The Italian's Pregnant Prisoner. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
loved power.
And Rafe had spent many years with no power at all. Begging. Stealing. Doing whatever he could to help his mother survive.
He had begun doing odd petty crimes with a group of boys. Delivering packages that he never asked about the contents of. Things like that.
He’d ended up getting caught by the police and charged with running drugs, in spite of the fact that he was only a boy. And a boy who’d had no idea what he was handling at that.
It was through that arrest that he’d met Michael Adair.
It was only much later that Rafe had realized the man must have had a connection to the drugs. To the particular ring of petty criminals Rafe had been working with.
Michael Adair had not only given Rafe his freedom; he had also provided Rafe with an education, paying for him to attend one of the finest private schools in Europe. Rafe had accepted greedily. Uncaring of what it might mean in the future.
Michael had promised him someday he would collect the favor. And indeed, he had made good on that threat.
For years, he had done various errands for Michael in Rome. Until finally, he had been brought to the estate to apprentice under the man himself.
That was when he’d really gotten to know the man he’d aligned himself with. Had seen how hard he was. How entirely without morals.
Rafe had asked him once why he had shown such an interest in a young boy from the streets. Why he’d helped him at all, much less sent him to school and provided for him.
He’d said it was because he didn’t have a son. And he had thought perhaps Rafe was the protégé he needed.
Rafe might have been shocked or upset if he weren’t already the son of an amoral bastard. As it was, he just figured he might as well take advantage. At least this particular amoral bastard wanted to give him a hand up, unlike his actual father.
But after school he had started getting a deeper look at Michael Adair’s twisted empire. By then he was living at the estate and there was no leaving. Not without being killed.
The entire business made Rafe ill. Michael was ruthless. He didn’t care who was hurt by his business practices. And he was not above intimidation, or even murder to get what he wanted. He had a host of enforcers who meted out punishments on those who did not comply with his wishes. And Rafe could only count himself fortunate that he had not been forced to be part of that side of the business.
No, he was being taught the business. Because Michael had no son. And he wanted Rafe to be able to take control of the business portion, the front of house part of the empire.
But that did not mean that he found Rafe to be good enough for his daughter, and Rafe was under no illusions that it would be the case. Rafe had also decided that while he was content to get any education he could get from Michael, he was certainly never going to overtake the man’s evil empire.
No. He was going to escape at his first opportunity. And he was going to do it with Charlotte.
Then. Then he would make her his.
She shook her head, her hair falling around her in a silken wave. His stomach tightened. And he couldn’t breathe. He’d had more women than he could count. A side effect of being a young boy unsupervised far too early. One who looked much older than he was the moment adolescence had hit.
But none had ever affected him like this. None had ever made him feel as though his heart were being pulled out of his chest through his mouth. Had ever made him feel like he might die if he didn’t touch her. But also made him feel so protective that...he would rather cut off his own hands than do her harm. And it was that need, that need that overrode all else, that gave him the strength to resist her, night after night.
He leaned in, sliding his fingers through her hair, lifting the silken strands to his face, and inhaling deeply.
Roses. Lavender. And something he couldn’t name. Something that belonged only to her...
* * *
Rafe dragged himself back to the present. And to the feel of the woman he was currently holding on to. Soft. She was so soft. It had to be Charlotte. It could only be her.
Of course, it had been five years since he had touched a woman, so perhaps, his memory was faulty. Perhaps, they were all this soft. But he didn’t think so.
Michael Adair was dead. And he had been on Rafe’s mind this morning. Perhaps, that was why his body was playing tricks on him now.
Or perhaps, it was why Charlotte had resurfaced.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice hard.
He held on to her with one arm, casually sweeping the ground in front of them with his cane in his other hand.
She said nothing. Didn’t protest. Didn’t speak at all. Frustration bubbled up inside him. And he wished...oh, how he wished he could see her face. Yes, his other senses had been honed quite a bit since the accident. But in this moment, though, senses could not replace his sight. Not by a long shot.
He took them out of the ballroom, into some kind of alcove. Perhaps no one was around, it didn’t seem as though anyone was. But if they were, he doubted they would have the balls to interrupt them. Something else Rafe had honed over the past five years was a fearsome reputation. He was a man who took no prisoners. He acted ethically. He was bound and determined that he would. That he would never bear any resemblance to Michael Adair, or to any man like him. But he was also determined that he would never go back to the streets he had come from.
It was power that insulated a man. He knew that well. The only reason he had been at Michael’s mercy in the first place was because he had been vulnerable. Because he lacked resources. Because he lacked power.
He had made a vow that he would never return to that place. Never. There was no longer any vulnerability inside of him. And truly, his blindness—nature’s last gasp at ensuring he wasn’t all powerful—had only spurred him on to work harder.
It was an accident he wished hadn’t happened. He didn’t want to give it too much credit in his life. However, he was also certain enough that it had made him work harder. That it made him yet more determined to appear capable, infallible.
He was also certain that early on it had caused a great many to underestimate him. So when his corporation gobbled up theirs, when his success put them out of business—his electronics manufacturing conglomerate slowly and steadily taking over the world—they simply hadn’t seen it coming.
Something he found deliciously ironic.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. “Has your husband set you free? Or has he simply let you out for the night?”
“I...I...”
Was it her? Was that her voice? It had been so long. And memory was not infallible. If this was simply something conjured up out of his darkest desires, out of need he should no longer feel, his rage with himself would know no bounds.
“Charlotte Adair.” He said her name like a curse. “Is that your last name anymore? After marrying Stefan did you take his last name?”
“I think you must be mistaken,” she said, her voice a low whisper.
He slid his hand up her arm, following the line to her collarbone, up the side of her neck and to her chin, where he gripped her between his thumb and forefinger. “I am never mistaken. You would do well to remember that.” He leaned in, and he could smell her again. Lavender. Roses. Charlotte.
His heart beat her name over and over again.
It had to be her. No woman had affected him like this in the past five years. No woman had affected him at all.
And then he’d walked through that ballroom and caught her scent, touched her skin. It was like being born again.
“If you lie to me, I will make you pay. There will be no end to