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She wasn’t a femme fatale; she was inexperienced. After all, how many lovers could a woman have in a town the size of San Giuseppe? Cesare had described her as a virgin, but obviously that was impossible. There were no virgins in today’s world, not even tucked away in remote towns in the Sicilian hills.
No, things had not gone well a little while ago, but whether his wife wanted to admit it or not, she had responded to him when he’d kissed her before. She’d let him hold her in his arms. All he had to do was take those stupid scissors from her, gather her close, kiss her, slip his hand under that T-shirt.
Was he insane? For one thing, this woman was not his wife. Well, she was, but not for long. For another, sleeping with her would only complicate things.
Besides, if he touched her, she’d come apart in terror. Her reaction to him hadn’t been an act. It hadn’t been because he hadn’t used any finesse. She’d been out of her mind with fear. Real, honest fear. Something awful had happened to her. Something had hurt her so much that she hid inside those godawful black dresses.
Who had done this to her? A man, surely. Giglio? One of the other brutes her father employed?
Hot rage swept through him. He told himself he’d feel this about the violation of any woman, that it had nothing to do with Chiara in particular.
The hell it didn’t.
She was his. Temporarily, until he could figure out what to do with her, her but for now she belonged to him. And he was a man who would always protect what was his.
“Chiara.”
She looked at him. “Who hurt you?”
She stared at him. The color drained from her face. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Yeah, you do. Why did you scream when I touched you?”
“What you mean is, why didn’t I melt with delight.”
The words dripped venom, but she wasn’t going to put him off that easily. Rafe folded his arms over his chest. “It’s a simple question. What made you so frightened of men?”
“What you mean is, why am I unwilling to let men have their way with me?”
“How about not telling me what I mean and just answering the question? What are you afraid of?”
“If we play a round of Twenty Questions, do I win a divorce?”
He was in front of her in two strides. Her hand shot up, the little scissors glinting. Rafe didn’t bother playing games. He caught her wrist, took the scissors from her and tossed them on the sofa.
“One question,” he said brusquely, “and I want an answer. Why are you afraid of sex?”
“I am not afraid. Besides, what I am or am not is none of your business.”
The woman was impossible! “It’s every bit my business,” he said sharply. “You’re my wife.”
She laughed. Hell, he couldn’t blame her. Sure, a smalltown official owned by her father had mumbled some words at them, but the truth was, she was no more his wife than he was her husband.
Except, he was. He had a piece of gilt-edged paper tucked inside his passport case that proved it.
“Was it because you thought I was going to—” he felt his face heat “—to force you?” He cupped her elbows. “Because I wasn’t. I got rough, yeah, and I shouldn’t have, but I would never have taken you against your will.” Her eyes called him a liar; he couldn’t much blame her for that, either. “It’s the truth. I’m no saint, but I’d never force a woman to make love with me.”
“Love,” she said, with a little snort of disdain.
“That’s what men and women do. They make love.” His hands tightened on her. “I’d never sleep with a woman who didn’t want me.”
No, Chiara thought, no, he wouldn’t have to.
A woman would go to him willingly. Raffaele Orsini was all the things women supposedly wanted in a man. He was strong, good-looking and so masculine there were moments he made her feel dizzy.
So, if a woman liked sex, she would like him. And there were women who liked sex. She was not a fool. She understood that, even though she would never want to be one of those women.
No matter what he claimed, sex was for the man. A woman had to go along with it, if she married. The nudity. The intimacy. The slap of flesh against flesh, the smell of sweat, the terrible, painful, humiliating invasion of your body.
Her mother had explained it all so that she would be prepared if—when—it came time for her to take a husband. “I would not wish my daughter to go to her wedding night without knowing what awaits her,” Mama had said.
A shudder went through her. The American saw it. Big, brave, macho creature that he was, he reacted instantly.
“Chiara.”
She shook her head, stepped back, but he put his arms around her and drew her against him. She let him do it; the sooner she convinced him she was fine, the sooner he’d let her go.
She could feel the heat coming from him. Feel the hardness of his male body. Smell his male scent. Fear clogged her throat. He seemed to know it and he began whispering to her as he had a few minutes ago. She had to admit he had calmed her then, but she’d been in a state of shock. It was his warmth that had steadied her.
