Chapter Ten
R aquel was grateful when they finally stopped. Lifting her head from his shoulder, she looked around. “Where are we?” she enquired, pulling away from Alexandre on whose back she was sprawled upon.
“The marina.”
Frowning, she got off the motorbike and glanced at the gleaming yacht docked at the marina.
“Come.” He held out a hand to her and she took it after a minute’s deliberation, not missing the way his lips tightened at her reluctance to touch him.
She walked quietly behind him, aware of the tight grip of his hand around hers. Going up a plank, they boarded the gleaming vessel where, at once, he led her down into the darker, cooler interior of the yacht.
She stared—dumbstruck, at the opulence around her. Every surface was pristine white, and—gleaming, with not a speck of dust anywhere. The furniture was a mix of brown and white, the lights a lovely pearly white, with beautiful portholes providing a stunning view of the sea around them.
Alexandre gestured at a plush sofa in white, where she sat, perched gingerly on the edge.
“This is a beautiful vessel,” she whispered in awe, looking at the light fixtures on the ceiling which doused the cabin in a lovely glow.
“Thank you.”
Her eyes snapped to his. “This is yours?” Her eyes were wide saucers in her face, and her expression—a mix of surprise and awe—made his lips twitch.
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Her lips formed an O as she fell silent. Who was this man, she wondered, who rode around on what was obviously an expensive motorbike and owned a yacht? Looking back at him, she wondered if she knew anything at all about this man.
“Who made you cry?”
Her eyes slid away from his and she sat looking out of the porthole, at the beautiful sea that gleamed in the sunlight. “The stress got to me,” she replied, bleakly.
But it wasn’t just the stress that had made her cry.
Distraught by their disastrous conversation the previous night, she had stormed out of the Monteiro mansion, not caring that her behavior had shocked not only Leandro but her family, too.
Sylvia had been furious at her rude exit, while Tahlia was highly suspicious of her reaction to Alexandre, but she hadn’t been in the mood to explain her actions to anyone.
Upon reaching home, she locked herself up in her room, where she’d fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning only to be roused rudely with a loud bang on the door.
Raquel shuddered, remembering what had followed.
Sylvia’s scream of horror. Her accusations. “How could you do such a disgusting thing—sleeping with the brother of your own fiancé?” her mother had cried with disbelief.
“A reprobate,” Tahlia had added bitterly. “A shameless playboy.”
And the diatribe had continued.
“He’s a bastard,” her mother had flung viciously, “born out of a torrid affair that even his father didn’t acknowledge!”
“God knows how many women he’s slept with.” Her sister’s words had only added fuel to the fire.
But she had remained silent through it all. What should she have said? Refuted everything the paper had printed? Would that have helped?
So she walked out of her house. Sylvia was flummoxed by her lack of reaction. But Tahlia had run after her, asking her where she was going.
“I need some air,” she’d replied and walked out of her house, spending several minutes in the garden, wondering what to do next, when her mobile phone buzzed in the pocket of her dress.
It was from the school where she was a violin teacher.
The principal, Rev. Sister Marion had been curt.
“We have to let you go, Raquel.” The nun known for being blunt, didn’t hold back any punches.
“We run a girls’ school. I simply cannot have a teacher with such a questionable reputation on my staff.
I expect your resignation in a week’s time. ”
She remembered hurling her phone against a mango tree, which shattered on impact, just like her life had. With one damning newspaper article, she had not only lost her privacy, but she’d lost her job, too.
Raquel slid down to the carpeted floor, the stole slid off her head, her long hair spilling all around her like a thick curtain.
Gathering her knees to her chest, she rested her head against her knees.
Tears flowed incessantly as she rocked herself not even stopping when Alexandre fell to his knees beside her.
“Raquel.” He shook her. “Talk to me. Tell me who hurt you.”
“No one,” she denied, raising her eyes to meet his when he tipped her face up. “At least not physically.”
“I’m sorry.”
