Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

by Sandra Marton

  The capo had not taken his eyes off Rafe, and nasty eyes they were. Small. Set too close together. Unblinking and altogether mean. At first Rafe had ignored it, but it was getting to him.

  For some reason the pig man didn’t like him. Fine. The feeling was mutual.

  Added to all that, Cordiano seemed intent on spinning endless, self-aggrandizing tales set in the glory days of his youth, when men were men and there was nothing anybody could do about it.

  Rafe didn’t care. All he wanted was to get out of here, back to Palermo, back to the States and a world that made sense, but until they got down to basics, he was stuck.

  His attempts to move things along had gotten nowhere.

  After the handshakes, the how-was-your-trip question and his it-was-fine response—because no way was he going to tell this sly old fox and his capo that he’d been had by a doddering old highwayman and a woman—after all that plus the ceremonial handing over of the unwanted cigar and the obligatory glass of grappa, Rafe had handed Cordiano his father’s sealed letter.

  “Grazie,” the don said and tossed it, unopened, on his desk. Each time he paused for breath, Rafe tried to launch into the verbal form of his father’s apology. No luck. Cordiano didn’t give him a chance.

  At least the marriage proposal had not been mentioned. Maybe Cesare had already explained that Rafe would not be availing himself of the generous offer to take his old enemy’s obviously undesirable daughter off his hands.

  Something must have shown in his face because the pig man’s eyes narrowed. Rafe narrowed his in return. He felt foolish, like a kid doing his best to stare down the class bully, but what else did he have to keep him occupied?

  “—for you, Signor Orsini.”

  Rafe blinked and turned toward Cordiano. “Sorry?”

  “I said, this has surely been a long day for you and here I am, boring you with my stories.”

  “You’re not boring me at all,” Rafe said, and forced a smile.

  “Is the grappa not to your liking?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not a grappa man, Don Cordiano.”

  “And not a cigar man, either,” Cordiano said, with a quick flash of teeth.

  “Actually…” Rafe put his glass on the small table beside the chair and rose to his feet. The pig man stood up, too. Enough, Rafe thought. “I am also not a man who enjoys being watched as if I might steal the silver, so tell your watchdog to relax.”

  “Of course.” The don chuckled, though the sound was remarkably cheerless. “It is only that Giglio sees you as competition.”

  “Trust me, Cordiano, I’m not the least bit interested in taking his job.”

  “No, no, certainly not. I only meant that he is aware that I have been searching for a way to thank him for his years of dedication, and—”

  “And I’m sure you’ll find an appropriate reward but that doesn’t concern me. I’m here on behalf of my father. I’d appreciate it if you’d read his letter.”

  Cordiano smiled. “But I know what it says, signor. Cesare begs my forgiveness for what he did almost half a century ago. And you, Raffaele—may I call you that?—and you are to assure me that he means every word. Yes?”

  “That’s pretty much it.” And still not a word about daughters and marriage, thank God. “So, I can return home and tell him his apology is accepted? Because it’s getting late. And—”

  “Did your father tell you what it is he did?”

  “No. He didn’t. But that’s between you and—”

  “I was his—I suppose you would call it his sponsor.”

  “How nice for you both.”

  “He repaid my generosity by stealing la mia fidanzata.”

  “I’m sorry but I don’t speak—”

  “Your father stole my fiancée.” Cordiano’s smile turned cold. “He eloped with her in the middle of the night, two days before we were to marry.”

  “I don’t understand. My father has a wife. She…” Rafe’s jaw dropped. “Are you saying my mother was engaged to you?”

  “Indeed she was, until your father stole her.”

  All that “dark passion” stuff was starting to make sense. Now what? What could he say? It was hard enough to picture a young Cesare but to imagine his mother as a young woman running away with him…

  “Did you think this was about something simple?” The don’s voice was as frigid as his smile. “That is why he sent you here, boy. To offer a meaningful apology, one I would accept. An eye for an eye. That is our way.”

