Poppy suspected he was equally ruthless in his sensual conquests. His latest mistress was a bikini model with a figure to die for. Poppy couldn’t imagine a slice of cake or a chocolate-chip cookie ever passing through those filler-enhanced lips.
She carried the coffee out to him. ‘Will there be anything else?’
‘What time do you close?’
‘Five or thereabouts,’ she said. ‘I try to be flexible in case I get late-comers. No one likes being rushed over their cup of tea.’ She gave his cup a pointed look before adding, ‘Or coffee.’
His coal-black gaze glinted again. ‘I have some business I’d like to discuss with you.’
Poppy stiffened. ‘I’m not selling my house.’
‘It’s nothing to do with the dower house.’
She looked at him guardedly. ‘So...what is it about?’
‘I’m spending a couple of weeks at the manor to get a feel for the place before I start drawing up plans for the development,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to employ a housekeeper at this stage. Are you interested in providing dinner each day? I’ll pay you handsomely, of course.’
Poppy chewed at her lower lip for a moment. She could do with the money, but cooking him dinner each night? What else would he expect from her—her body dished up as a dessert? ‘What’s wrong with eating at the village pub? They do a pretty good bar snack. There was no way she was going to recommend he try Oliver’s restaurant.
He gave her a droll look. ‘I don’t eat bar snacks.’
She gave her eyes a little roll. ‘Of course you don’t.’
‘Blame my mother. She was French. You know what the French are like with their food.’
Mr Compton shuffled over on his walking frame.
‘Do it, Poppy. It’ll be a nice little earner for you to tide you over this rough patch.’
Poppy wished she hadn’t let slip to Mr Compton a couple of weeks ago how tight things were. She didn’t want Raffaele Caffarelli gaining any sort of advantage over her. He was ruthless and calculating. How far would he go to get what he wanted? ‘Can I think about it and get back to you?’ she said.
Rafe handed her a business card. ‘Call me tonight.’
She put the card in her apron pocket and turned to speak to her only other customer. ‘I’ll just get that slice of cake for you to take home, Mr Compton.’
* * *
Rafe held out his hand to the elderly gentleman once Poppy had disappeared into the kitchen. ‘Rafe Caffarelli,’ he said.
‘Howard Compton.’ The old man shook his hand. ‘So, you’re the new owner of Dalrymple Manor.’
‘Yes. I’ve had my eye on it for a while. It’s a great piece of real estate.’
‘It is at that,’ Mr Compton said. ‘What do you plan to do with it?’
‘I’m turning it into a luxury hotel and spa.’
‘Don’t go telling Poppy that.’ Mr Compton gave him a twinkling smile. ‘She wanted a family to buy the place. It’s a long time since one lived there, mind you.’
‘Were you acquainted with Lord Dalrymple?’
‘His wife and mine were best friends since childhood,’ Mr Compton said. ‘It was a terrible day when Clara died. Henry became reclusive after that. If it weren’t for Poppy’s grandmother Beatrice he would have curled up and died. We thought it was a nice gesture of his to leave the dower house to her and Poppy. A lot of the locals thought he would leave the whole estate to them, but there would’ve been too much of an outcry from the extended family if he’d done that. As it was probate took over a year to come through. So messy when there isn’t a direct heir.’
Rafe thought about his own situation. He had no direct heirs other than his brothers. Who would inherit his vast fortune? He hadn’t really thought about it until now... Why was he working so hard if he had no one to leave it to?
He pushed the thought aside. There was plenty of time to think about marriage. He was only thirty-five. It wasn’t like he had a biological clock to worry about. Some time in the future he would select a suitable woman, someone who knew how to move in the circles he moved in, someone who wouldn’t encroach on his freedom too much.
Poppy came back carrying a foil-wrapped parcel. ‘Here you go, Mr Compton.’