Rafe thought about it for a beat. ‘Make her wait.’
Margaret’s brows lifted. ‘Will do.’
He closed his office door and took the folder over to his desk. There wasn’t much he didn’t already know. Poppy Silverton had grown up with her grandmother in the dower house on the Dalrymple Estate and had been educated locally before moving to London in her late teens. She had trained as a chef and had worked in a restaurant in Soho he’d been to a couple of times. She’d been running the tearoom in the village for the last couple of years. Her grandmother, Beatrice, had died a few months ago, exactly six months after Lord Dalrymple, and the house he had left to Beatrice had subsequently passed to Poppy.
Rafe leaned back in his chair. There was nothing about her private life, about who she was dating or had dated. He couldn’t help a rueful smile. If a similar search had been done on him or one of his brothers, reams and reams of stuff would have come spilling out.
He’d driven away from the manor late on Saturday night but he hadn’t stopped thinking about her. It wasn’t just her house that was playing on his mind. He’d never met a more intriguing woman. She was so spirited and defiant. She must realise she hadn’t a hope of winning against him, but she stood up to him all the same. That was enormously attractive. He was so used to women tripping over themselves to please him.
But Poppy’s comment about him not knowing who genuinely cared for him had resonated a little too well with him. Apart from his brothers, who really gave a toss about him? His grandfather certainly didn’t. His members of staff were respectful and mostly loyal, but then he paid them generously to be so.
He frowned at where his thoughts were heading. He wasn’t interested in love and commitment. Losing his parents had taught him to keep a very tight lid on his emotions. Loving someone hurt like hell if you lost them. He never lost anything or anyone now. He did the hiring and the firing in all of his relationships.
They lasted as long as he wanted and no longer.
Rafe leaned forward to press the intercom on his desk. ‘Margaret? Find out who owns the building Miss Silverton operates her tearoom out of. Make them an offer they can’t refuse. Get them to sign a confidentiality agreement.’
‘Right away.’
‘Oh, and one other thing... Cancel all of my appointments for the next couple of weeks. I’m heading out of town.’
‘A holiday?’
Rafe smiled to himself. ‘You could call it that.’
CHAPTER THREE
POPPY WAS WAITING on one of her regulars when Raffaele Caffarelli came in the following Monday. She tried to ignore the little skip of her pulse and focused her attention on Mr Compton who came in at the same time every day and had done so ever since his wife of sixty-six years had died. ‘There you are, Mr Compton,’ she said as she handed the elderly gentleman a generous slice of his favourite orange-and-coconut cake.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ Mr Compton said. ‘Where’s your offsider today?’
‘She’s visiting her mother,’ Poppy said, conscious of Raffaele’s black-as-night gaze on her. ‘Can I get you a fresh pot of tea? More cream for your cake? Another slice to take home for your supper?’
‘No, love, you’d better serve your other customer.’ Mr Compton gave her a wink. ‘Things are finally looking up, eh?’
Poppy gave him a forced smile as she mentally rolled her eyes. ‘I wish.’ She went to where Raffaele was standing. ‘A table for one?’
His dark eyes glinted. ‘Thank you.’
She led him to a table near the window. ‘A double-shot espresso, no sugar?’
His mouth twitched at the corners. ‘You have a good memory.’
Poppy tried not to look at his mouth. It was so distracting. So too were his hands. She could still feel the imprint of those long, tanned fingers around her wrist. She felt shivery every time she recalled them against her white skin. His touch had been unforgettable. Her body still hummed with the memory of it.
He was dressed casually in blue denim jeans and an open-necked white shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his strong, tanned wrists. He had twelve to eighteen hours of stubble on his jaw. He smelt divine—a hint of wood and citrus and healthy, potent, virile male. He oozed with sex appeal. She felt the invisible current of it pass over her skin. It made her heart pick up its pace as if he had reached out and touched her.
Poppy put her chin up to a pert level. ‘I don’t suppose I can tempt you with a slice of cake?’
His eyes smouldered as they held hers. ‘I’m very tempted.’
She pursed her lips and spoke in an undertone in case Mr Compton overheard, which was highly unlikely, given he was as deaf as the proverbial post, but still. ‘Cake, Mr Caffarelli. I’m offering you cake.’
‘Just the coffee.’ He waited a beat. ‘For now.’
Poppy swung away to the kitchen, furious with him, but even more furious with herself for being so affected by him. She’d been expecting him to come back. She had tried not to watch out for him but every morning she had looked towards the manor to see if his flashy sports car was parked out front. She had tried her best to ignore the little dip of disappointment in the pit of her belly when it had failed to appear. She knew he wasn’t going to give up on trying to acquire the dower house any time soon.
She had read up on him in some gossip magazines Chloe had given her. He had a reputation for being ruthless in business. ‘Single-minded, stealthy and steely in terms of determination’, one reporter had said.