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His dark eyes glinted. ‘Thank you.’
She led him to a table near the window. ‘A double-shot espresso, no sugar?’
His mouth twitched at the corners. ‘You have a good memory.’
Poppy tried not to look at his mouth. It was so distracting. So too were his hands. She could still feel the imprint of those long, tanned fingers around her wrist. She felt shivery every time she recalled them against her white skin. His touch had been unforgettable. Her body still hummed with the memory of it.
He was dressed casually in blue denim jeans and an open-necked white shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his strong, tanned wrists. He had twelve to eighteen hours of stubble on his jaw. He smelt divine—a hint of wood and citrus and healthy, potent, virile male. He oozed with sex appeal. She felt the invisible current of it pass over her skin. It made her heart pick up its pace as if he had reached out and touched her.
Poppy put her chin up to a pert level. ‘I don’t suppose I can tempt you with a slice of cake?’
His eyes smouldered as they held hers. ‘I’m very tempted.’
She pursed her lips and spoke in an undertone in case Mr Compton overheard, which was highly unlikely, given he was as deaf as the proverbial post, but still. ‘Cake, Mr Caffarelli. I’m offering you cake.’
‘Just the coffee.’ He waited a beat. ‘For now.’
Poppy swung away to the kitchen, furious with him, but even more furious with herself for being so affected by him. She’d been expecting him to come back. She had tried not to watch out for him but every morning she had looked towards the manor to see if his flashy sports car was parked out front. She had tried her best to ignore the little dip of disappointment in the pit of her belly when it had failed to appear. She knew he wasn’t going to give up on trying to acquire the dower house any time soon.
She had read up on him in some gossip magazines Chloe had given her. He had a reputation for being ruthless in business. ‘Single-minded, stealthy and steely in terms of determination’, one reporter had said.
Poppy suspected he was equally ruthless in his sensual conquests. His latest mistress was a bikini model with a figure to die for. Poppy couldn’t imagine a slice of cake or a chocolate-chip cookie ever passing through those filler-enhanced lips.
She carried the coffee out to him. ‘Will there be anything else?’
‘What time do you close?’
‘Five or thereabouts,’ she said. ‘I try to be flexible in case I get late-comers. No one likes being rushed over their cup of tea.’ She gave his cup a pointed look before adding, ‘Or coffee.’
His coal-black gaze glinted again. ‘I have some business I’d like to discuss with you.’
Poppy stiffened. ‘I’m not selling my house.’
‘It’s nothing to do with the dower house.’
She looked at him guardedly. ‘So...what is it about?’
‘I’m spending a couple of weeks at the manor to get a feel for the place before I start drawing up plans for the development,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to employ a housekeeper at this stage. Are you interested in providing dinner each day? I’ll pay you handsomely, of course.’
Poppy chewed at her lower lip for a moment. She could do with the money, but cooking him dinner each night? What else would he expect from her—her body dished up as a dessert? ‘What’s wrong with eating at the village pub? They do a pretty good bar snack. There was no way she was going to recommend he try Oliver’s restaurant.
He gave her a droll look. ‘I don’t eat bar snacks.’
She gave her eyes a little roll. ‘Of course you don’t.’
‘Blame my mother. She was French. You know what the French are like with their food.’
Mr Compton shuffled over on his walking frame. ‘Do it, Poppy. It’ll be a nice little earner for you to tide you over this rough patch.’
Poppy wished she hadn’t let slip to Mr Compton a couple of weeks ago how tight things were. She didn’t want Raffaele Caffarelli gaining any sort of advantage over her. He was ruthless and calculating. How far would he go to get what he wanted? ‘Can I think about it and get back to you?’ she said.
Rafe handed her a business card. ‘Call me tonight.’
She put the card in her apron pocket and turned to speak to her only other customer. ‘I’ll just get that slice of cake for you to take home, Mr Compton.’
* * *
Rafe held out his hand to the elderly gentleman once Poppy had disappeared into the kitchen. ‘Rafe Caffarelli,’ he said.
‘Howard Compton.’ The old man shook his hand. ‘So, you’re the new owner of Dalrymple Manor.’
‘Yes. I’ve had my eye on it for a while. It’s a great piece of real estate.’
‘It is at that,’ Mr Compton said. ‘What do you plan to do with it?’
‘I’m turning it into a luxury hotel and spa.’
