Cinderella's Scandalous Secret

Isla had been different. She had made it virtually impossible for him to be satisfied by anyone else. He had enjoyed their heated debates, enjoyed how all their fights were settled between the sheets. He’d enjoyed goading her to get a rise out of her just so he could have her quaking and shuddering in his arms.

She looked the same but different somehow. Her figure was still slim but some of her curves had ripened, making him ache to touch her, to feel her, to smell and taste her. Her breasts were a little fuller. Dio. He had to stop thinking about her gorgeous breasts. How soft they felt in his hands, under his lips and tongue. How it felt to have her moving, thrashing beneath him as he took her screaming all the way to paradise.

The new energy that surrounded her now intrigued him. Her gaze blazing with defiance one minute and skittering away from his the next. Her skin paling and then flushing, her body turned away when before it had always turned towards him like a compass point finding true north.

Isla’s rejection was like a scabbed-over sore. Seeing her again had ripped off the scab and left the wound smarting, stinging, festering. He had to expunge her from his system so he could finally move forward. One drink with her and he would walk away without a backward glance. He owed it to himself to leave what they’d shared in the past where it belonged.

It was over and the sooner he accepted it the better.

CHAPTER TWO (#u091f068f-1610-5288-ab9e-bd1d81d7d473)

ISLA CHANGED OUT of her work uniform and back into her street clothes. Gone were the designer threads Rafe had bought her. She had left everything behind, wanting no reminders of their fling—other than the one she carried within her body. These days she wore practical and cheap off-the-peg casual outfits.

She stepped into her black leggings and pulled on her long-sleeved jersey top, but rather than disguise her shape, her clothes drew attention to it. She stroked her hand over the bulge of her belly. Surely the baby hadn’t grown in the last few minutes? She pulled the garment away from her abdomen but as soon as she let it go it lovingly draped across her body as if to say, Look at my baby bump!

Isla picked up her jacket even though it was a little warm to wear it inside. She fed her arms through the sleeves and tied the waist ties around her middle. She glanced at herself again in the changing room mirror, doing her best to ignore the niggling of her conscience over the lengths she was going to in order to keep her pregnancy concealed from Rafe.

She took out her small make-up kit from her tote bag and did what she could to freshen up her features. Concealer—her new best friend—was first, followed by a tinted moisturiser and some strategically placed eyeshadow to bring out the blue in her eyes. She followed that up with bronzer, highlighter, lip-gloss and a decent coat of mascara, a part of her wondering why she was going to so much trouble. But, in a way, make-up was another form of armour and, God knew, she needed a heck of a lot of armour around Rafe Angeliri.

Isla released the ties of her jacket and skimmed her hand over her belly again. Was it her imagination or was her baby more active than usual? She was so used to calling it her baby but it was Rafe’s baby too. The prod from her conscience was like the stab of a dart to the heart. Rafe’s baby. Of course, he had a right to know. Hadn’t she always believed that to be the case? His New York deal was finalised now, so why shouldn’t she tell him about the baby? There was a risk he might reject the child, but she wouldn’t insist on his involvement if he didn’t wish it.

The thought of her baby being rejected by Rafe made her heart tighten. The last thing she wanted for her child was a reluctant father. Isla had experienced one of those and look how that had turned out. Rejection. It might as well have been her middle name instead of Rebecca. Years and years in and out of foster homes, never belonging to anyone, never being chosen for an open adoption. Never feeling loved.

No. Her baby deserved better and she would do everything in her power to give her child the best upbringing she could, with or without Rafe’s support.

Isla drew in a shuddering breath and retied her jacket around her waist. She would look for an opportunity to tell him during their catch-up drink rather than dump it on him straight away. She knew that much about him—he didn’t like surprises.

The hotel bar was downstairs on a mezzanine level and Isla walked in with a tight band of tension around her head and her stomach like a nest of agitated ants. Rafe was seated in a quiet corner on one of two burgundy-coloured leather chesterfield tub chairs and, as if he sensed the precise moment she arrived, he looked up from his phone and locked gazes with her. A zap of awareness shot through her body. They might as well have been the only people in the bar—the only people on the planet. The only people in the universe. She couldn’t look away if she tried. Her gaze was tethered by his, her body under his command as if he had programmed her to his particular coordinates.

He was still wearing the dark blue business suit and white shirt but he had since put on a silver and black striped tie. That small gesture had a strange effect on her, momentarily ambushing her feelings. Feminist she might be, but she had always admired his attention to the old-fashioned manners of dating. During their fling, she hadn’t opened a single car door for herself. He had always walked on the road side of the footpath...he had never sat down before she was seated. It was so starkly different from the way other men in her past life had treated her and she had lapped it up, enjoying every moment of feeling like someone of value.

Rafe rose from the chair as she approached, his gaze sweeping over her in an assessing manner. ‘You look very beautiful but I quite liked you in that sexy housemaid outfit.’ His voice had a rough edge and his rich Italian accent seemed even more pronounced.

Isla had always been a sucker for his accent. She had worked on her regional Scottish accent for years, doing all she could to rid herself of any trace of her chaotic and underprivileged childhood. These days, no one would ever guess she hadn’t been educated at an exclusive fee-paying Edinburgh school and that was the way she wanted it.

Isla gave him a stiff-lipped, no-teeth smile and, finally tearing her gaze away, sat in the chair beside his, placing her tote bag on the floor next to her chair. ‘I hope there isn’t a policy about hotel cleaning staff fraternising with guests but here goes.’