  Rafe shot a quick look at the capo. Was that what this was all about? He’d put in his time in the Marines; he and his brothers had all served their country. He could give a good account of himself against, what, 350 pounds of fat and muscle, but in the end…

  “An eye for an eye. Or, now that so many years have gone by, a deed for a misdeed.” Cordiano folded his arms over his chest. “Your father took my bride. I will show him forgiveness by letting you take my daughter as yours. Do you see?”

  Did he see? Rafe almost laughed. No way. Not even a genius would see any logic in that.

  “What I see,” he said flatly, “is that you have a daughter you want to get rid of.”

  Pig Man made a humming sound deep in his throat.

  “And somehow, you and my old man cooked up this cockeyed scheme. Well, forget about it. It’s not going to happen.”

  “My daughter needs a husband.”

  “I’m sure she does. Buy one, if that’s what it takes.”

  The mountain of muscle grunted and took a step forward. Rafe could feel the adrenaline pumping. Hell, he thought, eyeing the capo, he could do more than put up a good fight. Angry as he was, he could take him.

  “I have your father’s word in this matter, Orsini.”

  “Then you have nothing, because it is not his word you need, it’s mine. And I can damned well assure you that—”

  “There you are,” Cordiano said sharply, glaring past him. “It took you long enough to obey my orders, girl.”

  Rafe swung around. There was a figure in the doorway. Chiara Cordiano had come to join them. A weak finger of late-afternoon sunlight pierced a narrow gap in the heavy window draperies, lending a faint outline to her thin shape.

  “Have you turned to stone?” the don snapped. “Step inside. There is a man here who wants to meet you.”

  Like hell he did, Rafe almost said, but he reminded himself that none of this was the girl’s fault. If anything, he felt a stab of pity for her. He’d already figured that she was homely. Maybe it was worse than that. For all he knew, she had warts the size of watermelons.

  She was also a woman defeated. Everything about her said so.

  She moved slowly. Her head was bowed, showing dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her hands were folded before her, resting at her waistline, assuming she had one. It was impossible to tell because her dress was shapeless, as black and ugly as her shoes. Lace-ups, he thought with incredulity, the kind he’d seen little old ladies wearing back home on Mulberry Street.

  He couldn’t see her face but he didn’t need to.

  It would be as plain as the rest of her.

  No wonder her father was trying to give her away. No man in his right mind would want such a pitiful woman in his bed.

  Okay. He’d be polite. He could do that much, he thought, and opened his mouth to say hello.

  Pig Man beat him to it.

  “Buon giorno, signorina,” the capo said.

  Except, he didn’t say it, he slimed it. How else to describe the oiliness in the man’s voice? Maybe Chiara Cordiano thought so, too. Rafe saw a tremor go through her narrow shoulders.

  “Signor Giglio has spoken to you,” the don snapped. “Where are your manners?”

  “Buon giorno,” she said softly.

  Rafe cocked his head. Was there something familiar about her voice?

  “And you have not greeted our guest, Signor Raffaele Orsini.”

  The woman inclined her head. Not easy to do; her chin w
as damned near already on her chest.

  “Buon giorno,” she whispered.

  “In English, girl.”

  Her hands twisted together. Rafe felt another tug of sympathy. The poor thing was terrified.

  “That’s okay,” he said quickly. “I don’t know much Italian but I can manage a hello. Buon giorno, signorina. Come sta?”

  “Answer him,” Cordiano barked.

  “I am fine, thank you, signor.”

  There was definitely something about her voice…

  “Why are you dressed like this?” her father demanded. “You are not going into a convent. You are going to be married.”

  “Don Cordiano,” Rafe said quickly, “I’ve already told you—”

  “And why do you stand there with your head bowed?” Cordiano grabbed his daughter’s arm, his fingers pressing hard. She winced, and Rafe took a step forward.

  “Don’t,” he said quietly.

  The capo lunged forward but Cordiano held up his hand.

  “No, Giglio. Signor Orsini is correct. He is in charge of things now. It is his right, and his alone, to discipline his fiancée.”

