The Italian's Pregnant Prisoner

She blushed, her skin heating all over. “Well, I would assume that it’s frowned upon. Of course, it is nothing my father ever thought to forbid me expressly from. I suppose I’m meant to take it as read.”

Rafe smiled, and she felt the impact of it all the way down to her toes. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. That had been her very first thought about seeing him when he’d come to work for her father two years earlier.

She wasn’t entirely sure of the circumstances, only that he was an apprentice of sorts, which made her stomach tremble in a not-too-pleasant way. Because while the circumstances of her father’s business were kept largely secret to her, she wasn’t stupid. Yes, she lived a secluded life at his villa in Italy, transplanted from their native United States when Charlotte had been just a child, but in that seclusion she had taken the opportunity to learn how to gain information by quiet observation.

Charlotte had become part of the wallpaper in the villa many years ago, and as a result she was often underestimated. She liked it that way.

Being invisible.

But then Rafe had appeared, and he had not allowed her to remain invisible. He had seen her. From the first. She had been sixteen the first time she’d laid eyes on him, when she had been certain that her heart was going to claw its way up her throat and out of her mouth. Not just because he was beautiful—though, he was certainly beautiful. In his early twenties at the time, with broad shoulders, a jaw so square she thought she might cut her finger on it, and dark, fathomless eyes that she wanted desperately to get lost in.

He was a tall man, well over six feet, and she had the feeling that if she were to walk up to him and stand just in front of him that she would only come up to the middle of his chest. Which, she could not help but think, would be solid, strong, perfect to rest against.

Yes, her obsession had begun that first moment, and it had not abated. Apparently, it had been the same for him. He had tried to warn her away from him. But she’d persisted. She’d made a fool of herself, following him around. But it had worked. Eventually, he had stopped telling her to go away. Eventually, they had begun to form a friendship.

Except, she supposed friends didn’t have to sneak around. Friends did not have to wait until the house was dark, and everyone was safely asleep to meet out in the stables, or to catch a moment with one another in the brilliant light of day out in one of the fields well away from the house.

It was chaste. Always.

Until one afternoon when they’d been in the corner of the barn, and he had told her it was time for him to go back to his post—whatever that meant—and she’d been filled with a strange kind of desperation that she could not fathom or fight.

She had reached up, touched his face with her fingertips. And then she’d had his iron grip wrapped around her wrist, his dark eyes burning hotter than she had ever seen them before.

Before she could protest—before she could question anything—his mouth had been on hers. Claiming. Marking her as his own.

She had never been kissed before that moment. Hadn’t even thought much about it. But kissing Rafe was like touching the surface of the sun. She could hardly bear it.

It was too hot. Too bright. Too much.

And far too brief.

But that night, he had climbed the trellis and come into her room. Her tower bedroom, high above the rest of the house, separated from everyone, as she always was. No one came into her bedroom.

But he had. And he had treated her to another kiss. Then another.

He had come to her room every night for the past two weeks. Their kisses had gotten longer, deeper. They’d begun shedding clothes. Lying on the bed together. Trading intimacies she would have found shocking before him. Would have found shocking if it were with anyone but him.

With Rafe, all these things felt right. She’d been asking him for more. Asking him to take her virginity. But so far he’d kept it to pleasuring her, and never taking things to their ultimate conclusion.

She had been okay to wait. But tonight she felt urgency. Tonight, there was a rock in her stomach, and she knew that she had to tell him about the conversation she’d had with her stepmother earlier that day.

Her father didn’t often speak to her, if he did at all. Most of the relevant information was conveyed through Josefina, her stepmother, who was the most hardened, suspicious person Charlotte had ever known.

And given Charlotte lived in a compound with criminals, that was quite a feat.

Earlier today she had informed Charlotte that her father’s ultimate purpose for her was about to be fulfilled. He had found another kingpin in a corner of Italy Charlotte had never been to who was looking for a wife. And it was an alliance her father wanted to cement with his own bloodline. A dynastic union. The one use he could think of for a daughter he had never wanted.

