Rafe settled her in the car before he got behind the wheel. ‘So, three months since your last date?’
‘Chloe had no right to tell you that.’
‘I’m glad she told me. I wouldn’t want to be cutting in on anyone’s territory.’
She sent him a narrow-eyed look. ‘This isn’t a date.’
‘What is it then?’
She clutched her purse tightly on her lap. ‘It’s just a dinner between two...um...’
‘Friends?’
‘Associates.’
Rafe gave a little chuckle of amusement. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t say enemies. I must be improving a little in your estimation.’
‘Not that much.’
‘Come now, Poppy,’ he chided. ‘Let’s not spoil our first date with bickering like children.’
‘It’s not a date!’
Rafe smiled as he pulled into a space outside the restaurant. ‘Sure it’s not.’
* * *
Poppy forced herself to stop scowling as she entered the restaurant with Rafe. She also had to stop herself from shivering in reaction when he put a gentle guiding hand to the small of her back. The electric sensation of his touch burned through the fabric of her dress. The sharp, citrusy scent of him made her nostrils flare. He was dressed in a dark-grey suit but he hadn’t bothered with a tie. His shirt was a pale shade of blue, which brought out the olive tone of his skin. He was simply the most gorgeous man she had ever laid eyes on.
But it wasn’t just his looks. It was the way he carried himself that was equally attractive. He had a commanding presence, an aura of authority that made people stop in their tracks.
The maître d’ was a case in point. Poppy watched as Oliver’s new girlfriend Morgan practically swooned when she came over to greet Rafe. ‘Mr Caffarelli, it’s wonderful to welcome you here,’ she gushed. ‘We’ve saved the very best table for you.’ She cast a cooler look towards Poppy. ‘Hi, Poppy. How’s the teashop going?’
‘Hello, Morgan,’ Poppy said. ‘It’s going just fine. We’ve been flat out just lately. I’ve been run off my feet.’
Morgan gave a tight smile. ‘Come this way.’
Once they were seated at their table and Morgan had left them with menus, Rafe raised his brows at Poppy. ‘Friend or foe?’ he asked.
Poppy picked up the menu with a huffy shrug of one shoulder. ‘I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.’
‘Let me guess.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
He leaned forward and pushed the menu she was using as a screen down with his index finger so he could mesh his gaze with hers. ‘The guy who runs this place...Oliver Kentridge...he and you were an item, what, about three months ago?’
Poppy pressed her lips together without responding.
‘And the Morag girl—’
‘Morgan.’
‘Sorry, Morgan—is the one who lured him away from you, right?’
Poppy let out a breath that sent her stiff shoulders down in a little slump. ‘I don’t think it’s fair to blame Morgan for all of it. Oliver wasn’t getting what he wanted from me so he went to her. If he cared about me he wouldn’t have strayed. Obviously he didn’t care enough.’
A little pleat of a frown pulled the skin together over his eyes. ‘What wasn’t he getting from you?’
Poppy shifted in her seat. This wasn’t exactly the conversation one had in a public restaurant, was it? Not that anyone was sitting nearby, but still... ‘Um...’
‘Sex?’
She looked at his incredulous expression and felt a blush steal over her cheeks. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘You refused to have sex with him?’
Poppy leaned forward and hissed at him, ‘Will you please keep your voice down?’
He leaned forward as well, resting his forearms on the table so his hands were within reach of hers. His gaze was very dark and very focused as it held hers. ‘How long had you been going out?’
‘A couple of months.’
His frown deepened. ‘So what was the problem? You didn’t fancy him or something?’
‘I sort of did.’
‘What does that mean?’
Poppy gave a helpless shrug. ‘I think I wanted it to be more than it actually was... Our relationship, I mean. I was lonely after my gran died. I wanted to be with someone. I’d known Oliver for years. He was one of the guys I’d gone to school with. We had a lot in common, or so I thought. We both moved to London to do hospitality training. When he came back a few months ago we sort of got together.’
‘So why didn’t you sleep with him?’
Somehow one of his hands had found one of hers. Poppy looked down at the way his long, tanned fingers had curled around her lighter-toned ones, creating a circle of intimacy that would make any onlookers automatically assume their relationship was a sexual one. It made an involuntary shiver trickle down her spine. It made a liquid heat pulse between her thighs.
She took a scatty little breath. ‘I wanted to wait a bit...’
‘For what?’
‘To see if the chemistry was right.’
‘Clearly it wasn’t.’
‘No...’
The approach of Morgan with the list of the day’s specials put a pause on the conversation. But, instead of leaning back in his chair, Rafe kept hold of Poppy’s hand across the table. She was conscious of his warm, dry fingers curled around hers in an embrace that had an undercurrent of sensuality to it. She felt the slow stroke of his thumb against the underside of her wrist. It was a mesmerising movement that stirred her blood to fever pitch.
Morgan’s eyes went to their joined hands before she addressed Rafe. ‘Would you care for a pre-dinner drink?’
‘Champagne,’ Rafe said with an easy smile. ‘Bring us your best.’