‘Don’t go telling Poppy that.’ Mr Compton gave him a twinkling smile. ‘She wanted a family to buy the place. It’s a long time since one lived there, mind you.’
‘Were you acquainted with Lord Dalrymple?’
‘His wife and mine were best friends since childhood,’ Mr Compton said. ‘It was a terrible day when Clara died. Henry became reclusive after that. If it weren’t for Poppy’s grandmother Beatrice he would have curled up and died. We thought it was a nice gesture of his to leave the dower house to her and Poppy. A lot of the locals thought he would leave the whole estate to them, but there would’ve been too much of an outcry from the extended family if he’d done that. As it was probate took over a year to come through. So messy when there isn’t a direct heir.’
Rafe thought about his own situation. He had no direct heirs other than his brothers. Who would inherit his vast fortune? He hadn’t really thought about it until now... Why was he working so hard if he had no one to leave it to?
He pushed the thought aside. There was plenty of time to think about marriage. He was only thirty-five. It wasn’t like he had a biological clock to worry about. Some time in the future he would select a suitable woman, someone who knew how to move in the circles he moved in, someone who wouldn’t encroach on his freedom too much.
Poppy came back carrying a foil-wrapped parcel. ‘Here you go, Mr Compton.’
‘You’re a pet,’ Mr Compton said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ He turned back to Rafe. ‘Nice to meet you, Rafe. Drop by some time and have a wee dram with me. I’m at Bramble Cottage in Briar Lane. You can’t miss it.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ Rafe said and was almost surprised that he meant it. He gave himself a mental shake. What was he thinking? He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to make money.
The bell over the door tinkled as the old man left.
‘I can see your charm isn’t exclusively aimed at the female of the species,’ Poppy said, casting him a cynical look.
‘He’s a lovely old man,’ Rafe said. ‘And quite lonely, I suspect.’
‘He is...’ Her shoulders went down on a little sigh as she sank her teeth into her lower lip for a beat. ‘I do what I can for him but I can’t bring back his wife. They were best friends. It’s so sad. I guess that’s the downside of finding the love of your life. Eventually you have to lose them.’
‘Isn’t it supposedly better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?’
She turned away and began clearing Mr Compton’s cup and saucer and plate with brisk officiousness. ‘What about your latest girlfriend? Is she coming to stay with you at the manor?’
‘I’m currently unattached.’
She glanced back at him over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. ‘Your choice or hers?’
‘Mine.’ It was always his choice. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
‘She was very beautiful.’
‘Until she opened her mouth.’
She gave him an arch look. ‘Couldn’t you think of other ways to keep her mouth occupied?’
Right now Rafe could only think of Poppy’s mouth, how it was so rosy and plump and totally natural. His groin began to thrum with desire as he thought of her velvet lips around him, her soft little tongue licking or stroking him. He wanted to taste her mouth, to sample the texture of her lips, to taste the sweetness of her, to stroke into the warm moistness of her.
What was it about her that was so damn alluring? She wasn’t his type at all with her feisty little looks and combative poses. Most of the time she looked like she wanted to scratch his eyes out, but now and again he would catch a glimpse of something else in her gaze, something much more exciting—earthy, primal lust. She tried to hide it but he could sense it in her body: the way she carried herself, holding herself stiffly as if she was frightened her body would suddenly do something out of her control.
Her buttoned-up sensuality was intoxicatingly attractive. He suspected she would be dynamite once she let herself go. Her touch had electrified him the other day. He still felt the buzz of where her fingers had brushed him. He wanted those dainty little fingers all over his body. He wanted to be inside her body. He was rock-hard just thinking about how she would feel wrapped tightly around him. It would be a conflagration of the senses, a combustible explosion of fire meeting ice. ‘What about you, Miss Silverton?’
Her expression became guarded. ‘What about me?’
‘Are you currently involved with anyone?’
Her gaze narrowed. ‘I find it hard to see why it could be of any interest to you if I am or if I’m not.’
‘Au contraire,’ he said. ‘I find it immensely interesting.’
Her cheeks flared with colour but her eyes were glittering with spirited defiance. ‘Would you like more coffee, Mr Caffarelli, or shall I get your bill?’
