Never Underestimate a Caffarelli (Those Scandalous Caffarellis 2)

That girl had got her into trouble.

This one would keep her out of it.

When Lily came back to the dining room, the housekeeper was clearing away the plates. ‘Monsieur Raoul has retired for the night,’ Dominique said, looking up from her task of placing their used glasses on a silver tray.

‘Oh...’ Lily wasn’t sure why she felt a little tweak of disappointment. It wasn’t as if she had been expecting him to entertain her. The fact that he’d joined her at table was surprising in itself, given how tetchy he’d been to find out his brother had brought her here. But to leave without even saying goodnight seemed a bit rude. Was it his way of showing her he was still in control of some aspects of his life? Was he reminding her of her place here? She was just an employee, one he hadn’t even wanted to hire.

‘Would you care for a coffee in the salon?’ Dominique asked.

‘Coffee will be lovely.’ She stepped forward. ‘Can I help you with that tray?’

Dominique smiled. ‘You are here to work for Monsieur Raoul, not to help me. But thank you for offering. I will bring your coffee to you shortly.’

Lily gnawed at her lip as she made her way to the salon. Why had Raoul changed his mind about having her here? He had said he would give her a week’s trial and then reassess.

But what exactly would he be assessing?

* * *

Raoul tried to concentrate on some bloodlines on the computer in his study. There was a thoroughbred sale in Ireland he went to every year, but how could he turn up to it like this? It was the most humiliating thing of all, to be so helpless that he couldn’t operate his chair with both hands, but until this arm healed he was stuck with it. He had not realised how dominant his right arm was until he had lost the use of it.

As for his legs... He tried to wriggle his toes but it was as if the message from his brain was delayed. He gripped his thigh with his left hand, digging his fingers in to see if the sensation was any stronger than the day before, but it was still patchy and dull in some places.

He let out a frustrated breath and clicked off the website he’d been reading. He felt restless and on edge. He couldn’t help thinking of his future yawning out before him like a wide, deep, echoing canyon. Long, lonely nights sitting in front of the computer, or drinking his way to the bottom of the bottle, waiting for someone to fetch and carry for him.

He knew he was better off than most. He knew it intellectually, but on an emotional level he couldn’t accept it—wasn’t ready to accept it. He wasn’t even close to accepting it. He didn’t want to spend his life looking up at people, watching them get on with their lives while his was stuck on pause. He was used to every head turning when he walked into a room. He and his brothers had been blessed with the good looks, height and build of their Caffarelli forefathers. He wasn’t any more vain than Rafe or Remy were but he knew no one would look at him the same way while he was sitting in this damn chair.

He thought back to Clarissa’s visit at the hospital. She had barely been able to meet his gaze, yet only days before she had been lying in his arms, her limbs entangled with his.

Now his limbs were as good as useless.

He punched his thigh, as if that would make the nerves inside wake up and take notice. He punched and punched until the heel of his hand was sore, but it made no difference. He raked his throbbing hand through the messy tangle of his hair, vaguely registering that he needed a haircut.

Emotions he had locked down centuries ago rumbled like the tremor of a mighty earthquake inside him. He hadn’t cried since he was kid. Not in public; oh, no, not even in front of his brothers, especially Rafe, who had so stalwartly, so unflinchingly modelled courage, strength and stoicism from the moment they had found out they had been orphaned. He still remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with Rafe at their parents’ funeral. He had been determined not to cry. And he hadn’t. Remy had been sobbing out of bewilderment and Rafe had gathered him close. He had offered Raoul his other arm but he had shrugged it off.

Raoul had waited until he was alone to vent his feelings. He always went to ground when he had to deal with things. He didn’t need people around, offering their useless platitudes and pitying looks.

But now he had Miss Lily Archer inside his bunker.

He pushed back from his desk and motored his chair to the door, but just as he was coming out of it he saw Lily coming up the corridor. She had her head down and her arms folded across her middle as if she was keeping herself tightly contained. She must have heard the faint whirr of his chair for she suddenly looked up and stopped in her tracks, her cheeks pooling with a faint blush of colour.

‘I—I thought you’d gone to bed.’

‘Not yet,’ Raoul said. ‘I refuse to lie down before eleven o’clock and even that’s far too early for me.’

Her blush deepened a fraction but the tone of her voice was starchy and disapproving. ‘I’m sure it is.’

‘Are you a night owl, Miss Archer?’

‘No.’

Her answer was so quick and so definitive. Every moment he spent with her piqued his interest a little bit more. What was going on behind the bottomless lake of those dark blue eyes? What was it with her stiff, school-marm formality? He couldn’t help imagining her without that layer of dowdy, shapeless clothes. She was on the slim side, but even so he could see the jut of her small but shapely breasts beneath that sack of a dress.

What would she look like in a swimsuit?

What would she look like naked?

‘Would you care to join me in a nightcap?’ he asked.