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Could she say yes? Rafael somehow made the decision sound so straightforward. He made everything seem possible.
But then he had no thought or care for the life she had made for herself in England. Built up so painstakingly, brick by brick, from the demolition rubble of their marriage. She had finally reached the stage where she felt financially stable and emotionally settled. Most of the time anyway.
Could Lottie really take this enormous gamble and throw caution, common sense and self-preservation to the wind? Hurl them up into the blue sky and watch to see where they fell? The same blue sky that Rafael had fallen from—that had brought her here in the first place.
It was so tempting.
Rafael waited, as if sensing that words were no longer needed. So close now she could feel the soft whisper of his breath against her face, feel herself weakening beneath the unbearable scrutiny of his gaze and the lethal, sensual intoxication of his nearness.
Sitting up very straight, Lottie pushed back her shoulders and mirrored his penetrating stare. This was her decision and she was going to make it.
The answering flash in Rafael's eyes was so intense that she had to blink against it, her mouth suddenly dry with the cotton wool words.
‘My answer is yes. I will do it.’
ANDIE BROCK started inventing imaginary friends around the age of four and is still doing that today—only now the sparkly fairies have made way for spirited heroines and sexy heroes.
Thankfully she now has some real friends, as well as a husband and three children, plus a grumpy but lovable cat.
Andie lives in Bristol, and when not actually writing could well be plotting her next passionate romance story.
This is Andie’s stunning debut—we hope you love it as much as we do!
Did you know this is also available as an eBook? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
The Last Heir of Monterrato
Andie Brock
MILLS & BOON
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For my mum. Who would have been very proud.
Contents
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EXTRACT
IT WAS THE SCAR that halted Lottie in the doorway. A thin, livid wound, it sliced down from his brow, skipping over the eye socket before continuing an inch along his cheekbone. The sight of it clutched at her stomach, weighted her feet to the floor.
‘Rafael?’
Silence stretched tightly between them as they stared at each other across the dark panelled office.
‘Charlotte.’
‘How...how are you?’
‘Still alive.’ As he eased himself to stand against the edge of the desk his voice was cold, flat. ‘As you can see.’
‘Yes. Indeed.’ Lottie swallowed. Upright now, he stood with his hands splayed on either side of him, fingertips anchoring him to the desk. ‘I was very sorry—to hear about the accident, I mean.’
‘Thank you.’ His clipped reply snipped at her words, clearly designed to stop any outpourings of sentiment.
Not that she intended to show him any, of course. She knew she wasn’t here to display any sort of concern, express any sympathy. Rafael wasn’t the kind of man to tolerate such emotions. Especially from her.
She watched as he moved out from behind the desk and walked stiffly towards her, tall and rigid in a sober grey suit, his height towering over her as they came together. For a second they stood there, like repelling magnets, until Rafael bent forward to brush her cheek once, twice, three times. Lottie closed her eyes as she felt the whisper of his breath, the touch of his skin; him.
He pulled away immediately, leaving her staring up at his injuries.
Scratches of various lengths and depths crisscrossed his face and a purple bruise spread colourfully down one side. The scar, Lottie now realised, resembled the lash of a whip. That didn’t help at all.
‘So...um...your face...?’ She knew she shouldn’t go on about it, that he would hate her even mentioning it, but she needed reassurance, needed to stop looking at him as if she was witnessing a pig having its throat cut. ‘I assume the injuries are quite superficial?’
‘You assume correctly.’
‘And the rest of your body?’ His unnerving stare stupidly made her blush. So much for trying to appear detached.