Tempted By A Caffarelli. Melanie Milburne
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pupils began or ended. She could smell the clean, male scent of him—the subtle hint of lemon and lime with an understory of something woody and fresh, like a native pine forest. This close she could see the individual pinpoints of his cleanly shaven jaw. Within a few hours it would be dark and prickly around that sculptured mouth and determined chin. Even now it would rasp if she touched it with the softness of her fingertips...
Poppy curled her fingertips into her palm and shifted her gaze away from his. ‘Right... Well, let’s go and have tea.’
Once the table was set up, Rafe guided her to her seat with a hand at her elbow. Poppy felt another shiver shimmy up her spine at the contact of his skin on hers. She couldn’t recall a time when she had been more acutely aware of a man. Everything about him stirred her senses until she could hardly get her brain to focus on the task at hand.
‘Um...do you take milk?’
‘I don’t know.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Should I?’
‘It rather depends on the type of tea,’ Poppy said. ‘I drink English breakfast with milk, but I drink Earl Grey, Darjeeling, Russian Caravan and Jasmine black. But at the end of the day, it’s all a matter of personal taste.’
‘Give it to me straight, just like my coffee.’
She poured him a cup and watched as he took a taste. He wrinkled up his nose and put the cup back down in its saucer.
‘Well?’
‘It’s a bit flavourless.’
‘Flavourless?’
‘Bland.’
‘It’s the highest quality Ceylon tea, for God’s sake,’ Poppy said. ‘What is wrong with your taste buds?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with my taste buds. I just don’t like tea.’
‘How about if you try it with some milk and sugar?’
‘I’ll try the milk but not the sugar.’ He gave her a heart-stopping smile. ‘I’m sweet enough.’
Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘Here.’ She handed him his cup again. ‘Taste it now.’
He went through the same routine, wrinkling up his nose as he took a tentative sip. He put the cup back down again. ‘Doesn’t float my boat, I’m afraid.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘It’s nondescript.’
‘It’s not nondescript,’ she said. ‘It’s subtle.’
‘It’s just not my cup of tea.’ He flashed her that grin again. ‘Sorry, no pun intended.’
Poppy shook her head at him, trying not to smile. He could be incredibly charming when he put his mind to it. She would have to be careful not to let her guard down. He was the enemy. It wouldn’t do to think of him as anything else. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘That’s what my mother used to say.’
There was something almost wistful about his tone. She wondered if he was close to his family. She picked up her own cup and took a sip. ‘Where do your parents live? In France or Italy?’
The light had gone out of his eyes. ‘They don’t.’
‘Pardon?’
‘They don’t live anywhere. They’re dead. They were killed when I was ten.’
‘I’m sorry...’ Poppy bit her lip. Maybe she should have done a little more research on him. The article she had come across had mentioned nothing about his childhood, only about his playboy status, wealth and the latest lover he’d been with.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘What happened?’
He picked up his teaspoon and began toying with it between his finger and thumb like one would do a pen. ‘They had a high-speed collision with another motorboat on the French Rivera. My mother was killed instantly. My father died in hospital three days later from internal injuries.’
‘I’m so sorry... It must have been a terrible time for you and your brothers.’
A flicker of pain passed through his eyes before he lowered them to look at the spoon he was holding. ‘Yes. It was.’
‘What happened afterwards? I mean...where did you go? Who looked after you and your brothers?’
‘My paternal grandfather took us in.’ He put down the spoon, picked up his teacup and cradled it in his hands.
‘Is he still alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you close to him?’
His lip curled but not in a smile. ‘No one is close to my grandfather.’
Poppy could tell he wasn’t keen to reveal too much about his background. But his cryptic comment about his grandfather was rather intriguing. What sort of man was Vittorio Caffarelli? Had he made the lives of the three bereaved boys even more miserable in his handling and rearing of them? ‘What about your grandmother? Was she involved in your upbringing?’
‘No, she died of cancer when my father was a teenager.’
‘What about your maternal grandparents?’
Rafe turned the cup around in its saucer. ‘They died before I was born.’ He picked up the cup and took a sip, grimacing at the taste before he put it back down again. ‘Tell me about your childhood. You said you lost your parents when you were seven. How did they die?’
Poppy looked down at her hands for a moment as she began folding and refolding her napkin. ‘I never met my father. He deserted my mother before I was born. Apparently she wasn’t good enough for him so he married someone else.’
‘So your grandmother raised you?’
She nodded as she met his gaze again. ‘She was wonderful, stepping in to take care of me after my mother died. I had a good childhood, all things considered. Lord Dalrymple was incredibly kind to me. He was a bit of a recluse but he always had time for me.’
‘Were you disappointed he didn’t leave you and your grandmother the manor as well as the dower house when he died?’
Poppy blinked at him in shock. ‘Of course not. Why would we be? We weren’t blood relatives. My gran was just his housekeeper.’
He gave a shrug of one broad shoulder. ‘Your grandmother worked for him a very long time.’
‘She loved working for him. She loved him.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘Loved him?’
Poppy let out a breath in a little whoosh. ‘I think maybe she did love him a little bit like that. Not that he would ever have noticed. He was living in the past, grieving for his dead wife Clara. But my gran never expected anything from him. She wasn’t like that. It was a total shock to her when he left us the dower house. It was a nice gesture. It meant a lot to her. She’d never owned anything in her life, not even a car. She had grown up dirt poor and relatively uneducated. She’d been a cleaner since she was fifteen. To suddenly find herself the owner of a house was such a dream come true.’
‘It must have been a shock to his family that he left the dower house to his housekeeper and her granddaughter.’
‘Yes, there was a bit of a fuss over the separation of the deeds.’ Poppy looked at him again but his expression was inscrutable. ‘But Lord Dalrymple had made it clear in his will that we were to have it.’
‘And then when she died her share of the house went to you.’
‘Yes.’
There was a loaded silence.
‘It’s just a house, Poppy.’
She threw him