Never Say No to a Caffarelli

by MELANIE MILBURNE

  ‘Gosh, he must have really laid on the charm. I thought you would rather see him starve.’

  ‘Yes, well, it was either agree to it or let Oliver do it.’ Poppy tied her apron around her waist. ‘Do you know Oliver had my passionfruit crème brûlée on the menu last night?’

  ‘Did Rafe order it?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t have a sweet tooth.’

  Chloe looked at her musingly. ‘People’s tastes can change.’

  Poppy gave a little secret smile as she headed to the kitchen. ‘We’ll see.’

  * * *

  Rafe looked at the preliminary plans he’d drawn up but something wasn’t sitting well with him. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Normally he was so clear-cut on this stuff. He bought a property with development potential and sketched out plans to present to his design team to fine tune.

  But this time something wasn’t quite right.

  The doorbell rang and he got up wearily from his chair. He’d lost track of time. He’d been sitting for hours going nowhere fast. He scraped a hand through his hair to put it in some semblance of order and opened the door.

  ‘I have your dinner.’ Poppy was standing on the doorstep with her three little dogs at her feet like miniature bodyguards. She was holding a tray in her hands from which delicious savoury smells were emanating.

  Rafe had never seen a more beautiful sight, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he was starving. ‘It smells divine,’ he said. ‘But it looks like you’ve got enough here to feed a football team.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure how big your appetite was.’ Her cheeks immediately turned a deep shade of pink.

  ‘Why don’t you join me?’ He pushed the door open a bit wider with his shoulder as he took the tray from her. ‘You’d be doing me a favour. I’ve been having one of those incredibly frustrating unproductive days. I could do with some company other than my own.’

  She hesitated on the doorstep. ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude.’ She glanced at the dogs at her feet. ‘And I’ve got the guys with me.’

  Rafe put the tray on the hall table as Chutney had already rushed up to greet him, wriggling his little body in glee. Relish was whining in delight in case he got overlooked. But Pickles, with his cute overshot jaw that looked like a drawer that hadn’t been closed properly, was eyeing him with that same beady look. However, Rafe thought he saw his stumpy tail wag just the once as he bent down to administer pats and scratches to the other two. ‘The guys are more than welcome.’ He finally straightened and met her gaze once he had closed the door. ‘I guess you saw the paper? I think it was only in the one.’

  She bit down on her lip and then released it. Rafe felt a punch of lust slam him in the groin. Her mouth was so full and ripe, so incredibly sweet. He had dreamt of those lips. It had kept him awake thinking how much he wanted to feel them on his again.

  ‘Yes...’ she said. ‘But can’t we make them retract it or something?’

  He picked up the tray and carried it through to the kitchen. ‘No point. They’d just make something else up. I ignore it mostly. They’ll soon find someone else to target. Our “affair” will be tomorrow’s fish-and-chips wrapper.’

  ‘But I don’t want people thinking I’m...you know...sleeping with you, when I’m not.’

  He smiled down at her lopsidedly. ‘Ironic, don’t you think?’

  Her big brown eyes looked up at him with a twinkle of amusement. ‘Very.’

  How was he going to resist her?

  ‘Where would you like me to dish up dinner?’ she asked, suddenly turning brisk and housekeeper-efficient. ‘Lord Dalrymple used to take most of his meals in the morning room but I can set up here in the kitchen, or the formal dining room if you’d prefer.’

  ‘This will probably come as a bit of a surprise to you but I can’t remember the last time I ate in the kitchen,’ Rafe said. Actually he could, but the memory of it was too painful to recall: his pretty mother, just two days before she had died, dressed in a flowery apron with a swipe of flour across one cheek as she’d bent down to offer him a teaspoon of thick, sweet cake batter to taste...

  He pushed the vision away and added, ‘It wasn’t the way my brothers and I were brought up. Our grandfather didn’t believe in fraternising with the domestic staff. Not in the kitchen at least.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound like a very nice person to me,’ Poppy said as she set about laying the table in the kitchen.

