Never Say No to a Caffarelli

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 anticipation 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?’