Never Underestimate a Caffarelli

Lily followed the housekeeper into the suite that was decorated in a classical French style. The queen-sized bed was made up in snowy white linen with a fine gold trim that matched the gilt-edged paintwork of the suite. An antique dressing table with a tapestry-covered stool was positioned in front of an ornately framed mirror; there was a chest of drawers on cabriole legs and a discreetly hidden built-in wardrobe lined another wall. The heavily festooned windows overlooked the formal gardens of the estate where neatly clipped hedges, sun-drenched paved terraces and a large bubbling fountain were situated.

‘I hope you’ll be comfortable,’ Dominique said. ‘Dinner will be served at eight. I’m not sure if Monsieur Raoul will join you. He’s not very sociable these days. He spends most of his time in his study or in his room.’

‘How does Monsieur Raoul get up and down the stairs?’ Lily asked. ‘I didn’t see a stair climber on the staircase.’

‘There is a proper lift on the ground floor that goes to all four levels,’ Dominique said. ‘Monsieur Raoul had it installed a few months ago when his grandfather came for a visit after he had a stroke. Not that he got a word of thanks for his effort, mind you. Vittorio Caffarelli is not the nicest person to have around. He spoke to me as if I was the dust under his feet. I had to bite my tongue the whole time he was here.’

Lily was starting to suspect there was a lot more to the Caffarelli dynasty than she had first realised. She had read a bit online about the family—how they had made their wealth in property and a variety of timely and rather clever investments; how Raoul’s parents had been killed in a speedboat accident on the French Riviera when he and his brothers were young. The three boys had been raised by their grandfather but had spent most of their school years at boarding school in England.

Raoul had been born to wealth but brought up with tragedy. And now he had yet another blow to deal with. Not that she had read anything of his injuries in the press, which made her wonder what sort of power the Caffarellis had at their fingertips. But how long would it be before some unscrupulous journalist came hunting for a story? It was certainly a juicy one: a rich man rejected by his fiancée after a freak accident that left him in a wheelchair.

In spite of her dislike of the man, Lily couldn’t help feeling Raoul had been badly treated. Rejection was always hard, but to be cast aside because of injury went against everything she believed in.

What sort of money would be exchanged for a photograph of him now? Was that why he didn’t want anyone he didn’t know here at the château?

‘It is a pity you aren’t staying the month,’ Dominique said. ‘Even without the physical therapy you offer, I think the company would have been good for Monsieur Raoul. He spends too much time on his own.’

Lily found it ironic that she wanted to stay when only days ago she had been hunting for excuses not to come. ‘I can’t force him to let me stay. It’s his call. If he wants to work with me, then I’ll be happy to do it. But he seemed pretty adamant he wanted me out of here.’

‘He might change his mind, oui?’ Dominique said. ‘You took him by surprise. Perhaps he will have a change of heart overnight.’

Lily walked over to the windows when the housekeeper had left and looked at the view over the estate. It was certainly a picturesque setting with its beautiful gardens and lush, seemingly unending fields beyond.

But the brooding man downstairs, who so resented her being here, reminded her that in any paradise there was always the potential for trouble and temptation.

CHAPTER TWO

RAOUL HAD PLANNED on eating alone in his room or not eating at all, but the thought of spending an hour or two with Lily Archer proved to be the greater temptation. He told himself it was because he wanted to keep an eye on her. Who knew what she might be up to when his back was turned? She might be pilfering the silver or stashing away some of his priceless objects while no one was looking—or, even worse, she might be an undercover journalist planted inside the château to get the prize shot of him.

He was still furiously angry with his brother for bringing her here. He’d planned to spend some time out of the public eye, working on his recovery as best he could. What could she offer that hadn’t already been offered by his specialists and doctors? He wanted to be alone to get his head around the possibility that he might never fully recover. He didn’t want people fussing around him. He needed time to process what had happened and how he was going to move forward.

Her understated beauty didn’t fool him for a moment. That was probably all part of her artifice—to trick people into trusting her. Her nondescript clothing had hung off her slim figure as if she was trying to disguise it, and her brown hair had been tied back severely from her make-up-free face.

It was her eyes that had intrigued him, however. They were the most startling shade of blue, dark like slate, and veiled, as if she were hiding something. Eyes were supposed to be the windows to the soul, but he had a feeling Miss Lily Archer’s soul was not for public display.

He heaved himself into his electronic chair even though it annoyed the hell out of him to have to use it. It made him feel even more disabled, hearing that whirring sound as he drove it. He couldn’t wait to get this wretched plaster cast off his right arm. At least then he’d be able to keep his upper body in shape by wheeling himself around in the manual chair.

He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the large mirrors as he drove down the corridor towards the lift. It was like looking at someone else. It looked like someone had hijacked him and put him in someone else’s body.