  Rafe watched as she set two places with the cutlery neatly aligned before turning to find glasses and napkins. She seemed to know her way about the place, but then he recalled she had spent a great deal of her childhood there. ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked. ‘I have wine, both red and white.’

  She looked up from placing napkins on the side plates. ‘Do you have lemonade?’ But before he could answer she said, ‘No, of course you wouldn’t. It’s far too sweet.’

  ‘I have mineral water or soda water.’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  Rafe wondered if she was avoiding alcohol in order to keep a clear head. God knew he should take a leaf out of her book. He was having trouble keeping his hands off her as it was. She was dressed in a cotton skirt that emphasised the slimness of her waist. Her three-quarter-length-sleeved sweater skimmed her small perfect breasts lovingly. She wasn’t wearing much make-up—just a hint of shadow, mascara that made her lush lashes look all the more Bambi-like and a light shimmer of lip-gloss on her mouth. She was wearing ballet flats on her feet, making the height ratio between them all the more disparate. Her daintiness made him feel far more aware of his masculinity than any other woman he had ever encountered before.

  The trouble was, he was feeling more than a little conflicted about acting on it. Would it be right to seduce Poppy, knowing he was not the man to give her what she was truly looking for?

  A vicious war was raging inside his body. Desire wrestled with his conscience like they were two mighty, well-matched gladiators in a ring. His blood ran thick and strong with the need to touch her. Even the way she moved about the kitchen ramped up his desire to fever pitch.

  Rafe fetched her drink and poured himself half a glass of red. ‘So, what have you prepared for me?’

  ‘I have a light starter, as I didn’t want to overload your palate for the main course.’ She put a pear, rocket, walnut and blue-cheese salad in front of him. ‘It’s a nice blend of flavours without being too filling.’

  ‘It’s delicious,’ Rafe said after taking a few mouthfuls. But it wasn’t the food that was so captivating. He watched as Poppy daintily speared a sliver of pear and popped it in her mouth. He had to drag his gaze away and, reaching for his glass, took a deep sip of his wine to control the rapacious hunger that was raging in him—and that had nothing to do with the desire for food.

  ‘How did your family make their money?’ she asked after a little silence.

  ‘My great-grandparents on my father’s side were property kings,’ Rafe said. ‘Farms, villas, hotels, businesses—you name it, they were in on it. They bought low and sold high. My brothers and I do the same.’

  ‘Do you enjoy what you do?’

  Up until spending such a frustrating day, Rafe would have answered an emphatic yes. But somehow today had made him question everything about his plans for the manor—even, to some degree, his plans for his life. ‘Like any career there are good and bad sides to it,’ he said. ‘I love the challenge of finding a rundown property and following it through the various stages as it develops into a luxury hotel. But the hassles with local councils or development authorities can be incredibly tiresome.’

  ‘Not to mention difficult neighbours.’

  He gave her a wry look. ‘I almost sacked my property manager over you.’

  She looked aghast. ‘Oh, surely not?’

  Rafe twirled the wine in hi
s glass, watching as it swirled against the sides in a blood-red whirlpool of contained energy. ‘I’d seen Dalrymple Manor online and liked the look of it. James thought it would be a good investment. He did all the research and emailed me the photos of inside and I agreed. It had large acreage and the manor itself needed a rapid injection of funds to bring it to its former glory. It ticked all the boxes.’

  ‘But?’

  He met her eyes across the scrubbed and worn centuries-old kitchen table. ‘There was an unexpected five-foot-five obstacle in my way.’

  Her cheeks pooled with a light shade of pink, the point of her tongue sneaking out to deposit a layer of moisture across her lips as her eyes slipped out of reach of his. ‘That would be me.’

  Rafe felt a smile pull at his mouth. Of all the enemies he’d had to face over the years Poppy Silverton had to be the most delightful.

  The most desirable.

