Chapter Nine
Rafael
It’s Christmas Day and I’m standing in the kitchen putting the last touches on the omelette I’ve made for Olympia’s breakfast. Full of cheese and ham and peppers, good protein for her and the baby.
There’s orange juice and fresh brioche too.
I didn’t sleep much last night, so I got up at dawn to cook.
My mother was of the opinion that all grown men should know how to feed themselves, so she taught me how.
I don’t do it at lot since these days I’m often travelling, but when I have the time to cook, it always calms me.
Olympia will be hungry when she wakes since she refused dinner last night. After our argument, when she demanded to know where she’d be sleeping, I took her upstairs to my bedroom, whereupon she promptly closed the door on me then locked it.
I’d stood there a couple of moments, debating whether kicking down the door in a fury was reasonable or whether it was better to walk away, because, after all, what did I expect? After I’d told her she was merely a means to an end? She was angry and she had a right to be.
In the end, good sense prevailed and I walked away. Later, after putting the meal my housekeeper had left for me into the oven to warm up, I went back upstairs and knocked on the door to tell her that she needed to eat. But she didn’t respond other than to tell me in no uncertain terms to go away.
Sleeping alone in one of the guest rooms was not how I’d envisaged my first Christmas Eve with her, but I certainly wasn’t going to force myself on her. That wouldn’t advance my cause, especially when she’d made it very clear she wasn’t going to marry me.
I shouldn’t have told her the truth about my revenge plans last night, but she’d pushed me and I’d lost patience.
She’d already made it clear that marrying me willingly wasn’t on the cards, so I wasn’t going to lose anything by telling her.
Of course, now she knows my real motivations, she definitely won’t marry me—she’ll want to protect her brother—but I’m sure I can convince her otherwise. I just need to think about how.
Telling her she was just a means to an end didn’t help.
No and that was another thing I shouldn’t have said.
But I’d had to say it. I’d had to be clear about my intentions and about what she was to me, because while there’s attraction between us, there can’t be anything more and I won’t pretend that there could be.
I have never wanted a relationship, not when I have to give all my attention to my company and my revenge plans.
Besides, love makes everything far more complicated than it needs to be and my life is much simpler without it.
I go over other options in my head as I arrange her breakfast on a tray. I could give her money to marry me and promise her a life of luxury but, with her brother being as rich as Midas, I have a feeling that won’t move her.
The other, more logical option is use to the physical attraction between us. It’s still burning as bright and hot as it did that night in Singapore, and she wasn’t proof against it last night. She came apart so beautifully in my arms, clinging to the lapels of my coat as if clinging to life itself.
Using sex would certainly be a much more pleasurable way to convince her than anything else, and one I’d very much enjoy myself.
I pick the tray full of breakfast up and leave the kitchen, making my way upstairs to the upper hallway. The door to my bedroom is still firmly closed. Since I’m holding the tray, I kick the door with my foot. ‘Wake up, dragonfly,’ I call. ‘I have your breakfast here and you need to eat.’
There is a silence and I wonder if she’s still asleep.
Then I wonder if she’s all right, that perhaps something has happened to her in the night, something to do with the baby.
I kick the door again, harder this time.
‘Olympia,’ I say, trying to keep the concern from my voice.
‘Talk to me. Let me know you’re okay at least.’
Again, there’s silence and I’m just about to put down the tray and kick the door in when there’s a fumbling on the other side and the sound of a lock being turned. Then the door opens a crack and she’s standing there, glaring angrily at me.
I can’t deny the relief that fills me at the sight.
Her long black hair is tousled from sleep and she’s still wearing her stretchy black dress.
It’s looking a little creased and I wonder if she’s slept in it, not that it detracts from her inherent sex appeal.
Just looking at her I can feel my body respond with predictable speed.
‘What do you want?’ she demands. ‘I haven’t changed my mind if that’s what you think.’
‘I don’t think that,’ I say mildly, since arguing with her will likely result in the door of my own bedroom slamming shut in my face again. ‘I’m only here to bring you breakfast and, since you missed dinner last night, you’re going to need it. Or at least, the baby will.’
Her gaze drops to the tray and, on cue, her stomach growls.
‘Come, dragonfly,’ I say. ‘Let me bring this in.’