She told herself that a blanket would have had the same effect.
Still, she felt herself responding to his soothing touch, to his voice. She sighed, shut her eyes, felt one of his hands thread into her hair, cup her head, lift her face to his.
Chiara jerked back. “Do not touch me!”
Rafe lifted his hands from her with exaggerated care. She was looking at him as if he was a serial killer. Undoubtedly, the lady had a problem. But it wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t his problem. The minute they reached New York, he’d phone his lawyer and tell her to get started on whatever had to be done to end this sham of a marriage.
The sooner he was out of this mess, the better.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHIARA’S first glimpse of New York City almost took her breath away.
Lights, what seemed like millions of them, lay winking beneath the plane like sparkling diamonds on black velvet. As the jet dropped lower, she could see that the lights were moving. They were lights from automobiles racing along endless intersecting highways.
Where were all these people going in the middle of the night? It was the middle of the night, American time. East Coast time. She would have to remember that. This was not like Italy, where the hour was the same if you were in Rome or Florence or Palermo.
Not that she’d ever been to Rome or Florence. Not that she’d ever been anywhere.
It should have been exciting, the realization that she was about to land on another continent, in a city she’d read of and dreamed about. But it wasn’t.
It was terrifying.
She wasn’t here by choice, she was here as the unwilling bride of a stranger. She knew nothing about her husband. No, she thought, swallowing hard as the plane descended, that was not true. She did know something about him. She knew that he was a man who bore her father’s stamp of approval.
That could only mean he was a hoodlum, just like her father.
Except—except, he wasn’t really like her father. He could be cold and hard, but sometimes there was a tenderness to him, too. And he was beautiful. She knew it was a strange word to use to describe a man but none other suited him. His height. His body. His face, Dio, his face, those hard, masculine angles and planes, that firm mouth.
Firm. Warm. And soft, so soft against hers.
The plane touched down, bumping delicately against the runway. The captain made a pleasant announcement, welcoming them to New York. Chiara, fumbling with her seat belt, rose quickly to her feet. The plane was still moving along the taxiway as she started blindly up the aisle.
A strong hand closed lightly on her elbow.
“I’m happy to see you’re in such a hurry to reach your new home,” her husband said.
She could hear the derision in his voice, feel the posses-siveness of his grasp. Her heart thumped.
God only knew what lay ahead.
Whatever it was, she would face it with courage. If life had taught her anything, it was that you must never show weakness to your oppressor.
Finally the plane came to a stop. The door shushed open. Chiara stepped out into the North American night.
She’d heard all about security procedures, but they evidently didn’t apply to powerful American gangsters. Her husband led her into a small building. He presented their passports to a man who hardly glanced at them. Minutes later they made their way out to a waiting automobile. A uniformed driver stood beside it.
Her steps faltered and her husband’s hand tightened on her elbow.
“Keep moving,” he said coldly. As if she had a choice.
What had the poet said in the Divine Comedy? Something about abandoning hope, all those who entered here.
One last, free breath and Chiara stepped into the back of the limousine.
The big car moved swiftly through the night.
So far, so good, Rafe thought—assuming you discounted the fact that his wife was sitting beside him like a prisoner being driven to her execution.
At least there hadn’t been a reception committee waiting, something he’d half expected. He’d figured Cordiano would have phoned his father. Cesare would have told the family….
What fun that would have been.
The old man gloating. His mother going from being upset that there hadn’t been a big wedding to planning a party that would rival anything Manhattan had ever seen. His sisters teasing him unmercifully. And his brothers.
Lord, his brothers! Better not even to go there.
But the reception committee hadn’t materialized. Clearly, Cordiano had not contacted Cesare. Rafe had no idea why, and frankly he didn’t much care. What mattered was that he had some breathing room. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he’d call his lawyer, start the procedure that would return his life to normal. No matter what he’d told Chiara, he wanted a divorce every bit as much as she did.
The drama on the plane, all that stuff about not giving her a divorce? Meaningless. He’d been ticked off, that was all, and he’d made a threat he had no intention of keeping.
