Page 156 of The Rebel Billionaire

“I can imagine. As a family…” I stop mid-sentence.

Shit, that was close.

I nearly said, as a family, the Frazer men are intimidating, especially when worried. They stand out, and knowing Kat, she’d prefer the press not getting wind of what’s happened to her.

Mum sucks in a deep breath, and I hear it catch.

“Mum. I love you. Try not to worry. I wish I were there with you all. But my big sister is a fighter. If anyone can get through this…”

I haven’t seen Mum cry since Dad’s funeral, although I’m sure she’s shed many tears in private. That bloody stiff upper lip. Not that she’s ever expected it from us. She’s always taught us that emotions are good and that we should express them. But when cameras were thrust in my face at my most vulnerable moments, I learned to suppress them, hide them behind a mask.

I know, I’ve suppressed mine for so long. First my anger over Dad’s death, then my anger at myself for my role in it. For years, those feelings have overshadowed the happy moments. Only when Leah, Callum, and April came into our lives did that begin to change. They’ve brought new life and balance into our family.

“I know, darling, I just hate that you’re so far away. Hopefully with…” she pauses. “With what’s been uncovered.”

“I know. Me too, Mum.”

“April has just arrived with some food.”

“That’s okay. Call me later when Kat’s out of surgery.”

“I will. Bye, darling, I love you.”

“I love you too, Mum.”

I end the call.

CHAPTER 47

HARPER

Ileave the bedroom and am greeted by the rich smell of garlic and herbs.

“Something smells good,” I say, stepping into the living area.

Alex is standing in my tiny kitchen, wearing my apron.

He turns with a teaspoon of whatever sauce he’s created ready for me to taste.

I open my mouth, and he feeds it to me. My heart somersaults at his closeness.

“Wow! That’s a lot better than passable,” I say as the rich flavours explode on my tongue.

He grins, looking relaxed and carefree, and warmth unfurls through me.

I don’t remember a time when anyone outside my family has stopped to take care of me.

“I wasn’t altogether honest,” he says. “Edoardo would disown my siblings and me if we couldn’t at least produce a half-palatable Italian dish. When he found out I was learning to cook, he stepped in.”

“Fair enough. You were obviously a quick study.”

His face twists. “It took a few attempts. Elaine, our cook, was less than impressed when she saw what I’d done to her kitchen and pans.”

I grimace and laugh.

How’s he doing this? Making me laugh, distracting me?

I hand him the plates, then take some knives and forks from the drawer and carry them to my tiny table, careful not to brush against him.