His sincere apology, calmly given, broke her heart and she flung herself into his arms, her hands clawing into his back as she held onto him, hoping—praying, that he too, wouldn’t abandon her at such a difficult time.
“Don’t cry, darling,” he whispered into her hair.
“I should have told my family... Leandro...” she confessed into his shirt, her tears soaking the cotton of his shirt, “but everything happened so fast. I... I came to you as soon as I found out about the baby... but I needed time to tell them... and now this newspaper article has ruined everything...”
Grabbing the back of her head with a hand suddenly unsteady, he pulled her head back to gaze into her eyes. “I promise to make things right, Raquel,” he assured her, his voice firm—determined, instilling in her a confidence she very much needed at that minute.
She nodded. Pulling out of his embrace, she stood up, brushing back the hair which fell over her face. “I need to return home.”
“I’ll take you myself, Raquel but we need to talk first.”
She didn’t know what Alexandre wanted to talk about. Hadn’t he spoken his mind yesterday? “Okay.” She nodded, deciding to hear him out. “May I make a call home, please?”
****
R aquel slowly became aware that the yacht was moving—the swaying motion jolting her into a sitting position. The cabin was doused in a soft yellow light which spilled from a lamp on one wall. Looking out of the portholes, she frowned, noticing that it was dark outside. Had she fallen asleep?
She remembered her phone conversation with Tahlia—it had gone horribly. Her mother refused to speak with her, and when she informed Tahlia, who reluctantly attended the house phone, that she was with Alexandre, her sister had sputtered with disbelief.
“You’re with him? After everything that’s happened you went to see him?”
“We need to speak about the baby,” she told her sister, who had made a scoffing noise, something that bothered her more than she cared to admit.
Yes, her child was a result of a one-night stand, but it didn’t deserve to be scoffed at.
“I didn’t expect this from you,” Tahlia accused her, rubbing salt into the wound. “How could you shame our family this way? Now, everyone thinks you are just as morally flawed as that... man!”
Raquel saw red at Tahlia’s comment. “You have no right to judge me or Alexandre!”
“Do you even know this man?” Her sister’s quick rebuttal had silenced her.
Wasn’t it true she knew next to nothing about Alexandre?
“He may be rich, but he has the morals of an alley cat. He goes through women like people change socks. Do you think he’s going to marry you?
If he does, will it last? How long do you think it will be before he gets tired of you? ”
“That’s enough, Lia!” she cried into the phone. “He’s the father of my child, and he deserves to be respected!”
“You know what—do what you think is right. Just don’t expect me to support you.” Tahlia’s condemnation was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Only in her case, it filled Raquel with steely determination. She wasn’t going to give into tears, she decided. She would face life head on—with or without her family’s support.
Alexandre, who had stood listening to every word she uttered, had gently removed his phone from her hands before leading her to a small table where he fed her weak tea and some toast. Then she had asked him if she could take a shower.
He brought her to his cabin, where she took a hot shower before changing into a t-shirt that was laid out for her. She remembered lying down on the bed, thinking the mattress was the softest thing she’d ever laid upon, and then—nothing.
Running a hand through her hair which was still damp from the shower, she yanked up the sheet to her waist. Alexandre had offered to launder her clothes, but she told him to toss them.
She couldn’t wear that dress again—not when it was reminiscent of the awful night she’d had at the Monteiro mansion.
The yacht jerked suddenly, and she cried out, caught by surprise, grabbing the bedpost as her stomach lurched. The ensuite bathroom door opened then, and Alexandre stepped out, his brow creasing when he found her clinging to the bedpost.
“What happened?” At once he was by her side, sitting down beside her before pulling her into his arms.
“Why are we moving?” she gasped as the yacht swayed.
“I thought it was better to move away from the shore.”
“Why?” Raquel looked up at him and all thoughts flew out of her mind as her eyes lingered on his handsome face.
His long hair was still wet from the shower and clung to his neck and shoulders.
Moisture beaded above his upper lip, drawing her attention to his gorgeous mouth.
How long had it been since she had kissed those lips?