He wanted out.
Traffic was light, this time of night. The big car moved smoothly along the highway, sped along Fifth Avenue and drew to a stop before his building. The doorman greeted them politely; if he found the sight of a woman wrapped in a coat like the kind old ladies wore in bad foreign films unusual, he was too well trained to let it show.
“Do you need help with your bags, Mr. Orsini?”
I need help with my life, Rafe thought, but he tossed him a polite “No, thanks” and headed for his private elevator, his carry-on hanging from his shoulder, Chiara’s old-fashioned leather suitcase clutched in one hand, the other wrapped around her elbow. It would have made things easier to let go, but he knew better.
The last thing he needed tonight was to end up running down Fifth Avenue after her.
They rode the elevator in silence. Nothing new there. They’d made the trip from the airport the same way. The door slid open when they reached his penthouse. Rafe stepped from the car. Chiara didn’t. He rolled his eyes and quick-stepped her into the foyer. The elevator door shut; Rafe sent it to the lobby level and let go of his wife’s arm.
“Okay,” he said briskly, “we’re home.”
He winced. What a stupid remark, but what else was there to say? He dropped their bags, shrugged off his jacket, checked the little stack of mail on the table near the entryway, checked his voice mail, gave Chiara time to say something, do something, but when he turned around she was standing precisely where he’d left her, except she’d backed up so that her shoulders were pressed against the silk-covered wall.
She looked exhausted and terrified, lost in the awful black coat. Defiance, or an attempt at it, glittered in her wide eyes, but the overall effect was—there was no other word for it—pathetic.
Despite himself, he felt a surge of pity along with the gnawing realization that there was no point in being angry with her. Never mind his accusations. The truth was unavoidable. Neither of them had wanted this marriage.
She was as trapped as he. More so, maybe. He, at least, was on his own turf. She, however, was in a place she didn’t know, a country she didn’t know…
Hell, he thought, and cleared his throat. “Chiara?” She looked at him. “Why don’t you, ah, why don’t you take off your coat?”
She didn’t answer. Okay. He’d try again.
“Would you, ah, would you like something to eat?”
Nothing. His jaw tightened. She wasn’t going to help him one bit.
“Look,” he said, “I know this isn’t what either of us wanted—”
“It is what you wanted,” she said coldly.
“Me? Hell, no. Why would you think—”
“You won’t agree to a divorce.”
“Yeah. Right.” Rafe ran his hand through his hair. “Look, about that—”
“The one thing I promise you, signor, is that I will never be a real wife to you!”
“Damn it, if you’d just listen—”
“You can force me to remain your property.” Her chin rose. “You can force me to do a lot of things, but I will never let you forget that I do them unwillingly.”
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “Are we back to talking about sex?”
The rush of color to her cheeks was answer enough. Why did her vow make him so angry? He had no intention of taking her to bed. Why would he when he could scroll through his BlackBerry and find the names of a dozen women who’d sleep with him and be happy about it? Beautiful women. Sexy women. Women who’d make this one look like Little Orphan Annie.
“I am talking about female compliance in general and, yes, that would include—it would include—”
“Sex.” He smiled tightly. “You can say the word. It won’t pollute you.”
Her color went from deep pink to bright red. “I know it is difficult for you to believe, but not every woman wants to pretend she enjoys being the recipient of a man’s most base desires.”
Whoa. Her attitude definitely needed updating, but that would be some other man’s problem, not his. Why not tell her she had nothing to worry about? Divorce was just a phone call away—
“Perhaps you think you are entitled to… to special privileges because you supposedly saved me from Giglio.”
Whatever hackles were, he could damn near feel his rise.
“Supposedly?”
Chiara shrugged. “You said it yourself. You had every intention of marrying me all along.”
“I said that because I was angry. You know damned well I only did it because your old man threatened to hand you over to his capo.”
“Why should I believe you now?” Her smile was like ice. “After all, signor, you lie with such ease.”
Okay. Enough. He’d taken one insult too many. It was time to let the lady stew in her own juices for a while.
