Never Underestimate a Caffarelli

‘Why did you take on this job?’

The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. ‘Your brother requested me. He’d heard about my success with another client. My manager at the clinic encouraged me to take the post and the money was...um...very good.’

‘I got the impression from my brother that he had to work rather hard to convince you to come here.’

Her gaze moved away from his as she picked up her spoon. ‘I don’t usually work with male clients.’

Raoul felt a pique of interest. ‘Why is that?’

She scooped up a portion of the soup but didn’t manage to bring any of it to her mouth. ‘I find them...’ She seemed to be searching for the right word. ‘Difficult to work with.’

‘Uncooperative, you mean?’

She moistened her mouth again. ‘It’s hard for anyone to suffer a major injury—male, female, child or adult. I find that generally women and girls are more willing to accept help and to work within their limitations.’

Raoul watched her for a moment or two, the way she toyed with her food and kept her eyes averted from his. Her cheeks still had two tiny spots of colour high on her cheekbones. Her teeth kept coming back to savage her bottom lip and there was a little pleat of a frown between those incredibly blue eyes. His gaze went to her hands—they were small and slim-fingered and her nails had been bitten down almost to the quick.

‘You don’t seem to be enjoying that soup. Would you like me to ask Dominique to get you something else?’

She met his gaze and gave him a tremulous smile but it was so fleeting it made him long to see it again and for longer. ‘No, it’s fine.... I’m just not very hungry. It’s been a very long day.’

Raoul felt a faint twinge of remorse. He certainly hadn’t laid on the Caffarelli charm he and his brothers were famous for. What if he allowed her to stay for a week to see if there was anything she could do for him? It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do right now. At least it would be a distraction from the humdrum pattern his once vibrantly active life had been whittled down to. What did he have to lose? If she was a fraud, he would expose her. If she had something to offer, it would be win-win.

‘I have a hypothetical question for you. If I agreed to have you here for the next month, what would you do with me?’

A light pink blush stole over her cheeks. ‘Your brother told me you have a gym here. I’d work on some structured exercises to start with. We’d start slowly and gradually build up. It would depend on what you could do. It’s tricky, given you’ve got a broken arm, but I’m sure I could work around that.’

‘What else?’

‘I’d like to have a look at your diet.’

‘I eat a balanced diet.’

She glanced at his almost empty wine glass, her mouth set in a reproving line. ‘Yes, well, there’s always room for improvement. Do you take any supplements?’

‘Vitamins, you mean?’

‘Yes. Things like fish oil, glucosamine, vitamin D—that sort of thing. Studies have shown they help in the repair of muscles and tissues and can even halt the progress of osteoarthritic change in your joints.’

He gave a bark of scorn. ‘For God’s sake, Miss Archer, I’m not arthritic. I’m only thirty-four years old.’

Her small chin came up. ‘Preventative health measures are worth considering no matter what your age.’

Raoul pinned her with his gaze. ‘How old are you?’

Her frown came back but even deeper this time and she seemed to hesitate over her reply. ‘I’m...I’m...twenty-six.’

‘You looked like you had to think about it for a moment.’

She gave a tight movement of her lips that didn’t even come close to being a smile. ‘I’m not keen on keeping a record on birthdays. What woman is?’

‘You’re very young to be worrying about that,’ Raoul said. ‘Once you’re over thirty, or even forty, it might be more of an issue, but you’re still a baby.’

She looked down at the soup in her bowl, that same little frown pulling at her forehead. ‘My father died on my birthday when I was seven years old. It’s not a day I’m used to celebrating.’

Raoul thought of the tragic death of his parents so close to his own birthday. Rafe had been ten; he had been eight, just about to turn nine, and Remy only seven. His parents’ funeral had been on Raoul’s birthday. It had been the worst birthday present anyone could imagine—to follow those flower-covered coffins into the cathedral, to feel that collective grief pressing down on him, to hear those mournful tunes as the choir sang.