She still remembered what they’d felt like against her lips—soft and insistent, hungry and wicked as he wreaked havoc on her body.
Her eyes trailed down his thick neck, her lips parting hungrily, wanting to kiss his prominent Adam’s apple. He was naked, except for the towel which sat precariously on his hips, making her wish she was bold enough to reach out and tear it away so she could feast on his gorgeous body.
“People have a morbid fascination with other people’s lives.”
His reply roused her from the sensual musings which stoked a small flame inside her. A flame that spilled heat into her veins.
“Oh.” Her mind stopped working as sexual languor spread through her, making her quiver with need.
She blinked but couldn’t see past the haze that began to fill her mind.
The blood in her veins congealed and her heart pounded with breathless anticipation.
Raising a hand to his face, she touched the small bump on his nose.
“How did you break your nose?” she asked, curious about the only imperfect feature on his handsome face.
Alexandre’s eyes darkened. His nostrils flared as her touch sent sparks shooting through his body. “In a brawl,” he muttered, his eyes tracking the tip of her tongue which came out to lick her suddenly dry lips.
“What did you fight about?”
“Someone called me a bastard.”
His clipped reply made her scowl, but her fingers didn’t stop their exploration. They slid down to his lips, the forefinger tracing the outline before hovering over the white puckered line on the left side of his mouth.
“And this?”
“Backhanded by my father.”
Her eyes flew to his, filled with pain and—sympathy.
“Why?” Tears stung her eyes as she waited with bated breath for him to answer.
“Because I had the temerity to show up in front of his friends one night.”
“How badly did it hurt?”
****
O ver the years, many had asked him about the scar, but none had ever asked him this question, and it surprised him that Raquel cared enough to ask.
“My pride hurt more,” he whispered.
She turned her head causing her beautiful hair to fall over her face. He parted the thick curtain because he wanted to see her. He wanted to look into her brown eyes and know her every thought.
If he thought she would cry for him, she surprised him again. Her tears didn’t fall, though they remained perched on her lower eyelids, ready to roll over at the slightest hint of encouragement.
Continuing with her exploration, she touched his left arm—where on his bicep, was a tattoo. A crown of thorns with blood dripping from it—something he’d got a few years ago, on a particularly difficult night.
“This is beautiful,” she murmured, skimming over every line on his flesh. “Why did you get this?”
Alexandre remembered that night clearly when his father had shot down his ideas for the expansion of the family business. Rico had never approved of him working for the family business, but Leandro had insisted that as a Monteiro, he had every right to be a part of the Monteiro legacy.
“You have no say in this family, or this business!” his father had shouted at him. “You are nothing to me. I’m merely tolerating you because your foolish grandfather thinks it’s better to keep the enemy closer.”
Those painful words had sliced through him, and with it had come the realization that, despite being adopted into the family, Rico didn’t think of him as his own blood.
And neither had Carlos, who thought he was an enemy who needed to be watched closely.
It had sent him into a flying rage, and that night he’d renounced what little hope he’d had of ever being a part of the Monteiro family.
“It was a difficult time in my life,” he muttered.
Her fingers traced the crown which seemed to pierce into his flesh, the blood drops looking surprisingly real as they dropped from the crown. “It must have hurt a lot,” she whispered, and Alexandre knew she wasn’t talking about the pain he’d endured while getting the tattoo done.
He was amazed that she inferred the real meaning of his tattoo, without him even divulging the real story behind it.
“It still bleeds, doesn’t it?” she asked, evoking a curious mix of emotions in him.
“What are you doing?” he growled when she leaned down and kissed his tattoo.
He shuddered when her lips touched his hot flesh, heat pooling in his stomach as blood rushed into his loins.
Need shot through him when she sucked on his flesh, her teeth grazing his skin as she proceeded to drop small kisses all over his tattoo.
When she had kissed every inch of his arm etched in ink, she moved on to his chest. A very bare chest. Rock hard—and generously sprinkled with soft, springy hair.
“Comforting you,” she whispered, slapping a palm on his chest and pushing him onto his back.