was nine. My birthday was the day of the funeral, remember?’
How could he forget? Rafe had watched his brother bravely hold himself together as their parents’ coffins had been carried out of the cathedral. Remy had been crying and Rafe had put an arm around him, but Raoul had stood stoically beside him, shoulder to shoulder, not a single tear escaping from his hazel eyes. He often wondered if the roots of his brother’s death-defying pursuits had been planted that day. They were a way of letting off steam from all that self-containment. ‘I remember.’
‘You don’t think they were happy?’
Rafe let out a breath. ‘They were happy, but who’s to say what they would’ve been like in a few more years?’
Raoul shifted his mouth from side to side in a reflective fashion. ‘Maybe...’
‘What’s brought this on?’
‘Nothing.’ Raoul gave a smile that looked a little forced.
‘Come on,’ Rafe said, putting his briefcase down again. ‘Something’s eating at you. You hide it from most people but I can always tell. You’re like a Persian cat with a fur-ball stuck in its throat.’
‘I don’t know...’ Raoul picked up a glass paperweight and passed it from one hand to the other. ‘I guess I’ve been thinking about things. I don’t want to end up like Nonno. He has to pay people to be with him.’
‘You’ve seen him recently?’
‘I spent the weekend there.’
‘And?’
Raoul lifted a shoulder in a non-committal shrug. ‘It was sad...you know?’
Rafe did know. He had been having the same thoughts. His grandfather spent most of his time alone with just a band of people he employed to take care of the villa and his needs. It was a sterile life. There was no love or mutual enjoyment. His grandfather went from meal to meal with no real social contact, no real affection or connection. He got what he paid for: obsequious and obedient service.
‘He’s brought it on himself,’ he said with the rational part of his brain. ‘He’s pushed everyone who cared about him aside. Now he has to make do with the people who will only do it for the money.’
Raoul put down the paperweight and slid off the boardroom table with a little frown. ‘Do you ever think about it...about life? About what it’s all about?’
Rafe hid behind his usual shop-front of humour. ‘Of course I do. It’s about making money and making love. It’s what us Caffarellis do best.’
‘We make money and have sex, Rafe. Love has nothing to do with it.’
‘So?’
Raoul looked him in the eye. ‘Do you ever wonder if the woman who is with you is with you because of who you are or because of what’s in your bank account?’
Rafe felt an eerie shiver move over the back of his neck at the chilling familiarity of those words. Hadn’t Poppy asked him the very same thing the first day she met him? ‘Come on, man. What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Last time I looked, you were out there partying like the best of them. What’s changed?’
‘Nothing. But I’ve been thinking about Clarissa, the girl I’ve been dating recently.’
‘You’re not serious about her?’ Rafe gave his brother an incredulous look. ‘I admit she’s attractive but surely you can do better than that?’
‘It solves the gold-digger problem, though, doesn’t it?’ Raoul said. ‘Clarissa wouldn’t be marrying me for my money because her old man has plenty of his own and she’s his only heir.’
Rafe picked up his briefcase again. ‘One beer, OK? After that I have to get going.’
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