Tempted By A Caffarelli. Melanie Milburne
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you’re here.’
He lazily arched a brow at her. ‘I came in here for coffee.’
Her eyes flashed at him; there was no mistaking it this time. They were like twin bolts of lightning at they clashed with his. ‘You did not. You came to scope out the territory. You came to size up the opposition. I know who you are.’
He gave her one of his disarming smiles, the sort of smile that had closed more business deals and opened more bedroom doors than he could count. ‘I came here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’ He leaned back in the chair; confident he would find her price and nail this in one fell swoop. ‘How much do you want for the dower house?’
She eyeballed him. ‘It’s not for sale.’
Rafe felt a stirring of excitement in his blood. So, she was going to play hard to get, was she? He would enjoy getting her to capitulate. He thrived on challenges, the harder the better—the more satisfying.
Failure wasn’t a word he allowed in his vocabulary.
He would win this.
He gave her a sizing-up look, taking in her flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. He knew what she was doing—ramping up the price to get as much as she could out of him.
So predictable.
‘How much to get you to change your mind?’
Her eyes narrowed to hairpin-thin slits as she planted her hands on the table right in front of him so firmly his fine-bone china cup rattled in its saucer. ‘Let’s get something straight right from the get-go, Mr Caffarelli: you can’t buy me.’
He took a leisurely glance at the delectable shadow between her breasts before he met her feisty gaze with his cool one. ‘You misunderstand me, Miss Silverton. I don’t want you. I just want your house.’
Her cheeks were bright red with angry defiance as she glared at him. ‘You’re not getting it.’
Rafe felt a quiver of primal, earthy lust rumble through his blood that set off a shivery sensation all the way to his groin. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had said no to him. It spoke to everything that was alpha in him. This was going to be much more fun that he’d thought.
He would not stop until he got that house, and her with it.
He rose to his feet and she jerked backwards as if he had just breathed a dragon’s tongue of fire on her. ‘But I will.’ He laid a fifty-pound note on the table between them, locking his gaze with her fiery one. ‘That’s for the coffee. Keep the change.’
‘GRRHH!’ POPPY SHOVED the kitchen door open so hard it crashed back against the wall. ‘I can’t believe the gall of that man. He thought he could just waltz in here, wave a big fat wad of notes under my nose and I’d sell my house to him. How...how arrogant is that?’
Chloe’s blue eyes were wider than the plates she’d been pretending to put away. ‘What the hell happened out there? I thought you were going to punch him.’
Poppy glowered at her. ‘He’s the most detestable man I’ve ever met. I will never sell my house to him. Do you hear me? Never.’
‘How much was he offering?’
Poppy scowled. ‘What’s that got to with anything? It wouldn’t matter if he offered me gazillions—I wouldn’t take it.’
‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing here?’ Chloe asked. ‘I know your house has a lot of sentimental value because of living there with your gran and all, but your circumstances have changed. She wouldn’t expect you to turn down a fortune just because of a few memories.’
‘It’s not just about the memories,’ Poppy said. ‘It’s the only home I’ve ever known. Lord Dalrymple left it to Gran and me. I can’t just sell it as if it’s a piece of furniture I don’t want.’
‘Seriously, though, what about the bills?’ Chloe asked with a worried little frown.
Poppy tried to ignore the gnawing panic that was eating away her stomach lining like caustic soda on satin. Worrying about how she was going to pay the next month’s rent on the tearoom had kept her awake for three nights in a row. Her savings had taken a hit after paying for her gran’s funeral, and she had been playing catch-up ever since. Bills kept coming through the post, one after the other. She’d had no idea owning your own home could be so expensive. And, if Oliver’s rival restaurant hadn’t impinged on things enough, one of her little rescue dogs, Pickles, had needed a cruciate ligament repair. The vet had charged her mate’s rates but it had still made a sizable dent in her bank account. ‘I’ve got things under control.’
Chloe looked doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t burn too many bridges just yet. Things have been pretty slow for spring. We only sold one Devonshire tea this morning. I’ll have to freeze the scones.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ Poppy said. ‘I’ll take them to Connie Burton. Her three boys will soon demolish them.’
‘That’s half your problem, you know,’ Chloe said. ‘You run this place like a charity instead of a business. You’re too soft-hearted.’
Poppy ground her teeth as she started rummaging in the stationery drawer. ‘I’m not accepting his charity.’ She located an envelope and stuffed the change from the coffee into it. ‘I’m handing his tip back to him as soon as I finish here.’
‘He tipped you?’
‘He insulted me.’
Chloe’s expression was incredulous. ‘By leaving you a fifty-pound note for an espresso? I reckon we could do with a few more customers like him.’
Poppy sealed the envelope as if it contained something toxic and deadly. ‘You know what? I’m not going to wait until I finish work to give this to him. I’m going to take it to him right now. Be a honey and close up for me?’
‘Is he staying at the manor?’
‘I’m assuming so,’ Poppy said. ‘Where else would he stay? It’s not as if we have any five-star hotels in the village.’
Chloe gave her a wry look. ‘Not yet.’
Poppy set her mouth and snatched up her keys. ‘If Mr Caffarelli thinks he’s going to build one of his playboy mansions here, then it will be over my dead body.’
* * *
Rafe was in the formal sitting room inspecting some water damage near one of the windows when he saw Poppy Silverton come stomping up the long gravel driveway towards the manor. Her cloud of curly hair—now free of her cute little mobcap—was bouncing as she went, her hands were going like two metronome arms by her sides and in one hand she was carrying a white envelope.
He smiled.
So predictable.
He waited until she had knocked a couple of times before he opened the door. ‘How delightful,’ he drawled as he looked down at her flushed heart-shaped face and sparkling brown eyes. ‘My very first visitor. Aren’t I supposed to carry you over the threshold or something?’
She gave him a withering look. ‘This is your change.’ She shoved the envelope towards his chest.
Rafe ignored the envelope. ‘You Brits really have a problem with tipping, don’t you?’
Her pretty little mouth flattened. ‘I’m not accepting anything from you.’ She pushed the envelope towards him again. ‘Here. Take it.’
He folded his arms across his chest and gave her a taunting smile. ‘No.’
Her eyes pulsed and flashed with loathing. He wondered for a moment whether she was going to slap him. He found himself hoping she would, for it would mean he