

      ‘You’re cold as ice … and you’re wet.’ Rafaello banded a strong arm to her spine and urged her back along the beach. ‘The sirocco wind can kick up a storm in the space of minutes. If you had stumbled into the water at this end of the strand there’s a steep drop just feet out. You can’t swim. Naturally, I was worried.’

      Unmoved, cold and weary, Glory said nothing. Typical that he should assume she was too stupid to stay out of a roaring sea, she thought grimly. At the foot of the sloping path he bent and scooped her up into his arms. ‘You’re exhausted,’ he grated. ‘Once you’ve had a hot bath and something to eat, you’ll feel better.’

      ‘Not as long as you’re around,’ Glory breathed.

      His arms tightened round her. ‘You’re unhurt. That’s all that matters—’

      He contrived to carry her all the way back into the villa and right up the stairs with only the most minor irregularity in breathing. In the mood she was in, she would have preferred it if he had been winded and forced to abandon the macho stance and put her down. As it was, he deposited her on the chaise longue in the bathroom and proceeded to run water into the jacuzzi.

      ‘Get in, cara …’ Rafaello prompted when the bath was ready for her. Barefoot, his trousers drenched to the knees, his black hair tousled by the wind and his aggressive jawline darkened by a blue-black shadow of stubble, he was a far cry from his usual elegance.

      She was ashamed that he still seemed wildly attractive to her. ‘Only when you get out.’

      His eyes flared gold. ‘I’m not leaving you alone. You might faint—’

      ‘You’re too used to little, fragile women who get off on big, strong men looking after them. I don’t. It’s your fault I went out in a storm to get away from you!’

      Without further argument, Rafaello just picked her up and settled her into the jacuzzi. She sat in the water still wearing his shirt and stared down into the bubbles sent up by the jets. Her strained eyes were suddenly prickling with tears.

      ‘If I’ve got you pregnant I’ll marry you,’ Rafaello asserted harshly.

      Glory was stunned. She could feel her heart racing but almost as quickly it slowed and sank again. He wasn’t serious, he could not be serious. Rafaello Grazzini marry the gardener’s daughter just because he had got her in the family way? He sounded like a male being roasted on a fire to breaking point, and his tone spoke volumes for his true feelings. It was a reluctant proposal, powered by guilt. In terms of class, she was hardly his equal. He had to be cringing at the mere thought of having to take a wife from a background as humble as hers was. ‘You can forget that option. I would never be that desperate,’ Glory responded flatly, striving to sound wholly unimpressed by an offer that had momentarily made her foolish heart leap with joy. She played fair. He didn’t love her. She knew better than to snatch at an impulsive proposal made for all the wrong reasons.

      ‘I made the mistake. I take full responsibility for it. I’m sorry,’ Rafaello ground out half under his breath.

      ‘Sorry enough to let me go home tomorrow?’ Glory whispered tightly, not looking at him, sick with disappointment that his last words should have totally confirmed what had prompted that surprising offer of a wedding ring.

      The silence simmered.

      ‘No … not that sorry,’ Rafaello qualified in the most ludicrous tone of apology.

      She hunched her shoulders. ‘What are you getting out of this?’

      ‘You.’

      She rested back against the padded pillow surround and let the water jets buffet her weary body with warmth and relaxation. She had never felt so tired in her life. When she surfaced from her inexorable drift into sleep she was out of the bath, propped up against Rafaello, and he was stripping off the wet shirt. Before she could object he had folded her into a giant, soft towel.

      ‘You can’t see it now but we’re going to be great together, bella mia,’ Rafaello told her with stubborn conviction. ‘When you wake up tomorrow the sun will be shining and you’ll feel different.’

      Unresponsive in her exhaustion, Glory sank into the wonderful comfort of the bed.

      ‘You need to eat,’ Rafaello told her.

      ‘I couldn’t.’ She did not think she had the strength to lift a knife and fork. Her drowsy gaze flickered over the exquisite miniature portraits set into the headboard of the bed. ‘Who are they?’

      ‘Saints. Those are icons.’

      Glory dealt him a shaken look. ‘What are you doing with a bed with saints watching over it?’

      ‘It’s a Corfiot marriage bed. It belonged to my mother’s family.’

      Glory had forgotten that his late mother had been an Italian raised in Corfu. ‘A marriage bed?’ So dismayed was she by the thought of how inappropriate that choice of venue had been for an unwed couple that her superstitious nature came to the fore. ‘We should never have been in it!’

      ‘It’s just a bed, Glory.’ Viewing her with wondering dark eyes, Rafaello slowly shook his head at that comment.

      Throwing him an exasperated glance that implied that he was downright stupid not to appreciate the natural order of things, Glory closed her eyes and went to sleep, but not before she had said her prayers.

      Just as Rafaello had promised, Glory woke to sunshine. She was alone in the bed and there was no telling dent in the pillow beside her own. She headed straight into the shower to wash out the sand still clinging to her hair. Wrapped in a towel, she emerged again to find that a maid was unpacking her case. Choosing a blue skirt and a white sun-top, she went back into the bathroom to get dressed.

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