came back carrying a foil-wrapped parcel. ‘Here you go, Mr Compton.’
‘You’re a pet,’ Mr Compton said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ He turned back to Rafe. ‘Nice to meet you, Rafe. Drop by some time and have a wee dram with me. I’m at Bramble Cottage in Briar Lane. You can’t miss it.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ Rafe said and was almost surprised that he meant it. He gave himself a mental shake. What was he thinking? He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to make money.
The bell over the door tinkled as the old man left.
‘I can see your charm isn’t exclusively aimed at the female of the species,’ Poppy said, casting him a cynical look.
‘He’s a lovely old man,’ Rafe said. ‘And quite lonely, I suspect.’
‘He is...’ Her shoulders went down on a little sigh as she sank her teeth into her lower lip for a beat. ‘I do what I can for him but I can’t bring back his wife. They were best friends. It’s so sad. I guess that’s the downside of finding the love of your life. Eventually you have to lose them.’
‘Isn’t it supposedly better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?’
She turned away and began clearing Mr Compton’s cup and saucer and plate with brisk officiousness. ‘What about your latest girlfriend? Is she coming to stay with you at the manor?’
‘I’m currently unattached.’
She glanced back at him over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. ‘Your choice or hers?’
‘Mine.’ It was always his choice. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
‘She was very beautiful.’
‘Until she opened her mouth.’
She gave him an arch look. ‘Couldn’t you think of other ways to keep her mouth occupied?’
Right now Rafe could only think of Poppy’s mouth, how it was so rosy and plump and totally natural. His groin began to thrum with desire as he thought of her velvet lips around him, her soft little tongue licking or stroking him. He wanted to taste her mouth, to sample the texture of her lips, to taste the sweetness of her, to stroke into the warm moistness of her.
What was it about her that was so damn alluring? She wasn’t his type at all with her feisty little looks and combative poses. Most of the time she looked like she wanted to scratch his eyes out, but now and again he would catch a glimpse of something else in her gaze, something much more exciting—earthy, primal lust. She tried to hide it but he could sense it in her body: the way she carried herself, holding herself stiffly as if she was frightened her body would suddenly do something out of her control.
Her buttoned-up sensuality was intoxicatingly attractive. He suspected she would be dynamite once she let herself go. Her touch had electrified him the other day. He still felt the buzz of where her fingers had brushed him. He wanted those dainty little fingers all over his body. He wanted to be inside her body. He was rock-hard just thinking about how she would feel wrapped tightly around him. It would be a conflagration of the senses, a combustible explosion of fire meeting ice. ‘What about you, Miss Silverton?’
Her expression became guarded. ‘What about me?’
‘Are you currently involved with anyone?’
Her gaze narrowed. ‘I find it hard to see why it could be of any interest to you if I am or if I’m not.’
‘Au contraire,’ he said. ‘I find it immensely interesting.’
Her cheeks flared with colour but her eyes were glittering with spirited defiance. ‘Would you like more coffee, Mr Caffarelli, or shall I get your bill?’
Rafe held that sparkling toffee-brown gaze and felt his blood heat up another notch. He could smell her light fragrance. He was close enough to touch her. He felt the tension in her body; it was pulsing just below the surface. She was doing everything she could to hide it but he was aware of it all the same. Hate and lust were swirling in the air like a powerful, heady aroma. ‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’
Her mouth tightened primly. ‘My job is to serve you coffee, not become your best friend.’
He gave her a lazy half-smile. ‘Haven’t you heard that saying, “keep your friends close, but your enemies closer”?’
Her eyes flashed at him as she pointedly handed him the bill for his coffee. ‘Haven’t you heard the saying, “there’s no such thing as a free lunch”?’
Rafe chuckled as he took out his wallet, peeled off a tenner and placed it on the table beside her. ‘Until we meet again, Miss Silverton. Ciao.’
* * *
Poppy was about to go to bed when she noticed Chutney was missing. The three dogs had been out in the garden while she had a bath, but when she called them back in only Pickles and Relish appeared. ‘Chutney?’ she called out from the back door. ‘Chutney? Here boy. Come and get a treat.’
There was no sign of him in the garden. He seemed to have completely vanished. It was hard not to worry after what had happened to Pickles. Poppy had found him injured after finding a gap in the hedge leading to the field in front of Dalrymple Manor. It had been so harrowing to find him lying in the long grass, whimpering in pain.
Her heart began to stammer. Chutney had a tendency to wander, especially if he got the scent of a rabbit. Even though she had got the gap in the hedge fixed, she suspected there were other places he could have squeezed through, being so much smaller than the other two dogs. What if he had got out on the road? Although there wasn’t much traffic along this particular lane, it only took one speeding car to do the damage.
Poppy looked at the manor in the distance. Raffaele Caffarelli’s top-notch sports car was parked out the front. There were lights on downstairs, which meant he must be still awake.
She glanced at the business card on the kitchen table. Should she call him to see if he had seen any sign of Chutney? The three dogs were used to walking up to the manor. Before Lord Dalrymple had died she had taken them up every day to visit, and she had only stopped walking them in the grounds of the manor once the ‘sold’ sign had gone up.
She picked up the business card and ran her index finger over his name. She took a little uneven breath, reached for her phone and quickly typed in the number before she changed her mind. He answered on the third ring.
‘Rafe Caffarelli.’
Poppy felt the base of her spine shiver at the sound of the deep burr of his voice. ‘Um...it’s Poppy Silverton here.’
‘I’ve been expecting you to call.’
‘I’m not calling about the dinner thing. I wondered if you’d seen a little dog up at the manor.’
‘What sort of dog?’
‘He’s a cavoodle.’
‘A what?’
Poppy rolled her eyes at his tone. ‘He’s