  “She is not my…” Rafe shot the woman a quick glance, then lowered his voice. “I already told you, I am not interested in marrying your daughter.”

  Cordiano’s eyes turned hard. “Is that your final word, Orsini?”

  “What kind of man are you, to put your daughter through something like this?” Rafe said angrily.

  “I asked you a question. Is that your final word?”

  Could a man feel any worse than Rafe felt now? He hated what Cordiano was doing to the girl. Why in hell didn’t she say something? Was she meek, or was she stupid?

  Not my worry, he told himself, and looked at Freddo Cordiano.

  “Yes,” he said gruffly, “it is my final word.”

  Pig Man laughed. The don shrugged. Then he clamped his fingers around his daughter’s delicate-looking wrist.

  “In that case,” he said, “I give my daughter’s hand to my faithful second in command, Antonio Giglio.”

  At last the woman’s head came up. “No,” she whispered. “No,” she said again, and the cry grew, gained strength, until she was shrieking it. “No! No! No!”

  Rafe stared at her. No wonder she’d sounded familiar. Those wide, violet eyes. The small, straight nose. The sculpted cheekbones, the lush, rosy mouth…

  “Wait a minute,” he said, “just wait one damned minute…”

  Chiara swung toward him. The American knew. Not that it mattered. She was trapped. Trapped! She had to do something…

  Desperate, she wrenched her hand out of her father’s.

  “I will tell you the truth, Papa. You cannot give me to Giglio. You see—you see, the American and I have already met.”

  “You’re damned right we have,” Rafe said furiously. “On the road coming here. Your daughter stepped out of the trees and—”

  “I only meant to greet him. As a gesture of—of goodwill.” She swallowed hard; her eyes met Rafe’s and a long-forgotten memory swept through him of being caught in a firefight in some miserable hellhole of a country when a terrified cat, eyes wild with fear, had suddenly, inexplicably run into the middle of it. “But…but he…he took advantage.”

  Rafe strode toward her. “Try telling your old man what really happened!”

  “What really happened,” she said in a shaky whisper, “is that—is that right there, in his car—right there, Papa, Signor Orsini tried to seduce me!”

  Giglio cursed. Don Cordiano roared. Rafe would have said, “You’re crazy, all of you,” but Chiara Cordiano’s dark lashes fluttered and she fainted, straight into his arms.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT WAS like being trapped in a nightmare. One minute, Rafe was about to launch into his father’s all-too-florid verbal apology. The next—

  The next, Chiara Cordiano was lying as limp as laundry in his arms.

  Was she faking it? The woman was a class-A actress. First a tough bandit, then a demure Siciliana, when the truth was, she was anything but demure.

  A little while ago, she’d attacked him with the ferocity of a lioness.

  And there’d been that sizzling flash of sexual heat.

  Oh, yeah. The lady was one hell of an actress and this was her best performance yet. Claiming he’d tried to seduce her. He’d kissed her, was all, and one kiss did not a seduction make.

  The don was holding his capo back with a hand on his arm and an assortment of barked commands. Rafe knew that Pig Man wanted to kill him. Good. Let him try. He was more than in the mood to take on the load of lard.

  First, though, the woman in his arms had to open her eyes and admit she’d lied.

  He looked around, strode to a brocade-covered sofa and unceremoniously dumped her on it. “Chiara,” he said sharply. No response. “Chiara,” he said again, and shook her.

  Pig Man snarled an obscenity. Rafe looked up.

  “Get him out of here, Cordiano, or so help me, I’m gonna lay him out.”

  The don snapped out an order, pointed a finger at the door. The capo shrugged off his boss’s hand. Like any well-trained attack dog, he did as he’d been ordered but not without one last threatening look at Rafe.

  “This is not over, American.”

  Rafe showed his teeth in a grin. “Anytime.”

  The door swung shut. Cordiano went to a mahogany cabinet, poured brandy into a chunky crystal glass and held it out. Give it to her yourself, Rafe felt like saying but he took the glass, slipped an arm around Chiara’s shoulders, lifted her up and touched the rim of the glass to her lips.