‘If there is any issue I will deal with it,’ Rafe said and then frowned. ‘Don’t you want to take off your coat? It’s warm in here.’

‘No. Not yet.’ Isla couldn’t meet his gaze and picked up the cocktails menu and pretended an avid interest in the selection.

‘What would you like to drink?’ Rafe signalled the drinks waiter.

‘Something soft—lemonade.’

His ink-black eyebrows rose. ‘What about some champagne? Or a cocktail? You used to love—’

‘You know that saying: when life hands you lemons?’ Isla sent him a wry look and leaned forward to place the cocktail menu back on the table between them. ‘Suffice it to say, I’ve developed quite a taste for lemonade.’

Rafe gave the order for drinks to the waiter, who had just then approached, and once the young man had left Rafe turned back to study Isla’s expression for a long moment. ‘You don’t seem yourself. Does my company distress you that much?’

Isla could feel the heat crawling into her cheeks and right now the last thing she needed was more warmth on her person. Her jacket was making her feel as if she were sitting in a sauna. ‘It was quite a shock running into you like that while I was doing your room. I...I haven’t quite recovered.’ She was pleased with her response. It sounded reasonable and it was more or less the truth. She would probably never recover.

‘Yes, indeed it was.’

The silence contained an undertow of tension that tugged at Isla’s already fraught nerves.

The waiter came over with their drinks, setting them down in front of them and discreetly melting away.

Rafe watched Isla take a generous sip of her lemonade with a slight frown between his eyes as if he couldn’t quite understand why she wasn’t sipping a Bellini instead. The lemonade was cold and sweet but it did nothing to reduce the tide of colour she could feel in her cheeks. Beads of perspiration formed under her hairline and between her shoulder blades but the thought of removing her jacket and letting her body deliver the message for her was suddenly too daunting.

Isla put her glass back on the table and forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘You’re not happy.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Isla pushed a strand of sticky hair back off her face, uncomfortable with his probing scrutiny. Uncomfortable that he could see things she had fought so hard to conceal. ‘I hardly see why that is any business of yours.’

‘I could have made you happy, cara.’ The pitch of his voice lowered to a low growl of bitterness.

She crossed one leg over the other and moved her top foot up and down in jerky movements. ‘How? By dressing me up like some sort of doll? A toy you played with only when the fancy took you. No thanks.’

A brooding frown entered his gaze. ‘I told you how important that deal was to me. Bruno Romano was a nightmare to negotiate a coffee date with, let alone a hotel chain that size. I’m sorry if you read that as neglect.’

Isla picked up her glass of lemonade again, the ice cubes rattling against the glass betraying her nervousness in Rafe’s presence. She had to find a way to tell him about the baby, but how? Meeting him like this was crazy, but hadn’t she always been a little crazy where he was concerned? Her feelings for him were so confusing. There were times when she didn’t even like him and yet her body adored him. Her body craved him like a powerful drug. Damn it, her body even recognised him. She could feel the tingles and fizzes moving through her flesh just by sitting within reach of him, every cell of her body vibrating.

She took another sip of her lemonade. ‘So, why are you interested in this hotel? I didn’t realise Scotland was on your radar.’

‘It wasn’t until I met you. You awakened my interest.’ Rafe lifted his small dram of whisky to his mouth and took a measured sip, savouring the taste for a moment before he swallowed. Isla couldn’t tear her gaze away from the up and down movement of his tanned throat, her eyes drifting to the dark stubble around his mouth and jaw. She tightened her hand around her glass, remembering how it felt to run her fingertips over that sexy regrowth, remembering the way it felt grazing against the soft skin of her breasts. On her inner thighs...

She glanced at him again with her making-polite-conversation expression in place. ‘So, are you going to buy it?’

He cradled the whisky glass in two hands, his long strong fingers overlapping. That was another thing she remembered—how those clever fingers could wreak such havoc on her senses when they got down to business on her body. His gaze tethered hers in a lock that made her inner core contract like the tightening of a small fist. ‘I like what I’ve seen so far.’ Somehow, she didn’t think he was still talking about the hotel.

Isla released a shuddery breath and took another sip of her lemonade, acutely conscious of his probing gaze. She was too warm from still wearing her jacket, or maybe it was being within touching distance of the man who had scorched every inch of her body with his touch.

Rafe leaned forward and put his whisky glass on the small table between their chairs and then sat back, his hands resting on his thighs. ‘Tell me why you quit your Fine Arts degree.’

Isla shrugged one shoulder and rolled one of her ankles to burn off restless energy. You should have told him by now. Her conscience was jabbing at her but she couldn’t work up the courage. ‘I lost interest after I came back to the UK. I’d already missed half of one semester by staying in Italy with you. I only planned on going for a two-week sketching holiday if you remember.’

‘But you could have made it up, surely?’

‘I couldn’t be bothered.’ She looked into the contents of her glass rather than hold his gaze. ‘It was a pipe dream to think I could make a career out of painting portraits. I decided it wasn’t worth the effort of trying.’

His frown deepened. ‘But surely cleaning hotel rooms isn’t going to satisfy you long-term?’

Pride stiffened Isla’s shoulders and sharpened her gaze. ‘Careful, Rafe. Your privileged upbringing is showing. Anyway, my friend Layla has made a career out of it—or is starting to.’

‘But you’re an artist, not a businesswoman.’