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.
‘I have a hypothetical question for you. If I agreed to have you here for the next month, what would you do with me?’
A light pink blush stole over her cheeks. ‘Your brother told me you have a gym here. I’d work on some structured exercises to start with. We’d start slowly and gradually build up. It would depend on what you could do. It’s tricky, given you’ve got a broken arm, but I’m sure I could work around that.’
‘What else?’
‘I’d like to have a look at your diet.’
‘I eat a balanced diet.’
She glanced at his almost empty wine glass, her mouth set in a reproving line. ‘Yes, well, there’s always room for improvement. Do you take any supplements?’
‘Vitamins, you mean?’
‘Yes. Things like fish oil, glucosamine, vitamin D—that sort of thing. Studies have shown they help in the repair of muscles and tissues and can even halt the progress of osteoarthritic change in your joints.’
He gave a bark of scorn. ‘For God’s sake, Miss Archer, I’m not arthritic. I’m only thirty-four years old.’
Her small chin came up. ‘Preventative health measures are worth considering no matter what your age.’
Raoul pinned her with his gaze. ‘How old are you?’
Her frown came back but even deeper this time and she seemed to hesitate over her reply. ‘I’m...I’m...twenty-six.’
‘You looked like you had to think about it for a moment.’
She gave a tight movement of her lips that didn’t even come close to being a smile. ‘I’m not keen on keeping a record on birthdays. What woman is?’
‘You’re very young to be worrying about that,’ Raoul said. ‘Once you’re over thirty, or even forty, it might be more of an issue, but you’re still a baby.’
She