Josefina seemed nothing but happy to be rid of the stepdaughter she had always seemed jealous of. A jealousy Charlotte could not understand, given she was a glorified prisoner in her father’s home. But Josefina had once been a poor girl from the village her father’s estate was built near, and she had clawed her way from poverty to being Michael Adair’s mistress, then ultimately his wife. She wasn’t quiet about that achievement, and it was Charlotte’s belief that her stepmother was secretly afraid she might someday lose her elevated position, which made her a bit vicious.

She had certainly seemed vicious when telling Charlotte of her upcoming marital fate.

Dimly, Charlotte had always thought that her life might come to this. Because her father was nothing if not a medieval lord, the master of his keep and all who depended on him for anything. And of course it was not outside the realm of imagination that he would try to cement his power in the criminal world through marriages. Like a dark king, trading family members to prevent wars. Or to start them. Depending on the present circumstance.

But even though part of her had always known it was a possibility, she had done her very best not to think of it. And now, there was Rafe.

Rafe, who made love and sex something that wasn’t theoretical. Rather, something that she wanted. Something that she craved. Not in a general sense. She wanted it with him.

The idea of sharing her body with someone else... It could not be endured. Her need for Rafe, for his touch, his kiss, for everything... It was so intimate. It went deeper than the electric need that sparked over her skin.

It was heart. He was her heart.

“Yes,” he said, “I suppose that is the letter of the law, if not the spirit of it.” His dark eyes turned intense, a black flame that burned through her. “I would like you to break some rules for me. I know your hair is considered quite the asset. You’re not allowed to cut it—is that true?”

Charlotte touched her heavy bun. “Not entirely. I get the ends trimmed. But yes. My father considers my hair to be part of my beauty.” And the importance of her beauty had become shockingly clear with her marriage deal being brokered.

“Creepy.”

She forced out a laugh. “You work for him. And here you are.”

“I only work for him until my debt is repaid. I have no loyalty to your father. On that you can trust me.”

It was the first time Rafe had said anything like this to her. “I didn’t...I didn’t realize.”

“I am forbidden from speaking of it. But then, I am certain that I am also forbidden from being in here. And I’m also forbidden from touching you like this.” He put his hand on her cheek, and then he kissed her. “Let down your hair,” he whispered against her lips.

This time, she obeyed. For him. Only for him...

* * *

Charlotte was dragged back to the present, and her heart was beating out of control, as it had been in the memory. It had only been a couple of weeks after that when everything had fallen apart. When she had been left devastated, wounded beyond the healing of that devastation.

When Josefina had told her that Rafe had gone, that he didn’t want her. And that she had no choice but to go and marry Stefan. Charlotte had protested. So much so, that she had found herself locked up. So much so that she had seen the true nature of her father. He did not love her. Not at all. He would kill her if she didn’t marry the man of his choosing; that was what he’d told her. And Charlotte had been ready to believe it.

She had also not been ready to accept her fate. Because if there was one thing that being with Rafe had taught her, it was that there was more to life than the villa. More to life than her tower bedroom. More to intimacy with a man than a simple transaction.

And she had wanted those things. All of them.

So when her father had paid his men to transport her across the country and they had stopped at a petrol station in the middle of nowhere she had taken her chance.

She’d slipped from her restraints and fled, running deep into the woods, certain they wouldn’t follow her there. Somehow, she was right. They had searched for her along the highways, perhaps checking in with passing motorists and various business owners.

They certainly hadn’t expected her—cosseted princess of the Adair family empire—to take her chances with the wolves and foxes out in the thick forest.

But she had.

Ultimately, had found a certain measure of safety living in rural Germany, moving from cottage to cottage, never settling in one place too long, taking simple positions at shops and farms over the years.

It had been a lonely existence, but in many ways freeing.