Still glaring, she lets out a long breath then finally steps away from the door, allowing me inside.
My big four-poster bed is against one wall, opposite the windows, and I glance at it to see if the sheets are disturbed.
They are, which is good. It means she slept in it and since my bed is extremely comfortable, she’ll have had a good sleep.
I move over to it and set the tray down on the bed. She has gone to stand by one of the windows that looks out over the cliff to the sea. Her back is rigid, her arms folded, every inch of her furious negation.
‘You can call your brother this morning,’ I tell her, searching for something that will mollify her enough to come over to the bed and eat.
‘Merry Christmas to you too,’ she says tartly.
I don’t need the reminder. I know exactly what day it is. I even have the tree downstairs, hung with the decorations my mother would take out of storage every year. I’d help her put them on the tree and then, afterwards, I’d sit beneath it reading, while she made me hot chocolate.
My mother has gone now and my father along with her, but I still decorate the tree every year with our family’s decorations, even if I no longer sit beneath it drinking hot chocolate.
‘Merry Christmas,’ I offer stiffly. ‘Come and eat.’
She turns slowly from the window and studies me, then glances at the tray again. ‘You can go now. I’d rather you didn’t stay to watch me eat.’
‘Too bad. I need to see you actually eat the food.’
Temper flashes in her eyes. ‘I’m not a child, Rafael.’
‘Then stop acting like one.’
Her mouth hardens, and no matter that her hair is all over the place, her dress is creased, and she’s scowling at me as if I’m the devil himself, she’s still the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
‘I’m not going to give in, you know,’ she says as she crosses over to the bed.
‘No matter how many omelettes you make me.’ She peers at the tray, then sits down on the edge of the bed and picks up the brioche.
It’s fresh and still warm and I can see the flicker of pleasure cross her face as she daintily pulls it apart and puts a bit in her mouth.
So, she’s already guessed that I have ulterior motives in making her breakfast, and she’s not wrong about them. I do have ulterior motives. But she’s wrong in that it isn’t food I’ve decided to use in order to get what I want from her.
Though maybe, given how much of a turn-on it is to watch her pull apart the brioche and put it between her red lips, I could combine the two.
Sex and food would certainly be interesting.
But I have to be careful how I do it. Patience is not my strong suit, but I can be patient when the situation calls for it.
I need to make her desperate for me, desperate enough to agree to anything I ask and not think of the consequences.
‘Agree to marry me and I’ll let you speak to your brother,’ I say, testing the ground a little as I come over to where she’s sitting.
She glances up at me, popping another piece of brioche into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. ‘Oh, you’ll let me, will you? Hmmm.’ She pulls off another piece and eats it, still looking at me. ‘Okay. Fine. I’ll do it.’
A ripple of shock goes through me. Given how she held her ground last night, I wasn’t expecting her to give in so quickly or so easily. I eye her with some scepticism. ‘You’ll marry me, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yes.’ She wipes her hands very ostentatiously down her dress then gestures imperiously at me. ‘Come on. Give me the phone.’
I’m doubtful that she meant what she said, but still, I promised her, so I pull my phone from my pocket, unlock it and hand it to her.
‘Not much of a kidnapper, are you?’ she says as she takes the phone from me and begins typing in her brother’s number. ‘I don’t have anything to wear. The least you could have done is get me a change of clothes.’
‘Give me some credit,’ I say coolly. ‘I’ve ordered you a whole wardrobe. It’ll arrive the day after tomorrow.’
I’m satisfied when I see surprise flicker across her face as she raises the phone to her ear, then she blinks. ‘Don’t get angry, Ulysses,’ she says, sounding calm. ‘There’s a few things I need to say to you.’
If I was a decent man, I’d give her some privacy, but I’m not a decent man. I want to be in the room when she tells him where she is and why.
It’s pleasing to me that he’s angry, because that’s what I’d hoped. I want him angry. I want him afraid. I want him desperate to have his sister back, and then to deny him.
‘Listen to me,’ she continues. ‘I have something to tell you.’
I fold my arms, continuing to stare down at her, watching her face for what, I don’t know.
‘I…can’t spend Christmas with you,’ she says and, though she sounds calm, there’s a slight catch in her voice.