Never Say No to a Caffarelli Page 8

  ‘What role does your grandfather play in the business?’

  ‘He’s taken a bit of a back seat lately, which is not something that comes naturally to him,’ Rafe said. ‘He had a mild stroke a couple of months ago. If anything, it’s made him even more cantankerous.’

  She looked at him for a little moment. ‘You don’t like him very much, do you?’

  Rafe shifted his mouth in a rueful manner. ‘I try and tell myself it must have been hard for him, suddenly being landed with three young boys to raise, but the truth is he was never really all that interested in us even before our parents were killed. My father and he had always had a strained relationship. But it got worse when my mother came on the scene. My grandfather didn’t approve of my father’s choice of wife. It wasn’t just that my mother was French and lowly born. I think it was more to do with jealousy than anything.’

  Poppy’s brow lifted. ‘Jealousy?’

  ‘Yes, he hated that my father was happily settled with someone while his wife—my grandmother—was lying cold in her grave.’

  ‘Did he ever see someone else or think about remarrying?’

  Rafe made a little sound of derision. ‘Oh, he had his women; he’d had them while my grandmother was still alive: housemaids, cleaners, local girls who he paid to keep silent with a few trinkets. He had them all from time to time, but what he didn’t have was what my father had—a woman who loved him not because he was rich or for what he could do for her but because she simply adored him.’

  ‘That’s very romantic,’ she said. ‘How tragic they didn’t get to have more years together.’

  Rafe picked up his glass again. ‘It was, but in a way it was better they went together. I can’t imagine how either of them would’ve coped if they were the one left behind.’

  A thoughtful expression settled on her face. ‘Is that what you hope to find? A love like that?’

  Rafe refilled both of their glasses before he answered. ‘I guess I’ll have to settle down one day. Sire a few heirs.’

  ‘You make it sound rather clinical.’

  ‘I come from a long line of Caffarellis. We’re meant to marry and reproduce, ideally in our early thirties. It’s a familial responsibility. Romance has very little to do with it.’

  It had had nothing to do with his grandfather’s marriage, which had been arranged by his grandfather’s parents to increase wealth and possession of property. But, from what Rafe had gleaned from staff or relatives of staff who had previously been in the family’s employ, it had been a miserable marriage from day one.

  ‘So how will you go about selecting a suitable wife?’ she asked. ‘Check her teeth and bloodline? Conduct auditions to see if she knows what cutlery to use? Take her for a trial ride, so to speak?’

  He chuckled as he lifted his glass to his mouth. ‘Hopefully nothing quite as archaic as that.’

  ‘So you plan to fall in love the old-fashioned way?’

  Rafe studied her expression for a beat or two. Would he allow himself to fall in love? It wasn’t something he had ever planned on doing. He didn’t like getting attached to people. Loving someone gave them power over you. The one who loved the most ended up with the least power in the relationship. Falling in love was losing control, and the one thing he didn’t like was losing control over anything, especially his emotions. Even during sex he always kept his head. He always kept a part of himself back, which was why that kiss had unsettled him so much.

  Control was his responsibility.

  Hadn’t he spent his childhood protecting his younger brothers from the vitriolic and often terrifyingly violent outbursts of their grandfather? He had taken the verbal hits, and on more occasions than he liked to remember he had taken the physical ones as well. His grandfather’s unpredictable temper and emotional outbursts had made his childhood and adolescence hell at times. It had been better once he and his brothers had been packed off to boarding school in England. At least then it was just the holidays Rafe had to keep his brothers out of the line of fire.

  No, falling in love was not something he planned to do any time soon, if ever.

  Morgan came over to take their orders for their meals. ‘How’s the decision making going?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve decided,’ Rafe said. ‘How about you, ma chérie? Do you know what you want?’

  Poppy’s eyes widened momentarily at his endearment but she recovered quickly. ‘Yes, the pork belly with fennel and lime.’

  ‘And you, Mr Caffarelli?’ Morgan stood with pen poised over the order pad.

  ‘I’ll have the lamb with redcurrant glaze and red wine jus.’

  Once Morgan had left Poppy leaned forwards across the table again with a quirked brow. ‘Ma chérie?’

  ‘It means “my darling”.’

  ‘I know what it means but why are you calling me that in front of her?’

  ‘You don’t like being called darling?’

  ‘Not by someone who doesn’t mean it.’

  ‘I’m actually doing you a favour,’ Rafe said. ‘Think of what Morgan is relaying to your ex-boyfriend in the kitchen right now—here you are, out with one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors. That’s going to sting a bit, don’t you think?’

  Her scowl turned into a reluctant smile that made gorgeous dimples form in her cheeks. He suddenly realised it was the first time she had genuinely smiled at him. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Were you in love with him?’

  Her smile faded. ‘I thought so at the time.’

  ‘But now?’

  She gave a little shrug of her shoulders. ‘Probably not...’

  ‘So you had a lucky escape.’

  She met his eyes across the table. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For making me come out tonight.’ She twisted her mouth. ‘For making me face my demons, so to speak.’