Morgan’s eyes widened but she maintained her professional stance and nodded.
Poppy looked at him pointedly once Morgan had left. ‘Champagne?’
He gave her a twinkling look that was devastatingly attractive. ‘I finally convinced you to go out on a date with me. I think that’s worth celebrating, don’t you?’
‘You didn’t convince me.’ She gave him a slitted look. ‘You coerced me.’
He brought her hand up to his mouth, holding it against the slight graze of his newly shaven chin, causing a frisson of delight to pass through her entire body from head to toe. ‘You wanted to come. Go on—admit it. You wouldn’t be here now if you didn’t. You would’ve found some excuse or slammed the door in my face when I arrived to pick you up. But no, you were ready and waiting for me.’
Poppy was annoyed with herself for being so predictable. Why hadn’t she slammed the door in his face? ‘I don’t trust you, that’s why. How do I know you’re not going to suddenly change your mind about the rent?’
‘Because that’s not the way I do business.’
‘But a teashop is hardly at the top of your list of must-be-acquired assets,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing like your normal investments.’
‘I’m all for a bit of diversifying.’
Poppy tried to read his expression but he was a master at keeping his cards close to his chest. She knew she was a novelty to him, hence the little quip about diversifying. She was probably the first woman who had ever said no to him. The trouble was she wasn’t sure how much longer she could say no. Even now her eyes kept tracking to his mouth. She had felt his smile against the sensitive skin of her hand and it had set every nerve fizzing. What would it feel like to have that mouth press against hers again? Was that where tonight was heading?
Would he settle for just a kiss this time?
Would she settle for just a kiss?
Expectation, excitement, nervousness and anticip
ation were a heady mix in her bloodstream.
Would he expect more than a kiss?
There was no denying the chemistry that sizzled between them. It had been there right from the moment he had walked through the door of her tearoom. The problem was, what was she going to do about it?
Morgan came out with their champagne. ‘So, what are we celebrating?’ she asked as she popped the cork.
Rafe gave her another laid-back smile. ‘Nothing special—just dinner between friends.’
Morgan’s expression was sour around the edges as she directed her gaze to Poppy’s. ‘I didn’t realise you moved in such elevated circles. There’s been nothing in the press about you being involved with each other.’
Rafe’s hand tightened warningly as it covered Poppy’s. ‘We’re trying to keep a low profile. We’d appreciate your discretion.’
‘Of course.’ Morgan gave another one of her stiff smiles before she left.
Poppy glowered at him. ‘What the hell are you doing? She’ll phone the nearest journalist and give an exclusive. I bet she’ll even tell them what we ate and drank.’
‘So?’
‘So? How can you be so casual about this? You deliberately gave her the impression we were seeing each other. I’ll be laughed at and mocked in the press. I’m nothing like the women you usually date. Everyone will make horrible comments about me and call me a gold-digger or something equally offensive.’
Just like they had done to her mother.
Poppy had found some of the news clippings in her gran’s things after she had died. It had been devastating to find out a little more of her mother’s back story. How a normal, mostly sensible girl had been lured into a rich man’s world and dropped when she’d ceased to be of interest to him. Poppy was sure that was what had shattered her mother—the public humiliation of being rejected, discarded like a toy that no longer held any appeal. Poppy’s playboy father had denied paternity when her mother had told him she was pregnant, and in those days it hadn’t been as easy to prove or disprove as it was today when you could buy a testing kit online. Her mother had been painted as a social-climbing, gold-digging slut who wanted to land herself a rich husband.
Wouldn’t the same be said about Poppy if she were seen in the press with Rafe Caffarelli?
‘Why are you so worried about what people will think?’ he asked.
Poppy chewed at her lower lip. ‘It’s all right for you. You’re used to it. I bet hardly a day goes by without an article appearing somewhere with you at the centre of it. I hate having my photo taken even when I’m prepared for it. Some unscrupulous photographer will probably catch me off-guard with parsley stuck in my teeth, or without make-up, or dressed in my shabbiest tracksuit or something.’
He was looking at her with a smile tilting the edge of his mouth. ‘I quite liked how you looked in that tracksuit the other night.’
‘It had lint balls all over it.’
‘I think you looked stunning in it.’
Poppy picked up her champagne flute for something to do with her hands. He was lethally charming in this playful, flirty mood. But she mustn’t forget she had something he wanted—the dower house. He had tried other means to get her to sell it to him. Maybe this new approach was nothing to do with how attractive or unique or cute he found her, but rather another clever ploy of his to achieve his goal. ‘I suppose you think that if you flatter me enough I’ll change my mind and sell you my house?’
‘I think you’re mistaking my motives.’
She gave him an arch look. ‘Oh really? So you’re going to sit there and tell me you asked me out to dinner, not as a ploy to get me to change my mind, but just because you find my company scintillating?’
That sexy half-smile was still lurking around the edges of his mouth. ‘I find your company electrifying. You’re so unlike anyone I’ve ever met before.’
Poppy felt her belly do a complicated tumble turn as his wicked gaze held hers. ‘I guess I must be even more of a challenge to you now.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because I’m...you know...what I told you before.’
