to meet impossible deadlines, trying to please people who were impossible to please—most notably their grandfather.
Raoul compensated for it by taking life to the extreme. He set physical challenges that would make the average man shrink in cowardice. It was as if he had no fear. He had ice in his veins instead of blood. He didn’t just stare death in the face every time he took on another seemingly insurmountable challenge—he laughed at it, mocked it. ‘Take me down if you dare’ seemed to be his credo.
Remy took risks that were more cerebral than physical, but no less terrifying. He won more than he lost, but Rafe worried that the day might come where fate would step in and make his youngest brother lose in a very big way.
Rafe threw himself into his work with a similar passion, but just lately he had become increasingly restless. He wanted more, but he wasn’t sure what it was he wanted. He had money, more money than his father or grandfather had ever had. Even without the input of his younger brothers, he had built an empire that rivalled some of the most notable in Europe. If he never worked again his investments would see him out. But was it enough? What legacy was he leaving?
Who would he leave his wealth to?
Rafe couldn’t stop thinking of Lord Dalrymple in his stately manor with no one but his housekeeper and her little red-gold-haired, fairy-like granddaughter to keep him company—and the greedy, grasping extended family waiting on the sidelines to get what they could for the place once he had died.
Had they ever visited him? Had they supported him after his wife had so tragically died?
‘I don’t plan to live here myself,’ Rafe said. ‘Once the redevelopment is completed I’ll appoint a manager. I’ll probably only visit once or twice a year after that. I have other projects to see to.’
‘So I suppose Dalrymple Manor will be just another notch on your financial belt,’ she said as she came around to his side of the table to clear his plate, her expression tight with disapproval.
‘Here. Let me help.’ Rafe rose from his chair but as he turned he suddenly found himself a whole lot closer to her than he’d intended.
She took an unsteady step backwards and he instinctively put out a hand to stop her from tripping. The sparks against his fingers where they were wrapped around her wrist were like little fireworks popping off underneath his skin.
He met her gaze and felt a stallion’s kick of lust strike him in the groin. He smelt her perfume; it was like a draft of some exotic potion that inflamed him with instant longing. He relaxed his grip, but as her fingers left his hold they moved softly across his palm in a trailing movement that made the blood roar through his veins. He felt a surge of lust-driven blood thicken him, heat flowing over his skin like the path of a flame.
Rafe slid a hand into the thick curtain of her hair, loving the feel of those bouncy curls moving against his skin like dainty, springy, fragrant blossoms of jasmine, each one caressing him, intoxicating him.
He would allow himself one kiss.
Just to see if it was as he remembered. Maybe he’d imagined the sparks of electricity shooting up and down his spine as his lips had come in contact with hers. Maybe her mouth would just be another woman’s mouth today. It wouldn’t make his head spin and his desire race like high-octane fuel through his veins.
He brought his mouth down within reach of the perfect bow of hers, taking his time, letting their breaths mingle.
‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was soft and husky, her warm, sweet breath dancing against his lips like a teasing spring breeze.
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ But before she could answer, or the controlled and sensible part of him could change his mind, Rafe did it.
POPPY HAD THOUGHT his kiss the other day was electrifying, but this time it was completely off the scale. As soon as his lips settled over hers it was as though fireworks had gone off under her skin. She had never felt such a surge of primal male energy before. It touched on something deep and essential to her as a woman. It was like breaking a secret code that had never been solved until now. Her flesh sang with delight as his mouth explored hers in intimate detail—the way his tongue came in search of hers in a brazenly, commanding gesture that had her belly quivering as soon he made contact.
She tasted the hot, hard, thrusting heat of him; tasted the hint of ruthlessness in his mouth; felt the chivalry in his touch that could so easily be put aside if the situation warranted it. It was that edgy, dangerous element about him that so totally captivated her. Hadn’t she felt that from the first moment she had met him? He was a man who always got what he wanted. He didn’t let anyone stand in his way.
His mouth ravished hers, plundering its depths with dips and dives of his masterful tongue against hers. Poppy shivered as she kissed him back, her tongue duelling with his in a heart-racing chase that made her toes curl inside her shoes. His mouth was hot, determined and purposeful, and she clung to him as she kissed him back just as passionately.
He gave a deep growl of pleasure and cupped her bottom in both of his hands, tugging her against the heated trajectory of his body.
Poppy slithered against him wantonly; her body aching for the pleasure his body was promising in that erotic embrace. She made a mewling sound beneath his passionate mouth, her arms going up to loop around his neck, to hold him to her.
For a moment she thought he was going to reach for her breast. She actually felt his hand move up her body, but then suddenly he broke the kiss and put her from him, moving some distance away as if he didn’t trust himself not to reach for her again.
He scraped a hand through his hair and let out a colourful expletive. ‘Sorry.’ He was breathing heavily. ‘I lost my head there for a moment.’
‘Is that such a bad thing?’
He gave her a grim look. ‘I never lose my head. Ever.’
‘Maybe it’s time you did.’
He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and moved even further away, turning his back on her. ‘This isn’t going to work, Poppy. You know it isn’t. It was a mistake to kiss you. I should’ve known better.’
Poppy felt herself bristling in affront. ‘I’m not asking you to marry me.’
He turned and threw her a black look. ‘You’re not my type. Do I have to spell it out any plainer than that?’
Self-doubt crept up and tapped her on the shoulder, mocking her with its cruel little taunts: you’re unattractive. You’re rubbish at kissing. You’ve got no pulling power, that’s why Oliver and every other date you’ve ever had moved on to the next girl as soon as they could.
Poppy straightened her spine and swung around to the door. ‘I’ll just get the rest of your dinner for you.’
‘Forget about it.’
‘It won’t take a minute.’ She turned back to look at him. ‘I just have to dish it up. I won’t stay, if that’s what’s—’
‘I’m not hungry.’
She