  ‘You mean the one who’s too cowardly to come out of the kitchen and say a simple hello to you?’ Rafe said. ‘Maybe I should think twice about asking him to cook for me while I’m staying at the manor.’

  She jerked upright in her chair. ‘You can’t ask him!’

  He picked up his glass and took a leisurely sip. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because...because I’d like to do it.’

  Rafe arched an eyebrow at her. ‘You’ve changed your mind?’

  She gave a little toss of her head, which made one of her curls bounce out of its restraining clip. She tucked it behind her ear with one of her hands. ‘It makes sense, since I only live next door. Besides, he’d only be using my recipes. I might as well get the credit for them.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And I need the money.’

  ‘Things have been pretty lean in spite of what you told Morgan, haven’t they?’

  Her brow crinkled in a frown. ‘I know I’m not very good at the business side of things. Chloe’s always telling me I’m too generous and give way too much credit to people who could pay if I made them.’

  ‘So why a tearoom?’ he asked. ‘Why not a regular restaurant?’

  ‘I knew I wanted to open a tearoom when I was about ten. My gran had taught me how to cook and I loved being in the kitchen with her. I thought I should do the right thing and get a proper qualification, but it was very different being in the kitchen in a busy Soho restaurant.’

  ‘So you came back to look after your gran when she got sick.’

  ‘Yes, and I don’t regret it for a moment.’

  Rafe couldn’t help admiring her loyalty and devotion. It was so at odds with how he felt about his grandfather. He couldn’t wait to get away from him, and loathed having to visit to fulfil his familial duty, such as for birthdays and at Christmas. He rarely spoke to him unless he had to. ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘I do...’ She ran
her fingertip round the rim of her champagne flute. ‘Do you know what I miss the most?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Her caramel eyes met his with deep, dark seriousness. ‘Her chocolate brownies.’

  Rafe blinked. ‘Pardon?’

  She gave him an impish smile. ‘Just kidding. I really had you there for a minute, didn’t I?’

  You had me the first moment I met you.

  Hang on, what was he thinking? Had him? Had him in what way? Sure, he was attracted to her. What full-blooded man wouldn’t be? But she wasn’t his type. She was the homespun type. He was the hardboiled, been-around-the-block-too-many-times type. His world was of fast cars, fancy hot spots and easy women who knew the rules and always played by them.

  Her world was a small, out-of-the-way village, baking cakes and scones and making cups of tea for lonely old gentlemen while waiting for Mr Right.

  She was innocent and sweet; he was jaded and cynical.

  It was a recipe for disaster.

  ‘I miss her for her wisdom,’ Poppy went on. ‘She taught me more about food and cooking than any hospitality college could do. The thing most people don’t get about cooking is it’s not just a collection of ingredients, and hey presto, out comes a five-star meal. It’s so much more than that.’

  ‘So what does make a meal special?’

  ‘The love that goes into it.’

  ‘Love?’

  ‘The best restaurants are where the chefs love the food they prepare and the people they feed,’ she said. ‘It’s a symbiotic relationship.’

  ‘So what you’re telling me is you actually love the people who come to your tearoom?’

  She gave him a pert look. ‘Maybe not all of them.’

  Rafe laughed. ‘So what do I have to do to win your love? Have my cake and eat it too?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t want my love. You just want my house.’

  I want much more than your house.

  Rafe pushed the thought aside as Morgan approached with their meals. He had to stay focused. The goal was the dower house; that was what he was after. He didn’t want or need anything else. He wouldn’t be around long enough to invest in anything other than building a top-notch hotel that would make him loads and loads of money.

  Goal.

  Focus.

  Win.

  Sure, it would be fun to have Poppy Silverton in his bed for the short time he was here, but he wasn’t about to offer her anything else. She was looking for her fairy-tale prince, someone to sweep her off her feet and carrying her off into a happy-ever-after sunset.

  Rafe’s princely attributes leaned more to the darker side.

  That whole domestic scene women like Poppy were after was nothing like the life he had carved for himself. He didn’t do picket fences, puppies and sweet-smelling babies. He was never in the same place more than a week or two. He never stayed with a lover more than a month; six weeks max. He didn’t do commitment. Maybe he was more like his grandfather than he cared to admit.

  Not evil, but not squeaky-clean either.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AFTER THEY LEFT the restaurant, Rafe drove Poppy back home and walked her to the front door of the dower house. She hadn’t expected to enjoy the night out, but Rafe had been nothing but charming, and even though Oliver’s restaurant wouldn’t have been her first choice of venue, in the end it had given her a sense of closure.

  But it niggled at her that yet again Rafe had achieved what he’d set out to achieve. He’d got her to agree to cook for him while he stayed on site at Dalrymple Manor. It showed how incredibly shrewd he was. He knew how to turn things to his advantage, to find an opponent’s weak spot and then go in for the kill.

  And she’d done exactly as he had hoped she would do. She had snapped up the bait and now was committed to seeing him every night as she delivered his food to his door. Was she so predictable, or was he particularly clever at reading her?