“You know,” he said coldly, “I’ve had enough of this nonsense to last a lifetime. It’s bedtime.”
All the color drained from her face. She’d misunderstood him. He opened his mouth to explain, but before he could say a word, she spat out a Sicilian phrase he’d never heard anywhere but on the streets of his youth.
“Right,” he said through his teeth, “that’s precisely what I am.”
He strode purposefully toward her, grabbed her arm and yanked her toward him. She cried out, struggled, and on a curse the equal of hers, he lifted her into his arms and carried her up the staircase to the second floor, down the hall and into one of the guest rooms where he dumped her in the center of the bed.
She scrambled back against the pillows. Her hair was a tangle of wild curls. Her ugly coat had come open, exposing her ludicrous outfit.
Her amazingly sexy outfit.
Her breasts, shadowed beneath the thin cotton of his T-shirt. Her nipples, pebbled and just waiting for the touch of his fingers, the heat of his mouth.
Rafe stepped back. Jerked his head toward a half-open door.
“Your bathroom’s through there. There’s a clean toothbrush in the vanity. Toothpaste. Towels. Soap. Shampoo. Whatever else you might need.”
“If you think I’m going to… to prepare myself for you—”
“If you did, you’d be wasting your time. I like my women soft, feminine and sexy. You don’t even approach that description. No wonder your old man had to find you a husband.”
It was a good line, and he made the most of it by walking out.
He was halfway down the hall when he heard her door slam hard enough to rattle the walls. For some crazy reason, it made him smile.
A hot shower, then bed.
That was what he needed.
The shower was fine. So was the bed until he turned the sheets into a tangled mess. After an hour of trying to sleep, he gave up, lay back and watched the digital alarm clock blink away the minutes.
Two a.m. Three. Four. Damn it, he had to be at work in the morning. He didn’t have time for this.
Maybe he ought to phone his lawyer now. Yeah, it was the middle of the night, but so what? He had Marilyn Sayers on retainer. A big, fat retainer. The whole point of it was so that he could contact her anytime, anyplace, about anything….
Rafe got out of bed, pulled on a pair of old gray sweatpants. What difference would it make if he spoke to Sayers now or later? She was a top-notch legal eagle; this was a simple divorce. An hour or two wouldn’t mean a thing.
He’d wait.
He thought about going for a run in the park, but that would have meant leaving Chiara alone in the apartment. Somehow, that didn’t seem wise. He had a bottle of sleeping tablets in the medicine cabinet, something the doctor had given him a couple of years ago after minor surgery on his knee—he’d torn a tendon in a motorcycle accident. But he’d never taken even one of the pills and he wasn’t about to start now. A shot of brandy. That would do it.
It did.
Twenty minutes after he drank the Courvoisier, Rafe got into bed and tumbled into sleep.
Something woke him.
He wasn’t sure what it was. A sound, but what? Not his alarm. The red numbers on the clock were steady at 5:05 a.m., which meant he had fifty-five minutes until the thing went off.
There it was again. A noise. Faint but. A cry? That was it. A cry. Weeping.
Hell. It was Chiara.
He sat up in bed, rubbed his hands over his stubbled jaw and cheeks. Now what? Did he ignore it? Might as well. Let her cry. Who gave a damn? Every time he tried to treat her with kindness, she reacted like a junkyard dog.
He lay back against the pillows again, stacked his arms beneath his head. She was unhappy? He wasn’t exactly ecstatic. If she was crying, it was her business.
But it didn’t stop. Well, so what? He’d heard women cry before. Ingrid, for example, just a couple of days ago… Just a lifetime ago. But it hadn’t been like this. Sad. Desperate. As if the sobs were being torn from Chiara’s soul.
Rafe threw back the covers, got to his feet, headed for the door and then for the guest suite, where he paused. “Chiara?”
At first he thought the sobs had stopped. They hadn’t. They’d just grown muffled. She was crying as if her heart might break.
“Chiara,” he said again, and tapped lightly on the door. Still no answer. He took a breath. Then, carefully, he tried the knob. It turned, and the door swung open. The room was in darkness, but she’d left the bathroom light on and the door partly open. He could see the huddled form visible in the center of the bed.
