Modern Romance - The Best of the Year. Miranda Lee

felt her arm being taken in a warm grip and showers of electric shocks seemed to spread through her body. Reluctantly she looked at Rafaele, and the momentarily unguarded look on his face took her by surprise.

      ‘I should have told you earlier... You look beautiful.’

      ‘I...’ Sam’s voice failed. ‘Thank you.’

      And just like that she felt the animosity drain away. She realised that as soon as she’d seen the dress hanging up she’d harboured a very treacherous wish that Rafaele had kept it for sentimental reasons, and that was the basis for her lashing out at him. It had been anger at herself for her own pathetic weakness.

      Rafaele had let her go. Sam’s door was being opened and someone was waiting for her to step out. When she did so, Rafaele was standing there, his face unreadable again. She wondered if she had imagined what he’d just said...

      He took her arm and led her inside and Sam was glad he was supporting her, because nothing could have prepared her for the dazzling display of wealth and beauty as soon as they walked in.

      She felt instantly gauche: both underdressed and overdressed. Rafaele got them drinks and almost immediately was surrounded by gushing acolytes—a mixture of men and women. As they stood there the number of women seemed to increase. They shot Sam glances ranging from the curious to the downright angry—as if he had no right to come here with a woman.

      Clearly Rafaele was a prize to be fought over, and Sam really didn’t like the way her own hackles rose and her blood started to boil in response. She felt a very disturbing primal urge rise up within her to claim him in some way. The fact that she had borne his child seemed to resonate deep within her, and she wanted to snarl at the women to back off.

      With a lazy insouciance that did nothing to help cool her blood, Rafaele reached out and drew her to his side. The level of malevolence coming from the women increased exponentially.

      He said to the people surrounding them, ‘I’d like to introduce you to Samantha Rourke.’

      Something in Sam went cold at this very bare introduction, which left her in some kind of limbo land—what exactly was she to him?

      But what had she expected him to say? Meet the mother of my child, who is such a pushover that she lets me sleep with her even though she knows I hate her...?

      Sam caught one or two smug looks from a couple of the women. As if to say, She’s no competition. Her blood boiled over.

      She managed to keep it together until they were alone again and then she rounded on him. ‘If you brought me here just to deflect the attention from those man-eaters then I think I’ve done my bit. I’d prefer to be at home with Milo than to witness your simpering fan club line up to tell you how marvellous you are.’

      Furious at herself for feeling so emotional, Sam stabbed Rafaele’s chest with a finger. ‘I’m the mother of your child—tell that to your next prospective mistress.’

      Rafaele looked at Sam and felt something pierce his chest. Her words were lost to him for a second in the glare from those grey eyes. She looked so young, so stunning. Her neck was long and graceful, her skin so pale he could see the delicate veins underneath. The dress hugged and emphasised every curve, fitting her better now than it had four years ago. His eyes dropped down over the swell of her breasts and her words resounded within him: I’m the mother of your child.

      Moments ago, when he’d reached out to pull her to him and introduce her, he’d felt a second of blind panic. The realisation had been immediate and stark: he’d just introduced his peers to Sam and when the news emerged of his son, and that she was his mother, they would assume that they were together. And that thought wasn’t making him want to flee.

      Rafaele had not even considered this prospect when he’d asked Sam to the function. He’d just looked at her that morning and the words had spilled out... Proving once again how she scrambled his thought processes. How she effortlessly tapped into something deep and instinctive within him that led to choices and decisions that his head might normally balk at.

      He couldn’t even blame her. It wasn’t as if she’d inveigled her way to an invitation—if anything she’d looked horrified at the suggestion. Rafaele’s blood simmered. He felt the imprint of Sam’s finger in his chest. The rest of the room died away and he saw only her. Need and desire rose up to strangle him and magnified his feeling of exposure.

      Reaching out a hand, he snaked it around her neck and brought her closer. Something triumphant moved through him when he saw those eyes flare with awareness. But the realisation of how comfortable he was with people knowing who Sam was, assuming they were together, was too raw, too new. He needed to push it back. Push her back.

      ‘I have the only mistress I need right here, Sam. Why would I go looking when you’ve already proved yourself so amenable?’

      Her cheeks went white and Rafaele felt the punch of something dirty and dark down low.

      ‘You bastard.’

      She pulled away from him and spun around, moving through the crowd. It was a long second before Rafaele could function again, and then he set off after her, a dense darkness expanding in his chest when he thought of those huge eyes and the pain in their depths that he’d just witnessed. That he’d just caused. Wilfully. From weakness.

      * * *

      Sam could barely drag enough oxygen into her lungs. She was seething. Hurt and angry with herself for letting Rafaele get to her. For feeling so possessive and jealous around those other women. For ever hoping even for a second that his bringing her here tonight had meant something...

      She raised a hand to get the doorman’s attention, to ask him to call her a cab, but just then it was caught by a firm grip and she was whirled around.

      ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

      Rafaele looked as livid as she felt, and he had no right to be. Sam pulled her arm free. ‘I’m going home, Rafaele. I don’t need to be reminded publicly how little you like to acknowledge me in your life.’

      She turned around again, but gave a gasp of dismay when she saw Rafaele’s chauffeur-driven car stopping at the foot of the steps. He was marching her down to the open door before she could do anything. The door was quickly shut and he was sliding in the other side. Sam had a perverse urge to open the door and jump out but she curbed the childish desire. And also she realised she didn’t have enough money for a cab. She scowled at herself. Being with Rafaele was eroding her very independence.

      Rafaele issued a terse instruction to the driver and the privacy window slid up noiselessly. His eyes glittered at her in the gloom of the backseat but even now Sam’s muscles clenched in her pelvis, and she felt the betraying heat of desire getting her body ready for this man. Her man. The stupid assertion flashed again. She could have growled with frustration.

      Eventually he bit out, ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did back there. You didn’t deserve that.’

      It was the last thing Sam had expected to hear, and she said faintly, ‘No, I didn’t.’ And then, ‘Why did you bring me with you, Rafaele? People will only ask questions...when they find out about Milo... We shouldn’t be seen together. It doesn’t help matters.’

      Rafaele’s face looked as if it was carved out of stone. ‘You’re the mother of my child, Samantha. It’s inevitable that we’ll be seen together, no matter what happens in the future.’

      Sam had an image then of Rafaele, married to some cool blonde beauty, and of an older Milo heading off on a plane on his own to stay with his father and his new family. The image made her suck in a breath of pain and she scooted as far away from him in the back of the car as she could.

      Mixed in with the pain she was feeling was the ever-present and building sexual frustration. She felt as if she was going mad. Heat burned her insides and made her skin prickle. All she could see in her peripheral vision was the huge dark shape of Rafaele and imagined that powerful body, naked and surging into hers, thrusting so deep