  “Drink.”

  She gave a soft moan. Thick, dark lashes fluttered and cast shadows against her creamy skin. Wisps of hair had escaped the ugly bun and lay against her cheeks, as delicately curled as the interior of the tiny shells that sometimes washed up on the beach at Rafe’s summer place on Nantucket Island.

  She looked almost unbelievably fragile.

  But she wasn’t, he reminded himself. She was as tough as nails and as wily as a fox.

  “Come on,” he said sharply. “Open your eyes and drink.”

  Her lashes fluttered again, then lifted. She stared up at him, her pupils deep as a moonless night and rimmed by a border of pale violet.

  “What…what happened?”

  Nice. Trite, but nice.

  “You passed out.” He smiled coldly. “And right on cue.”

  Did defiance flash in those extraordinary eyes? He couldn’t be sure; she leaned forward, laid cool, pale fingers over his tanned ones as she put her mouth to the glass.

  Her throat worked as she swallowed. A couple of sips and then she looked up at him. Her lips glistened; her eyes were wide. The tip of her tongue swept over her lips and he could imagine those lips parted, that tongue tip extended, those eyes locked, hot and deep, on his—

  A shot of raw lust rolled through him. He turned away quickly, put the glass on a table and stepped back.

  “Now that you’re among the living again, how about telling your old man the truth?”

  “The truth about…” Her puzzled gaze went from her father to Rafe. “Oh!” she whispered, and her face turned scarlet.

  Rafe’s eyes narrowed. Her reactions couldn’t be real. Not the Victorian swoon, not her behavior at the memory of what had happened in the car. He’d kissed her, for God’s sake. That was it. He’d lifted her into his lap and kissed her and, okay, she’d ended up biting him, but only after she’d responded, after he’d gotten hard as stone and she’d felt it and…

  And he’d behaved like an idiot.

  He was not a man who did things like that to women. A little playing around during sex was one thing; he’d had lovers who liked a hint of domination, but having a woman whisper “more” even as she pretended something else was not the same as what had happened with Chiara Cordiano.

  What in hell had gotten into him? He’d been furious, but anger had nothing to do with sex…did it?


  It was a subject to consider at another time. Right now he might just have a problem on his hands. This culture had its roots in times long gone. Its rules, its mores, were stringent.

  Back home, a kiss, even a stolen one, was just a kiss. Here it could be construed as something else.

  “Don Cordiano,” he said carefully, “I kissed your daughter. I’m sorry if I offended her.”

  “And I am to accept your apology?”

  The don’s tone was arrogant. It made Rafe bristle.

  “I’m not asking you to accept it,” he said sharply, and turned to Chiara. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. If I frightened you, I’m sorry.”

  “Perhaps you would care to explain how you managed to meet with my daughter before you met with me.”

  Perhaps he would, Rafe thought, but he’d be damned if he’d stand here and admit he’d almost been bested by a slip of a girl and an old man. Besides, that part of the story belonged to Cordiano’s daughter, he thought grimly, and looked at her again. But she locked her hands together in her lap, bent her head and studied them as if she had no part in this conversation.

  The hell with that.

  “Your turn, signorina,” Rafe said coldly.

  Chiara felt her heart thump. The American was right.

  This was the time for her to say, “You have it wrong, Papa. This man didn’t ‘meet’ me, not the way you make it sound. I stopped him on the road and tried to scare him away.”

  What a joke!

  Instead of scaring him away, she’d brought him straight to San Giuseppe. And she couldn’t explain that, not without telling her father everything, and that meant she’d have to tell him about Enzo.

  No matter what the consequences, exposing Enzo’s part in the mess would be fatal.

  She knew her father well. He would banish Enzo from San Giuseppe, the place where the old man had spent his entire life. Or—her heart banged into her throat—or Enzo could suffer an unfortunate accident, a phrase she’d heard her father use in the past.

  She was not supposed to know such things, but she did. When she was little, her father would say that Gio or Aldo or Emilio had left his employ but by the time she was twelve, she’d figured it out.