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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.’
‘So you’re a romantic at heart, Miss Archer.’ He twirled the contents of his wine glass. ‘You’d get on well with my brother’s new fiancée, Poppy.’
‘She sounds like a lovely person.’
‘She is. Rafe’s very lucky to have found her.’
The look she gave him was pointed. ‘But from what you said just a moment ago you don’t think their love will last.’
‘I said love doesn’t always last. I think in their case it will. For one thing, his wealth means nothing to her. She loves him for who he is, not for what he has. She is indeed a rare find. But, apart from her, I have yet to meet a woman who doesn’t have dollar signs in her eyes.’
She visibly bristled. ‘Not all women are gold diggers.’
Raoul nailed her with his gaze. ‘Why did you ask for your payment up-front with a no-refund clause?’
She looked momentarily discomfited. ‘I—I had an urgent financial matter to see to.’
‘Are you a big spender, Miss Archer?’ He gave her outfit a cursory glance. ‘You don’t appear to be, on current appearances.’
Her mouth tightened a fraction and her creamy cheeks developed two spreading circles of colour. ‘I’m sorry if my lowly apparel offends your sensibilities, but I’m not a slave to fashion. I have other far more important priorities.’
‘I thought all women liked to make the most of their assets.’
She gave him an icy look. ‘Are you really so shallow that you judge a woman on what she is wearing rather than who she is on the inside?’
Raoul couldn’t help wondering what she looked like underneath those dreadful clothes. He was used to women who shamelessly flaunted their bodies in front of him, wearing the minimum of clothes and the maximum of cosmetics to draw his attention. But Miss Lily Archer, with her dowdy outfits, scrubbed clean face and dark blue secretive eyes intrigued him in a way no woman had ever done before. She held herself in a tightly contained way, as if she was frightened of drawing unnecessary attention to herself.
Maybe you shouldn’t have been so hasty to send her packing.
Raoul quickly nudged the thought aside. ‘I try not to judge on appearances alone, but it’s all part of the package, isn’t it? How people present themselves—their body language, how they act, how they speak. As humans we have evolved to decode hundreds of those subtle signs in order to work out whether to trust someone or not.’
She began to chew at her lower lip with her small white teeth. It struck Raoul how incredibly young it made her look. It was hard to gauge her age but he assumed she was in her mid-twenties, although right now she looked about sixteen.
Dominique came in with their entrées at that point. ‘Can I pour you some wine, Miss Archer?’ she asked, glancing at Lily’s empty glass.
‘Miss Archer is a teetotaller,’ Raoul said. ‘I haven’t been able to tempt her so far.’
Dominique’s black button eyes gave a little twinkle as she placed the soup in front of him. ‘Perhaps Mademoiselle Archer is immune to temptation, Monsieur Raoul.’
He moved his lips in a semblance of a smile. ‘We’ll see.’
The housekeeper left the room and Raoul studied Lily’s almost fierce expression. A frown was pulling at her smooth forehead and her mouth was set in a tight line, as if she was trying to stop herself from saying something she might later regret. Her slim shoulders were tense and her right hand was gripping her water glass so firmly he could see the bulge of each of her knuckles straining against her pale skin.
‘Relax, Miss Archer. I’m not about to debauch you with liquor and licentiousness. I couldn’t do so even if I wanted to, in my present condition.’
She raised her gaze to his, her cheeks still bright with colour. ‘Do you usually drink so much?’
He felt the back of his neck prickle with defensiveness. ‘I enjoy wine with my meals. I do not consider myself a drunk.’
‘Alcohol numbs the senses and affects coordination and judgement.’ She sounded like she was reading from a drug-and-alcohol education pamphlet. ‘You’d be best to avoid it, or at least limit it, while you’re recuperating.’
Raoul put his glass down with a little thwack. ‘I’m not “recuperating”, Miss Archer. This is what I’m left with because some brainless idiot driving a jet ski didn’t watch where he was going.’
‘Have you spoken to someone about how you feel about the accident?’
His defensiveness turned into outright nastiness. ‘I don’t need to lie down on some outrageously expensive psychologist’s sofa and tell them what I feel about being mowed down like a ninepin. I feel royally pissed off, or has that somehow escaped your attention?’
Her slim throat moved up and down in a tight little swallow but her eyes remained steady on his. ‘It’s understandable that you’re angry, but you’d be better off channelling that anger into trying to regain your mobility.’
Raoul saw red. It was like a mist in front of his eyes. He felt his rage pounding in his ears like thunder. What had the last few weeks been about other than trying to regain his mobility? What right did she have to suggest he was somehow blocking his recovery by holding on to his anger at being struck down the way he had been? Letting go of his anger wasn’t suddenly going to springboard him out of this chair and back into his previous life.
The life he’d had before was over.
Finished.
Kaput.
‘Do you have any idea of what it’s like to be totally dependent on other people?’ he asked.
‘Of course I do. I work with disabled people all the time.’
He slammed his fist on the table so hard the glasses almost toppled over. ‘Do not call me disabled.’
She flinched and paled. ‘I—I’m sorry...’
Raoul felt like the biggest jerk in the world but he wasn’t ready to admit it or to apologise for it. He was furious with Rafe for putting him in this invidious position. She was clearly only doing it for the money. It was ludicrous to think she would succeed where others had failed. She was a fraud, a charlatan who exploited the vulnerable and desperate, and he couldn’t wait to expose her for what she was.
‘Why did you take on this job?’
The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. ‘Your brother requested me. He’d heard about my success with another client. My manager at the clinic encouraged me to take the post and the money was...um...very good.’
‘I got the impression from my brother that he had to work rather hard to convince you to come here.’
Her gaze moved away from his as she picked up her spoon. ‘I don’t usually work with male clients.’
Raoul felt a pique of interest. ‘Why is that?’
She scooped up a portion of the soup but didn’t manage to bring any of it to her mouth. ‘I find them...’ She seemed to be searching for the right word. ‘Difficult to work with.’
‘Uncooperative, you mean?’
She moistened her mouth again. ‘It’s hard for anyone to suffer a major injury—male, female, child or adult. I find that generally women and girls are more willing to accept help and to work within their limitations.’
Raoul watched her for a moment or two, the way she toyed with her food and kept her eyes averted from his. Her cheeks still had two tiny spots of colour high on her cheekbones. Her teeth kept coming back to savage her bottom lip and there was a little pleat of a frown between those incredibly blue eyes. His gaze went to her hands—they were small and slim-fingered and her nails had been bitten down almost to the quick.
‘You don’t seem to be enjoying that soup. Would you like me to ask Dominique to get you something else?’
She met his gaze and gave him a tremulous smile but it was so fleeting it made him long to see it again and for longer. ‘No, it’s fine.... I’m just not very hungry. It’s been a very long day.’
Raoul felt a faint twinge of remorse. He certainly hadn’t laid on the Caffarelli charm he and his brothers were famous for. What if he allowed her to stay for a week to see if there was anything she could do for him? It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do right now. At least it would be a distraction from the humdrum pattern his once vibrantly active life had been whittled down to. What did he have to lose? If she was a fraud, he would expose her. If she had something to offer, it would be win-win.
