She looked like he had just asked her to drink from a poisoned chalice. ‘No.’
Raoul raised his brows. ‘Surely one little tipple won’t corrupt you?’
She compressed her lips until they were almost white. ‘I told you before, Monsieur Caffarelli, I don’t drink.’
‘You can call me Raoul. You don’t have to be so formal with me.’ He gave her an indolent half smile. ‘It’s not as if it’s me paying your wages.’
Her eyes moved away from his. ‘I like to keep professional boundaries in place when I’m dealing with clients.’
‘So you don’t ever get on a first-name basis?’
She huddled into herself again. She reminded him of a porcupine folding in on itself to keep away predators. ‘Sometimes, but not always.’
‘So, how can I get you to relax the boundaries enough to call me by my first name?’
Her eyes were as chilly as a Scottish tarn as they met his. ‘You can’t.’
Raoul felt the thrum of his blood as she laid down the challenge. There was nothing a Caffarelli male loved more than a challenge—a seemingly impossible obstacle to overcome. They thrived on it. It was like air—as essential to them as oxygen. It was a part of their DNA.
He remembered the pep talk Rafe had given him and Remy when things had turned ugly after their grandfather had jeopardised the family fortune with an unwise deal with a business rival a few years ago.
Goal.
Focus.
Win.
It was the Caffarelli credo.
Raoul looked at her tightly composed features. She didn’t like him and she didn’t like being here. It was only about the money. This next week could be far more entertaining than he had first realised. He would rattle her cage some more and enjoy every single minute of doing it. ‘Good night, Miss Archer.’
Her cheeks were still rosy but her eyes hardened as she raised her chin. ‘Goodnight, Monsieur Caffarelli.’
He watched as she walked on past with brisk steps that ate up the corridor like a hungry chomping mouth. The door of her bedroom closed with a snap and the sound echoed for a moment in the ringing silence.
Raoul frowned as he wheeled back into his study. It was a new experience to have a bedroom door closed on him.
He decided he didn’t like it.
* * *
Lily came down for an early breakfast the next morning to find Dominique talking to a man in his late twenties over coffee and hot, buttery croissants.
‘Ah, Mademoiselle Archer, this is Monsieur Raoul’s carer, Sebastien,’ the housekeeper said. ‘Or should I say, ex-carer?’
Sebastien rolled his eyes as he put his coffee cup down on the counter. ‘I’ve been fired as of this morning. Monsieur Caffarelli has decided he no longer needs my help.’
‘Oh...’
‘I probably should warn you, he’s in a spectacularly foul temper,’ Sebastien said. ‘I don’t think he slept at all last night.’
‘He’s not very happy about me being here,’ Lily said.
‘Yes, so I gathered.’ He gave her a sizing-up look to see if she was up to the task of dealing with such a difficult client as Raoul. ‘His bark is worse than his bite, although I have to say his bark can be very savage at times.’
‘I have no intention of allowing Monsieur Caffarelli to harangue or intimidate me,’ Lily said.
‘Good for you,’ Sebastien said and, nodding briefly at the housekeeper in farewell, picked up his keys and left.