  ‘I think you’re making a very big mistake with the manor,’ she said. ‘It’s not cut out to be a playboy mansion.’

  ‘Why do you think that’s what I have planned for it?’

  She gave him one of her cynical looks. ‘You and your brothers have glamorous starlets coming in and out of your lives as if there are revolving doors on each of your bedrooms. Do they take a numbered ticket, like at one of those dispenser machines at the delicatessen, to see whose turn it is to warm the sheets of your bed?’

  Rafe knew he and his brothers had been portrayed as having rather colourful lives. But what was portrayed in the press was just a fraction of the truth. Most of the time they spent working in hotel rooms on their own, trying to meet impossible deadlines, trying to please people who were impossible to please—most notably their grandfather.

  Raoul compensated for it by taking life to the extreme. He set physical challenges that would make the average man shrink in cowardice. It was as if he had no fear. He had ice in his veins instead of blood. He didn’t just stare death in the face every time he took on another seemingly insurmountable challenge—he laughed at it, mocked it. ‘Take me down if you dare’ seemed to be his credo.

  Remy took risks that were more cerebral than physical, but no less terrifying. He won more than he lost, but Rafe worried that the day might come where fate would step in and make his youngest brother lose in a very big way.

  Rafe threw himself into his work with a similar passion, but just lately he had become increasingly restless. He wanted more, but he wasn’t sure what it was he wanted. He had money, more money than his father or grandfather had ever had. Even without the input of his younger brothers, he had built an empire that rivalled some of the most notable in Europe. If he never worked again his investments would see him out. But was it enough? What legacy was he leaving?

  Who would he leave his wealth to?

  Rafe couldn’t stop thinking of Lord Dalrymple in his stately manor with no one but his housekeeper and her little red-gold-haired, fairy-like granddaughter to keep him company—and the greedy, grasping extended family waiting on the sidelines to get what they could for the place once he had died.

  Had they ever visited him? Had they supported him after his wife had so tragically died?

  ‘I don’t plan to live here myself,’ Rafe said. ‘Once the redevelopment is completed I’ll appoint a manager. I’ll probably only visit once or twice a year after that. I have other projects to see to.’

  ‘So I suppose Dalrymple Manor will be just another notch on your financial belt,’ she said as she came around to his side of the table to clear his plate, her expression tight with disapproval.

  ‘Here. Let me help.’ Rafe rose from his chair but as he turned he suddenly found himself a whole lot closer to her than he’d intended.

  She took an unsteady step backwards and he instinctively put out a hand to stop her from tripping. The sparks against his fingers where they were wrapped around her wrist were like little fireworks popping off underneath his skin.

  He met her gaze and felt a stallion’s kick of lust strike him in the groin. He smelt her perfume; it was like a draft of some exotic potion that inflamed him with instant longing. He relaxed his grip, but as her fingers left his hold they moved softly across his palm in a trailing movement that made the blood roar through his veins. He felt a surge of lust-driven blood thicken him, heat flowing over his skin like the path of a flame.

  Rafe slid a hand into the thick curtain of her hair, loving the feel of those bouncy curls moving against his skin like dainty, springy, fragrant blossoms of jasmine, each one caressing him, intoxicating him.

  He would allow himself one kiss.

  Just to see if it was as he remembered. Maybe he’d imagined the sparks of electricity shooting up and down his spine as his lips had come in contact with hers. Maybe her mouth would just be another woman’s mouth today. It wouldn’t make his head spin and his desire race like high-octane fuel through his veins.

  He brought his mouth down within reach of the perfect bow of hers, taking his time, letting their breaths mingle.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was soft and husky, her warm, sweet breath dancing against his lips like a teasing spring breeze.