Rafe held that sparkling toffee-brown gaze and felt his blood heat up another notch. He could smell her light fragrance. He was close enough to touch her. He felt the tension in her body; it was pulsing just below the surface. She was doing everything she could to hide it but he was aware of it all the same. Hate and lust were swirling in the air like a powerful, heady aroma. ‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’
Her mouth tightened primly. ‘My job is to serve you coffee, not become your best friend.’
He gave her a lazy half-smile. ‘Haven’t you heard that saying, “keep your friends close, but your enemies closer”?’
Her eyes flashed at him as she pointedly handed him the bill for his coffee. ‘Haven’t you heard the saying, “there’s no such thing as a free lunch”?’
Rafe chuckled as he took out his wallet, peeled off a tenner and placed it on the table beside her. ‘Until we meet again, Miss Silverton. Ciao.’
* * *
Poppy was about to go to bed when she noticed Chutney was missing. The three dogs had been out in the garden while she had a bath, but when she called them back in only Pickles and Relish appeared. ‘Chutney?’ she called out from the back door. ‘Chutney? Here boy. Come and get a treat.’
There was no sign of him in the garden. He seemed to have completely vanished. It was hard not to worry after what had happened to Pickles. Poppy had found him injured after finding a gap in the hedge leading to the field in front of Dalrymple Manor. It had been so harrowing to find him lying in the long grass, whimpering in pain.
Her heart began to stammer. Chutney had a tendency to wander, especially if he got the scent of a rabbit. Even though she had got the gap in the hedge fixed, she suspected there were other places he could have squeezed through, being so much smaller than the other two dogs. What if he had got out on the road? Although there wasn’t much traffic along this particular lane, it only took one speeding car to do the damage.
Poppy looked at the manor in the distance. Raffaele Caffarelli’s top-notch sports car was parked out the front. There were lights on downstairs, which meant he must be still awake.
She glanced at the business card on the kitchen table. Should she call him to see if he had seen any sign of Chutney? The three dogs were used to walking up to the manor. Before Lord Dalrymple had died she had taken them up every day to visit, and she had only stopped walking them in the grounds of the manor once the ‘sold’ sign had gone up.
She picked up the business card and ran her index finger over his name. She took a little uneven breath, reached for her phone and quickly typed in the number before she changed her mind. He answered on the third ring.
‘Rafe Caffarelli.’
Poppy felt the base of her spine shiver at the sound of the deep burr of his voice. ‘Um...it’s Poppy Silverton here.’
‘I’ve been expecting you to call.’
‘I’m not calling about the dinner thing. I wondered if you’d seen a little dog up at the manor.’
‘What sort of dog?’
‘He’s a cavoodle.’
‘A what?’
Poppy rolled her eyes at his tone. ‘He’s a cross between a miniature poodle and a King Charles cavalier. He’s called Chutney.’
‘You named your dog after a condiment?’
She pursed her mouth in irritation. ‘Have you seen him or not?’
‘No.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to bother you so late. Goodni—’
‘I’ll have a look around outside. Would he have wandered into the maze, do you think? I haven’t figured it out yet so you might have to come and rescue me from the minotaur if I get stuck.’
‘I’m sure you’re quite adept at getting yourself out of complicated situations.’
He gave a little chuckle. ‘You’ve been reading up on me, haven’t you?’
‘If you find Chutney, please call me.’
‘I’ll do even better than that. I’ll deliver him to your door.’
‘I wouldn’t want to put you to any bother.’
‘Will he come to a stranger?’
‘He’s a shameless glutton,’ Poppy said. ‘He’ll do anything for food.’
Her spine shivered again as he gave another deep chuckle. ‘I know the type.’
* * *
The doorbell rang a few minutes later. Poppy had only just come back inside after doing another round of the garden. She shushed Pickles and Relish, who were bouncing up and down on their back legs like string puppets being controlled by a hyperactive puppeteer. ‘Down, Pickles; you too, Relish. Sit. I said sit.’ She opened the door to find Rafe standing there with Chutney under one arm. ‘Oh, you found him! Where was he?’
He handed the dog to her. ‘He was sitting at the back of the manor near the kitchen door.’
Poppy put Chutney on the floor where his two friends immediately besieged him with frenzied licks and whimpers of delight, as if he’d been away for a month instead of an hour. She straightened to face Rafe. ‘I’m sorry about that. I think he still misses Lord Dalrymple. We used to go up to visit him every day.’
