Never Underestimate a Caffarelli

‘Do you have nightmares?’

‘No.’ He could tell she didn’t believe him, but there was no way he was going to tell her about the horrifying images that kept him awake at night. The pain he had felt on the impact would stay with him for life. The fear that he would drown before anyone got to him had stayed with him and made him break out in a cold sweat every time he thought of it. He couldn’t bear the thought of being submerged in water now, yet he’d used to swim daily.

‘I have a list of supplements I’d like you to take,’ she said. ‘And I want to introduce some aquatic exercises.’

Raoul held up his plastered right arm. ‘Hello? This isn’t waterproof. Swimming is out of the question.’

‘Not swimming, per se. Walking in water.’

He gave a disdainful laugh. ‘I can’t even walk on land, let alone in water. You’ve got the wrong guy. The one you’re looking for died two thousand-odd years ago and had a swag of miracles under his belt.’

She gave him a withering look. ‘You can wear a plastic bag over the cast. It will help your core stability switch on again to be moving in the water.’

Raoul glared at her furiously. ‘I want my life switched on again! I don’t give a damn about anything else.’

She pressed her lips together as if she were dealing with a recalcitrant child and needed to summon up some extra patience. ‘I realise this is difficult for you—’

‘You’re damn right it’s difficult for me,’ he threw back. ‘I can’t even get down to the stables to see my horses. I can’t even dress or shave myself without help.’

‘How long before the plaster comes off?’

‘Two weeks.’

‘You’ll find it much easier once it’s off. Once your arm is strong enough, you’ll be able to do some assisted walking on parallel bars. That’s what I did with my last client. Within twelve weeks she was able to walk without holding on at all.’

Raoul didn’t want to wait for twelve weeks. He didn’t want to wait for twelve days. He wanted to be back on his feet now. He didn’t want to turn his house into a rehabilitation facility with bars and rails and ramps everywhere. He wanted to be able to live a normal life, the life he’d had before, the life where he was in the driving seat, not being driven or pushed around by others. The grief and despair of what he had lost gnawed at him like a vicious toothache. How would he ever be happy with these limitations that had been forced on him?

He could not be happy.

He would never be happy, not like this.

How could he be?

Dominique came in with their main course. ‘Would you like me to cut the chicken into smaller pieces for you, Monsieur Raoul?’ she asked as she set his plate in front of him.

‘No, I would not,’ Raoul said curtly. ‘I’m not a bloody child.’

Lily gave him a reproachful look once Dominique had left the room. ‘You’re giving a very convincing impression of one, and a very spoilt one at that. She was only trying to help. There was no need to bark at her like that.’

‘I don’t like being fussed over.’ Raoul glowered at her. ‘I refuse to be treated like an invalid.’

‘It’s always much harder for people with control issues to accept their limitations.’

He let out a derisive grunt of laughter. ‘You think I’m a control freak? How did you come to that conclusion? Was my aura giving me away?’

‘You’re a classic control freak. That’s why you’re so angry and bitter. You’re not in control any more. Your body won’t let you do the things you want it to do. It’s galling for you to have to ask anyone for help, so you don’t ask. I bet you’d rather go hungry than have that meat cut up for you.’

Raoul curled his lip. ‘Quite the little psychologist, aren’t you, Miss Archer?’

She pursed her mouth for a moment before she responded. ‘You have a strong personality. You’re used to being in charge of your life. It doesn’t take a psychology degree to work that out.’

He gave her a mocking look. ‘Well, how about I read your aura, since we’re playing amateur psychologist?’

Her expression tightened. ‘Go right ahead.’

‘You don’t like drawing attention to yourself. You hide behind shapeless clothes. You lack confidence. Shall I go on?’

‘Is it a crime to be an introvert?’

‘No,’ Raoul said. ‘But I’m intrigued as to why a young woman as beautiful as you works so hard to downplay it.’

She looked flustered by his compliment. ‘I—I don’t consider myself to be beautiful.’

‘You don’t like compliments, do you, Miss Archer?’

She brought her chin up. ‘Not unless I believe them to be genuine.’

Raoul continued to hold her gaze, watching as she fought against the desire to break the connection. Her eyes were dark blue pools, layered with secrets. What was it about her that so captivated him? Was it that air of mystery? That element of unknowable, untouchable reserve? She was so different from the women in his social circles—not just in looks and manner of dress but in her guardedness. She reminded him of a shy fawn, always keeping a watch out for danger—tense, alert, focused. He would enjoy the challenge of peeling back the layers of that carefully constructed façade.

‘What time would you like to start in the morning?’ he asked.

‘Is nine OK? It will be hard work, but hopefully you’ll find it beneficial.’

‘I certainly hope so. Otherwise my brother is going to be without a best man.’

She frowned at him. ‘You mean you won’t go to the wedding at all if you’re not walking by then?’

‘I’m not going to ruin all the photos by being stuck in a chair. If I can’t walk, then I’m not going.’

‘But you can’t not go to your brother’s wedding.’ Her frown deepened. ‘It’s the most important day of his life. You should be there, chair or no chair.’

Raoul set his jaw. He was not going to make a spectacle of himself on his brother’s wedding day. The wedding would be large and the press would be there in droves. He could just imagine the attention he would receive. He could already see the caption on the photograph: the poor crippled brother. His stomach churned at the thought of it. ‘Your job, Miss Archer, is to get me out of this chair. You have one week to convince me you can do it.’

She moistened her lips with another little sweep of her tongue. ‘I’m not sure if I can or not. It’s hard to put a time frame on the healing process. It could take months or it might not happen at all...’

‘That is not an option,’ Raoul said. ‘You’ve supposedly worked a miracle before. Let’s see you if you can do it again.’

CHAPTER THREE

LILY DID HER best with the meal Dominique set before her but the intensely penetrating gaze of Raoul Caffarelli did no favours to her already meagre appetite. He made her feel threatened, but strangely it wasn’t in a physical way. He had a way of looking at her as if he was quietly making a study of her, peeling back the layers she had taken such great pains to stitch into place. Those layers were the only things holding her together. She could not bear the thought of him unravelling her, uncovering her shame for the world to see.

She tugged her sleeves down over her scarred arms beneath the table. The multiple fine white lines were not as noticeable as they once had been but she still liked to keep them covered. She hated the looks she got, the questioning lift of eyebrows and the judgemental comments such as, ‘how could you deliberately cut yourself?’.

But the external scars were nothing to what she kept hidden on the inside.

Lily hated thinking of herself as a victim. She liked to think of herself as a survivor, but there were days when the nightmare of her twenty-first birthday came back to her in sharp stabs of memory that pierced the carapace she had constructed around herself. Sometimes it felt as if her soul was still bleeding, drop by drop, until one day there would be nothing left...

She looked up from fiddling with her sleeves to find Raoul’s hazel gaze on her. She had lost track of time; how long had he been looking at her like that? ‘Sorry... Did you say something?’