Rafe called her name again. Still, no answer. Slowly, certain he was going to regret this, certain she’d rear up, scream the bloody building down when she realized he was in her bedroom, he made his way forward and sat down, gingerly, on the edge of the mattress. He could see her now, part of her, at least; she was just a small, sad lump under the duvet, on her belly, her face buried against the pillows.
His heart constricted. She was small and frightened and he’d known that and added to it.
Without thinking, he reached out and laid his hand gently against her hair.
“Chiara, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Please, don’t cry…”
The bedclothes seemed to explode. Rafe braced himself for a scream, a shout, a right to the jaw. But none of that happened. Chiara launched herself at him, wound her arms around his neck and buried her damp face against his naked shoulder.
Stunned, he sat absolutely still. Then, slowly, he slipped his arms around her. Filled them with soft, warm, trembling woman.
He shut his eyes.
Holding her felt wonderful. And she smelled good. His soap. His shampoo. And mingling with their scents, essence of woman. Of Chiara.
Of his wife.
His body stirred. Silently he cursed himself for it. There was nothing sexual happening here. Dawn was about to break over a sleeping city and he had a weeping woman in his arms.
Remember that, Orsini, he told himself sternly.
“Chiara,” he said gently. “What is it? Did you have a nightmare?”
She nodded. Her hair, all those dark and lovely curls, slid like feather wisps against his skin. He shut his eyes again, drew her closer, held her more tightly against his heart.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head.
“No. Okay. Fine. You don’t have to—”
“I dreamed it was my wedding night.”
A muscle knotted in his jaw. It was her wedding night. A hell of a thing to know that he was her nightmare.
“It’s all right, baby. Nothing will happen to you. I promise.”
“My wedding night with… with Giglio.”
A nightmare, all right. Rafe’s arms tightened around her.
“Shh, sweetheart. It was just a bad dream.”
A shudder went through her. “It was so real. His hands on me. His mouth.”
“Shh,” Rafe said again, an unreasoning rage filling him at the picture she’d painted. “Giglio can’t get to you. Not anymore.”
Silence. Another shudder. Then, a whisper so low he could hardly hear it.
“What?” he said, and bent his head closer to hers.
“I said… I said I have been awful to you, Raffaele. You saved me from him. And instead of saying thank you, I have accused you of… of all kinds of terrible things.”
He smiled. “Seems to me we’ve done a pretty good job of accusing each other of all kinds of terrible things.”
“It is only that I never expected any of this to happen. My father had threatened to marry me to an American but—”
“Just what every guy hopes,” Rafe said, trying to lighten things. “To be a beautiful woman’s worst nightmare.”
His little attempt at humor flew straight over her head. “No,” she said quickly, “I did not dream of you, Raffaele, I dreamed of—”
“I know. I only meant. Chiara, you have to believe me. My father wanted me to marry you, yes, but I didn’t have any intention of doing it. Not that a man wouldn’t be lucky to marry you,” he added quickly, “but—”
Her hand lifted; she placed her fingers lightly over his lips.
“It… it isn’t that I don’t want to be your wife. It’s that I do not want to be any man’s wife. Do you understand?”
He didn’t. Not really. He’d been dating women since he’d turned sixteen and he’d never yet come across one whose ultimate goal, no matter what she claimed, wasn’t marriage.
Then he thought of what he knew of the woman in his arms. Her father’s domination. Her isolation. Above everything else, her fear of sex, a fear he’d done little to ease over the past several hours.
“Truly,” she said, “it is not you. It would be any man.” She drew back in his arms, her face turned up to his, her eyes brilliant, her dark lashes spiky with tears. “Do you see?”
God, she was so beautiful! So vulnerable, lying back in his arms.
“Yes,” he said, his voice a little rough, “I do see. But you need to know—you need to know not all men are beasts, sweetheart.”
A wan smile curved her lips. “Perhaps you are the exception.”
The exception? If he were, his body wouldn’t be responding to the tender warmth of hers. He wouldn’t be looking at her and wondering if her mouth tasted as sweet as he remembered, if she was naked under the oversize cotton thing he assumed was a nightgown.