Chapter Three #3
And Francine Holloway had been exactly what they’d expected.
Beautiful, if fragile and fine featured, with masses of white-blond hair and sky-blue eyes.
She’d trembled like a high-strung Thoroughbred and spoken in the kind of soft, high-pitched voice that made a certain sort of man lean in closer.
Rafael’s father was precisely that type.
He’d loved nothing more than wading in and solving the problems of broken, pretty things like Francine—a preference that dated back to Rafael’s mother, who had spent many years, before and after the divorce, institutionalized in a high-end facility in Switzerland.
Rafael had expected the teenaged daughter to be much the same as the mother, especially with such a wispy, feminine name.
But this Lily was fierce. Laughably so, he’d thought, as she’d sat stiffly on an overwrought settee in the formal sitting room at the chateau and scowled through the introductions.
“You do not appear to hold our parents’ mutual happiness foremost in your heart,” he’d teased her after an endless dinner during which his father had delivered the sort of speeches that might have been moving had Francine not been the old man’s fourth wife, and had Rafael not heard them all before.
“I don’t care about our parents’ happiness at all,” she’d retorted, without looking at him.
That had been different. Most girls her age took one look at him and melted into shallow little puddles at his feet.
That hadn’t been arrogance on his part. It had been pure, glorious fact—though he’d been, by his own estimation, far too worldly and sophisticated to sample the charms of such young, silly creatures.
This one, apparently immune, had sniffed, her gaze trained somewhere far off in the distance through the great windows.
“Which is about how much they care about ours, I imagine.”
“I’m sure they care,” Rafael had said, thinking he might soothe her girlish fears with the wisdom of his years. “You have to give them a chance to get over how perfect they imagine they are for each other so they can pay attention to their lives again.”
But Lily had turned to face him, that heart-shaped face of hers still faintly rounded with youth, those impossible eyes scornful.
She’d been dressed in a perfectly appropriate sundress that showed nothing untoward at all and yet there had been something about the way she’d worn the masses of her strawberry blond hair tumbling in every direction, or the fact that her shoulders were far too smooth, that had made Rafael wonder what it would be like to touch her—
He’d been horrified.
“I don’t need a big brother,” she’d told him baldly, compounding his shock at the direction of his own thoughts. “I don’t want the unsolicited advice, especially from someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“Someone who dates people purely to end up on tabloid television shows, which I’m sure keeps you super relevant in the world of the vapid and the rich.
Congrats. And I don’t need you to fill me in on my mother’s ridiculous patterns.
I know them all too well, thank you. Your father is the latest in a long line of white knights who never quite manage to save her. It won’t last.”
She’d turned back to the view, her manner clearly dismissive, but Rafael had not been accustomed to being dismissed. Especially not by teenage girls who were usually much more apt to follow him around and giggle. He hadn’t been able to imagine Lily Holloway doing anything of the sort.
“Ah,” he’d said, “but I think you’ll find it will last.”
She’d heaved a sigh but hadn’t looked at him again. “My mother’s relationships have the shelf life of organic produce. Just FYI.”
“But my father is a Castelli.” He’d only shrugged when she’d looked back at him then, her nose wrinkled as if he was more than a little distasteful. “We always get what we want, Lily. Always.”
Sitting in the back of his car as it turned from the main country road and headed down a smaller, private lane lit with quiet lights shaped like lanterns, Rafael still didn’t know why he’d said that.
Had he known then? Had he suspected what was to come?
Lily had hated him openly and happily for three more years, which had distinguished her from pretty much every other woman on the planet.
She’d insulted him, laughed at him, mocked him and dismissed him a thousand times.
He’d told himself she was obnoxious. He’d told himself she was jealous.
“She is unbearable,” he’d growled at Luca once, when Lily had spent an evening singing pointed old songs at him and his date.
“But your date really is acting her shoe size instead of her age,” his brother had replied, with a lazy grin. “Lily’s not wrong.”