  ‘What do you think I’m doing?’ But before she could answer, or the controlled and sensible part of him could change his mind, Rafe did it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  POPPY HAD THOUGHT his kiss the other day was electrifying, but this time it was completely off the scale. As soon as his lips settled over hers it was as though fireworks had gone off under her skin. She had never felt such a surge of primal male energy before. It touched on something deep and essential to her as a woman. It was like breaking a secret code that had never been solved until now. Her flesh sang with delight as his mouth explored hers in intimate detail—the way his tongue came in search of hers in a brazenly, commanding gesture that had her belly quivering as soon he made contact.

  She tasted the hot, hard, thrusting heat of him; tasted the hint of ruthlessness in his mouth; felt the chivalry in his touch that could so easily be put aside if the situation warranted it. It was that edgy, dangerous element about him that so totally captivated her. Hadn’t she felt that from the first moment she had met him? He was a man who always got what he wanted. He didn’t let anyone stand in his way.

  His mouth ravished hers, plundering its depths with dips and dives of his masterful tongue against hers. Poppy shivered as she kissed him back, her tongue duelling with his in a heart-racing chase that made her toes curl inside her shoes. His mouth was hot, determined and purposeful, and she clung to him as she kissed him back just as passionately.

  He gave a deep growl of pleasure and cupped her bottom in both of his hands, tugging her against the heated trajectory of his body.

  Poppy slithered against him wantonly; her body aching for the pleasure his body was promising in that erotic embrace. She made a mewling sound beneath his passionate mouth, her arms going up to loop around his neck, to hold him to her.

  For a moment she thought he was going to reach for her breast. She actually felt his hand move up her body, but then suddenly he broke the kiss and put her from him, moving some distance away as if he didn’t trust himself not to reach for her again.

  He scraped a hand through his hair and let out a colourful expletive. ‘Sorry.’ He was breathing heavily. ‘I lost my head there for a moment.’

  ‘Is that such a bad thing?’

  He gave her a grim look. ‘I never lose my head. Ever.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time you did.’

  He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and moved even further away, turning his back on her. ‘This isn’t going to work, Poppy. You know it isn’t. It was a mistake to kiss you. I should’ve known better.’

  Poppy felt herself bristling in affront. ‘I’m not asking you to marry me.’

  He turned and threw her a black
look. ‘You’re not my type. Do I have to spell it out any plainer than that?’

  Self-doubt crept up and tapped her on the shoulder, mocking her with its cruel little taunts: you’re unattractive. You’re rubbish at kissing. You’ve got no pulling power, that’s why Oliver and every other date you’ve ever had moved on to the next girl as soon as they could.

  Poppy straightened her spine and swung around to the door. ‘I’ll just get the rest of your dinner for you.’

  ‘Forget about it.’

  ‘It won’t take a minute.’ She turned back to look at him. ‘I just have to dish it up. I won’t stay, if that’s what’s—’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  She forced herself to hold his unreadable gaze. ‘Will you be hungry tomorrow night, do you think?’

  His eyes moved away from hers. ‘I’ll make my own arrangements with regards to food in future.’

  ‘Fine.’ She let out a stormy breath. ‘I’ll just get the dogs and be on my way.’

  * * *

  ‘So how did the meal go down last night?’ Chloe asked the next morning. ‘Did you tickle Rafe Caffarelli’s tastebuds?’

  Poppy kept her gaze averted as she went about getting the tearoom ready for business. She had used concealer that morning when she put on some make-up but it hadn’t done much to disguise the stubble rash on her chin. It looked like she’d been scrubbing at her face with a handful of steel wool. ‘There is something terribly defective about that man’s tastebuds,’ she said as she swished back the last of the curtains to let the watery sunshine in.

  ‘But you didn’t make anything sweet for him, did you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Had her mouth been too sweet for him? Poppy pushed the thought aside as she crossed the room to get the napkins out of the old pine dresser drawer. ‘He’s just one of those difficult to please customers we get from time to time.’

  Chloe’s gaze narrowed. ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘Nothing, just a bit of an allergy,’ Poppy said shutting the drawer firmly. ‘I probably leant too close to the honeysuckle or something.’