He cocked his head quizzically. ‘What did you tell me before?’
Poppy blew out a breath. Did she really have to spell it out for him? She felt the heat of embarrassment ride up from her neck as the silence continued.
Finally, she let out a little breath and dropped the V-bomb. ‘I’m still a virgin.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
RAFE PICKED HIS jaw up from the table where he felt it had dropped. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I told you before...’
‘You told me you hadn’t slept with your ex. You didn’t tell me you hadn’t slept with anyone.’
Her expression was defensive. ‘Go on—call me a dinosaur. Call me a pariah.’
Rafe couldn’t get his head around it. He had slept with dozens of women and not one of them had ever been without experience. Some had had much more than him, particularly those he had slept with in his teens.
He liked to think he didn’t operate a double-standard; he liked to think he was as twenty-first-century, open and progressive about sex as everyone else. But something about Poppy’s inexperience struck a chord of something terribly old-fashioned deep inside him that he hadn’t even been aware of possessing until now.
A virgin.
In this day and age!
Rafe looked at her taking careful sips of her champagne, her toffee-brown gaze meeting his every now and again, as if she was trying to act normal in a totally abnormal situation. Or at least, it was abnormal for him.
He had the routine down pat: dinner and sex. It was a combo that always worked. He couldn’t remember a time when it hadn’t.
He always got the girl.
But Poppy Silverton was another story. From the moment he had walked into that tearoom of hers he had seen her as the enemy that he would eventually conquer, but somehow she had the edge on him now. It was laughably ironic. He was known for his steely determination, for his merciless intent, yet in this case he felt totally ambushed.
He had not seen this coming. He had been totally unprepared for it. She was the most fascinating and intriguing woman he had ever encountered.
And she hated him.
OK, so that was a minor problem, but he could work on that—get to know her, charm her a little and get her to feel a little more comfortable around him.
Get her to sell him her house.
That was still his goal. Nothing was going to sway him from it. He didn’t back down from his goals, not for anyone. He wanted that house because without it the Dalrymple Estate would not be complete. He didn’t do things in half-measures. When he set his sights on something he got it. It didn’t matter what or who was standing in the way of it. The fact that a mere slip of a red-haired girl was standing in his way was immaterial. There had to be a way around this so he could win.
He always won.
Losing would be playing into his grandfather’s belief about him—that he was not good enough, not strong enough to withstand the opposition. Vittorio had instilled in him and his brothers the sense that, like their late father, they were just paltry imitations of him. That he was the patriarch that no one could or would dare to outshine.
His grandfather’s arrogance had fuelled Rafe’s determination since childhood. It was like a river of steel in his blood. He abhorred failure. It was a word that didn’t exist in his mind, let alone his vocabulary.
Rafe wasn’t supposed to like his enemy. He wasn’t supposed to respect her, or be intrigued by her, or want her like he had wanted no other woman. Desire was a pulsating force inside him even now. Just watching the way her lips cupped around the rim of her glass as she sipped from her champagne flute made him hard. He watched the rise and fall of her slim throat as she s
wallowed and wondered what it would feel like to have those rosy-red lips suck on him, to bring him to the brink of primal pleasure...
‘So how did you get to the age of...?’
‘Twenty-five.’
Twenty-five! He’d lost count of the number of lovers he’d had by the age of twenty, let alone twenty-five. ‘How did you get to that age without having sex?’
‘I didn’t want to end up like my mother, falling for the first guy who paid her a compliment,’ she said. ‘I guess it made me overly cautious. I just wanted to be sure my first time was with the right person. It’s not that I’m hankering after a wedding ring or anything. And it’s not because of religious beliefs, although I have a lot of respect for those who have them.’
Rafe wished he could say the same. But the God of his childhood hadn’t answered his prayers the day his parents had been killed. He had felt alone in the universe that day and the feeling had never quite left him. ‘I don’t think you’re a pariah at all,’ he said. ‘I also think there’s nothing wrong in being selective about who you sleep with. To tell you the truth, I wish I’d been a bit more selective at times.’
She gave him a tiny ‘let’s change the subject’ smile. ‘What do your brothers do?’
Making neutral conversation was good. He could do that. ‘Raoul’s involved in the family business on the investment side of things but he also runs a thoroughbred stud in Normandy. He’s a bit of an extreme sportsman; not only does he ride horses at breakneck speeds, he’s a daredevil skier on both snow and water. And Remy is a business broker. He buys ailing businesses, builds them up and sells them for a profit. He loves his risks too. I guess it’s the gambler in him.’
‘You must be constantly worrying about both of them. I’m almost glad I’m an only child.’
Rafe had survived the loss of his parents but the thought of losing either of his brothers was something that haunted him. They were both so precious to him. He didn’t tell them—he rarely showed his affection for them, or they for him—but he would be truly devastated if anything happened to either of them. Ever since he was ten it had been his responsibility to keep watch over them. ‘We each have our own lives. We try and catch up when we’re in the same country but we don’t interfere with what any of us is doing unless it’s to do with the family business.’
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