A dagger-like pain seized him in the chest. What if this was the best he would ever be? He couldn’t bear the thought of spending the rest of his life stuck in this chair, having people look down at him—or, even worse, flicking their gaze away as if the sight of his broken body repulsed them.

He wasn’t going to give in to this.

He would get well.

He would move heaven and earth to get back on his feet and he would do it like he did everything else: on his own.

Raoul was on his second glass of wine when Lily Archer came in. She was dressed in a long-sleeved beige dress that was a size too big and did nothing to flatter her colouring. Her face was free of make-up, although she had put on a bit of lip gloss, and perhaps a bit of mascara as her dark lashes seemed more noticeable than they had earlier in the darker lighting of the library. Her hair was tied back, but in the brighter light from the chandelier overhead he could see it was healthy and shiny with natural-looking highlights in between the ash-brown strands.

‘Would you like a drink?’ He held up the bottle of wine he was steadily working his way through.

She inhaled a sharp little breath and shook her head. ‘I don’t drink alcohol. I’ll just have water... Thank you.’

‘A teetotaller?’ Raoul knew he sounded mocking but he was beyond caring.

She pressed her rather generous lips together as she took her seat to the left of his. Even the way she flicked her napkin across her lap communicated her irritation with him. Why hadn’t he noticed how lush her mouth was before? Was the lighting that bad in the library? Nor had he noticed how regally high her cheekbones were or the way her neck was swan-like and her pretty little nose up-tilted. She had prominent brows and deep-set eyes that gave her a mysterious, untouchable air. Her skin was clear and unlined with no hint of tan, as if she spent most of her time indoors, out of the sun.

She gave him a school-marmish look. ‘I don’t need alcohol to have a good time.’

‘So, how do you have a good time, Miss Archer?’

‘I read. I go to movies. I spend time with my friends.’

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

Her face flinched. She covered it quickly, however, adopting a composed façade that would have fooled most people—but then, he liked to think he was not most people. ‘No.’ Her one-word answer was definitive, like a punctuation mark. Book closed. End of subject.

Raoul picked up his wine glass and took a sip, holding it in his mouth for a moment before he swallowed. ‘What’s wrong with the men of England that a young woman like you is left on the shelf?’

She lowered her gaze and started fiddling with the stem of her empty wine glass. ‘I’m not interested in a relationship just now.’

‘Yes, well, I’m with you on that.’ He lifted his glass to his mouth and emptied it.

She brought her gaze back to his. Her expression had lost some of its reserve and was now sympathetic. It struck him as being genuine; although he could have been mistaken, given he’d drunk almost half a bottle of wine. ‘I’m sorry about your engagement,’ she said. ‘It must have been devastating to have it ended like that when you were feeling at your most vulnerable.’

Raoul wondered what online blog or forum she’d been lurking on, or whether Rafe or Dominique had told her the details of his failed relationship with Clarissa. He would be lying to say he wasn’t upset at having been dumped. He had always been the one to begin and end his relationships. He liked to be the one in control of his life because—like his brothers—having control was an essential part of being a Caffarelli. You didn’t let others rule or lord it over you. You took charge and you kept in charge.

No matter who or what stood in your way.

He picked up the wine bottle and recklessly refilled his glass. ‘I wasn’t in love with her.’

Her pale, smooth brow crinkled in a frown. ‘Then why on earth did you ask her to marry you?’

He put down the bottle and looked at her shocked expression. Was she a romantic at heart behind that prim, nun-like façade? He gave a shrug and picked up his glass again. ‘I wanted to settle down. I thought it was time.’

She looked at him as if he was speaking gibberish. ‘But marriage is meant to be for life. You’re meant to love the person and want to be with them to the exclusion of all others.’

Raoul gave another careless shrug. ‘In the circles I move in, it’s more important to marry the person who will best fit into your lifestyle.’

‘So love doesn’t come into it?’

‘If you’re lucky—like my brother Rafe, for instance. But it’s not mandatory.’

‘That’s preposterous!’ She sat back in her chair with an exhalation of disgust. ‘How could you possibly think of marrying someone you didn’t love?’

He met her gaze with his. ‘How many people do you know who have married whilst madly in love and yet went on to divorce in bitter hatred a few years later? The way I see it, love doesn’t always last. It’s better to choose someone you have something in common with. Clarissa was beautiful to look at, she came from a similar background, she was relatively easy company to be in and she was good in bed. What more could I have wanted?’

She rolled her eyes and reached for her water glass. ‘I can see now why she ended your engagement. Your attitude is appalling. Love is the only reason anyone should get married. If you love someone you will do anything to support them—to be with them through thick and thin. No woman—or man, for that matter—should marry for anything less.’