‘I noticed he seemed quite at home.’
‘Yes, well, I made a habit of wandering past with the dogs to check the place wasn’t vandalised while it was vacant,’ Poppy said. ‘I’m not going up there now, of course.’
His eyes glinted knowingly. ‘Of course.’
She straightened her shoulders. ‘Thank you for returning him. You didn’t have to. I would have come to collect him. All you had to do was call me.’
‘Have you thought about my dinner proposal?’
Poppy felt that funny little shiver again as his dark eyes held hers. She wasn’t exactly dressed for visitors. She was wearing the oldest, shabbiest tracksuit she possessed and a pair of scruffy old trainers that had holes over her big toes where Pickles had chewed them. Her hair was tied up with a ribbon and her face bare of make-up. It made her feel at a distinct disadvantage. It made her feel about ten years old. Why, oh why hadn’t she changed into something a little less unsophisticated? ‘Um, I think you should ask someone else,’ she said.
‘I want you.’
Heat flowed into her cheeks as that coal-black gaze smouldered against hers. ‘I’m not available.’ To her chagrin her voice sounded throaty and husky...sexy, even.
‘You know you want to say yes. I can see it in your eyes.’
Poppy glowered at him. ‘I can see why you fly everywhere by private jet—you’d need all the extra cabin space for your ego.’
A smile lurked around the corners of his mouth. ‘You’re a stubborn little thing, aren’t you?’
‘I did warn you.’
‘Likewise.’ His black-as-pitch gaze held hers with a glint of implacable determination. ‘When I want something, I don’t give up until I have it.’
‘Thank you for bringing Chutney home,’ she said holding the door open for him. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’
Those dark-as-night eyes lowered to her mouth for a moment before returning to mesh with her gaze. ‘Aren’t you going to do the neighbourly thing and invite me in for a nightcap since I so gallantly returned your dog?’
Poppy knew it would appear churlish of her to refuse him entry. But wouldn’t inviting him in so late at night send him the message she actually wanted his company?
Of course she didn’t want his company. She had plenty of company. She had her three little dogs, didn’t she? ‘I’m kind of busy right now.’
‘I’m house-trained, if that’s what’s worrying you.’ His hint of a smile was devastatingly attractive. ‘I won’t cock my leg on the furniture or try and bury bones in the backyard.’
‘I’m not in the habit of inviting men I barely know into my house late at night.’
Was that a glimmer of respect she saw in his eyes? ‘Are you worried about what the neighbours will think?’ he asked.
‘You’re the only neighbour for miles,’ she pointed out.
A more serious note entered his voice and was reflected in his gaze as it held hers. ‘You’re quite safe with me, Miss Silverton. I might have a reputation but I have the utmost respect for women and always have.’
‘How reassuring.’
‘You don’t believe me.’
‘Some of the comments your ex-mistress posted online about you were rather derogatory,’ Poppy said.
‘It’s not my best character reference, that’s for sure. But she was unhappy about being made redundant, so to speak. I’ll get my secretary to send her a parting gift to soften the blow. It was remiss of me not to think of it earlier. I bet once Zandra gets several thousand pounds’ worth of rubies or sapphires she’ll take the comments down.’
Poppy arched her brow at him. ‘Why not diamonds?’
‘I never give diamonds.’
‘Why not? It’s not as if you can’t afford them.’
‘Diamonds are for ever,’ he said. ‘When I find the right girl to give them to, I’ll buy them, but not before.’
Poppy gave him a sceptical look. ‘So you’re actually planning to give up your partying and playboy lifestyle at some point?’
His shrug was noncommittal. ‘It’s not on my immediate agenda.’
She couldn’t keep the derision from her tone or from the angle of her chin. ‘Too busy out there sowing your wild oats?’
His eyes glinted as they held hers. ‘There are a few fresh fields I have yet to plough. After that, who knows? Don’t they say reformed rakes make the best husbands?’
‘What sort of wife will you require?’ Poppy asked. ‘A plaster saint with a blue-blooded background similar to your own?’
A sparkle of playfulness entered his gaze. ‘Are you thinking of auditioning for the post?’
She pulled her chin back in against her throat. ‘You must be joking. You’re the very last person I would ever think of marrying.’
He gave her a mock bow before he turned to leave. ‘The feeling is mutual, Miss Silverton. Bonsoir.’
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