And then had come that fateful New Year’s Eve party at the chateau in Sonoma.
Rafael had perhaps had too much of the Castelli champagne.
He’d long told himself he was simply drunk and she must have been, too, but he’d had five long years thinking she was dead and gone to admit to himself that he hadn’t been anything like drunk.
He’d known exactly what he’d been doing when she’d sauntered past him in the upstairs hall of the family wing, in what he’d openly called “hooker shoes” earlier and a dress he’d thought trashily short.
Her hair had been tumbling down the way it always had back then, sliding this way and that.
The scent of her, a sugared heat, had been maddening.
“If you’re looking for Calliope,” she’d said, and had managed to make his then girlfriend’s ridiculous name sound like an insult, “she’s probably in the nursery with the other children. Your father hired a babysitting service.” She’d smirked at him. “He was obviously expecting you.”
Rafael had known that the last thing in the world he should have done was reach over, slide his palm around her neck and yank that smart mouth to his.
Of course he’d known. He’d imagined he would kiss her, she would punch him and he would laugh at her and tell her that if she wasn’t angling to take Calliope’s place, she should keep quiet.
But one touch of her mouth with his, and everything had changed.
Everything.
And you ruined it, he told himself savagely then, as an old farmhouse came into view at the end of the lane. Because that is what you do.
The car pulled up in front of the bright old house and was promptly surrounded by a pack of baying dogs. Rafael climbed out of the car as a silver-haired woman charged out of the house and straight toward them in some misguided attempt to corral her charges.
But despite the barking and howling and general din, Rafael knew it the moment Lily appeared on the step behind the older woman, as if everything else fell quiet.
He drank her in. Again. She was no longer wearing her coat and scarf, and he couldn’t keep himself from tracing the fine, elegant lines of that willowy body of hers.
Her jeans were snug, making his mouth water, and the long-sleeved shirt she wore hugged her breasts and made him realize how hard and hungry he was for her—even in this sea of animals.
And even if she looked horrified to see him.
“This is stalking!” she threw at him from her place on the steps. “You can’t hunt me down at my home. You don’t have any right!”
Before Rafael could reply, a streaking shape shoved past her and would have hurtled itself down the steps and into the chaos had Lily not reached out and grabbed it.
Not an it. A boy. A small one.
“I told you to stay inside no matter what,” Lily told him sharply.
“Arlo is barely five,” the older woman said from somewhere off to the side where, Rafael was dimly aware, she’d managed to move all the dogs into a fenced-off pen. But he couldn’t look away from Lily. And the boy. “He doesn’t get ‘no matter what.’”
The little boy looked at the older woman, then angled his head back to look up at Lily, who still held him by the collar of his shirt.
“Sorry, Mama,” he said, angelically, and then he grinned up at her.
It was a mischievous grin. It was filled with light and laughter and the expectation that his sins would be forgiven in an instant, simply because he’d wielded it.
Rafael knew that smile well. He’d seen a version of it on his brother’s face throughout Luca’s whole life.
He’d seen it in his own mirror a thousand times more.
His heart stopped beating. Then started again with a deafening, terrible kick that should have knocked him to the ground. He couldn’t quite understand why it hadn’t.
“You don’t have the right to be here,” Lily said again, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glittering, and Rafael didn’t know how he could want her this badly. He’d never understood it. And it was back as if she’d never been gone, a yearning so deep it was like an ache inside him.
But it didn’t matter any longer. None of that mattered.
The little boy didn’t resemble the fair woman he’d called Mama at all.
He had Rafael’s dark curls and the Castelli dark eyes.
He looked like every picture Rafael had ever seen of himself as a child, scattered all over the ancestral Castelli home in northern Italy.
“Are you so certain I don’t have the right to be here, Alison?” Rafael asked, amazed he could speak when everything inside him was a shout again, long and loud and drowning out the world. “Because unless I am very much mistaken, that appears to be my son.”