  Poppy turned to face him on her doorstep. ‘Do you have any preferences for meals? Any particular cuisine you’d prefer over another or are you happy with whatever I come up with?’

  His dark eyes flicked to her mouth for a brief moment. ‘That’s not why I asked you out tonight.’

  She arched a brow at him. ‘Is it not?’

  ‘No.’ His voice seemed deeper than normal, almost husky.

  Poppy’s eyes were almost on a level with his as she was standing two steps above him, and she was wearing her highest heels. She could see the wide black circles of his pupils in those impossibly deep brown eyes. She could see the way his lips were pressed firmly together as if he was fighting some sort of private internal battle. She could sense the tension in him and in the fragrant night air that circled them. ‘Then why?’

  ‘I asked you out so I could sleep with you.’

  Poppy’s eyes widened at his blunt honesty. ‘You don’t pull your punches, do you?’

  His mouth tilted wryly. ‘Your honour is safe, Poppy. I’m not going to have my wicked way with you tonight.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring.’ It was downright disappointing, but to admit that to him would be rather perverse of her.

  He captured one of her loose corkscrew curls and wound it round his finger, his eyes holding hers in an intimate lock that made the base of her spine tingle like sherbet sprinkled in a glass of soda water. ‘I had it all planned. I was going to wine and dine you, flatter you with compliments and then bring you back here and have wild, bed-wrecking sex with you.’

  Poppy swallowed a gulp. ‘Y-you were?’

  He unwound her hair and tucked it neatly behind her left ear as if she was about seven years old. ‘You’re a nice girl, Poppy Silverton. But here’s the thing... I don’t mess with nice girls.’

  Mess with me! Mess with me! ‘So...what changed your mind?’

  ‘I’ve had more lovers than you’ve cooked hot dinners,’ he said. ‘I don’t even remember most of their names.’

  ‘I bet they don’t forget yours in a hurry.’

  He gave a rather Gallic shrug, as if to say that was just the way things were. ‘I’m not what you’re looking for. It would be wrong to give you the wrong impression or mislead you into thinking any alliance between us could turn into something more permanent.’

  ‘You’re surprisingly honourable for a playboy.’

  He brushed the underside of her chin with his index finger in a barely touching movement that set every nerve alight with longing. ‘Bonsoir, ma petite.’

  Poppy snatched in a scratchy little breath as she watched him walk down the path to his car. She’d been expecting another kiss. Her anticipation of it had been building from the moment they had left the restaurant. Actually, it had been building from the moment he had picked her up that evening and looked at her as if she had just stepped off a Paris catwalk. She wanted to feel that firm, cynical mouth pressed against hers again. She had been staring at his mouth all evening, wondering when he was going to do it. Maybe she should have taken matters into her own hands. What would have been wrong with a quick peck on the lips to thank him for a lovely night out?

  It wouldn’t have been a quick peck, that was why.

  Once his mouth connected with hers another explosion would be detonated, and this time one or both of them might not be able to step back. Hadn’t she felt that simmering tension from the very first moment he had walked into her tearoom? She had never experienced anything like it before. It was a rhythm in her body that only he was able to set going. For all these years she had been waiting for the right man to unlock her senses. She had wanted to find someone who could make her heart race; someone who could make her skin sing with longing; someone who could make her sizzle with a desire so unstoppable it would totally consume her. Hadn’t his potently hot kiss given her a taste of what he was capa
ble of doing to her?

  She wasn’t without an understanding of the workings of her body. She had explored it and had been rather fascinated by how it reacted to stimulation. But she thought of sex as being like sightseeing—it was far more pleasurable to see the spectacular sights with someone else rather than all on your own.

  He had said he wasn’t going to act on his desire for her. Did he mean just for tonight, or never? She had seen the way his eyes had been drawn to her mouth time and time again, as if he was remembering how it felt beneath his own. Was he going just to ignore the pull of attraction that pulsed between them? He might have the strength of will to do it, but Poppy wasn’t so sure she could. At least, not for much longer.

  * * *

  Chloe was agog when she came bursting through the door of the tearoom the next morning. ‘Have you seen the paper?’ She thrust a tabloid in front of Poppy. ‘Everyone’s saying you’re Rafe Caffarelli’s new love interest. That was fast work! I thought you didn’t even like him. What the hell happened last night? Did you sleep with him?’

  Poppy snatched the paper out of Chloe’s hands. ‘Of course I didn’t sleep with him. I didn’t even kiss him. We had dinner, that’s all.’

  She looked down at the society section Chloe had opened. There was a photo of them sitting at the table last night. Rafe’s hand was covering hers and their gazes were locked as if in a deeply intimate conversation.

  ‘So?’ Chloe prompted.

  Poppy closed the paper and handed it back to her. ‘So nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Zilch.’

  Chloe’s brow was knitted. ‘Not even a kiss?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘A peck on the cheek?’

  ‘No.’

  Chloe pursed her lips in thought. ‘Did you have an argument with him or something?’

  ‘No. In fact I agreed to provide meals for him while he’s here.’