“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.
“I…I appreciate your decency,” she said, and every miserable male instinct he owned shrieked, Yeah? Then how about proving it?
He sat up straight, all but tore Chiara’s encircling arms from his neck and set her back against the pillows, grateful—hell, hopeful—that his baggy sweats would hide the effect she’d had on him.
“Well,” he said brightly, “you’ll be okay now.” She didn’t answer. “So, ah, so try to get some sleep.” Still no answer. He cleared his throat. “Chiara? About that divorce?”
“Yes?”
The hopeful note in the single word would have thrilled him if this were Ingrid or any one of a hundred other women. As it was, it only made him feel a pang of remorse.
“I’ll phone my attorney first thing in the morning and get it started.”
She gave a deep sigh. “Grazie bene, Raffaele. The jewels—”
“Forget about them. They’re yours.”
“I can, at least, use them to pay my share of the legalities.”
“I said, I don’t want them.” He knew he sounded harsh but, damn it, did she really think he’d let her pay for the severance of their marriage? Okay, it was a bogus marriage but still…“I’d prefer you keep them,” he said, trying for a calmer tone.
“Grazie. I can use the money they bring to live on. New York is expensive, yes?”
“New York is expensive, yes. But it won’t be so bad. Not with alimony.”
“Alimony?”
Alimony? his baffled brain echoed. A settlement was bad enough but alimony? Why would he pay alimony to a woman who’d been his wife for, what, twenty-four hours?
“I do not expect alimony, Raffaele. We have not had a real marriage.”
“Yeah, but this is America. Everybody pays alimony,” he said with a straight face, even though he could already hear his lawyer screaming in legal horror.
Chiara smiled. “I think,” she said, very softly, “I think, perhaps, you are an honorable man, Raffaele Orsini.”
Guilt made his jaw tighten. She wouldn’t think that if she could see the response of his body to the soft hand she laid upon his thigh. He took that hand, gave it a brisk little shake and stood up.
“Okay,” he said brightly, “sleep time.”
Her smile faded.
“You won’t have that bad dream again,” Rafe said softly. She didn’t answer and he cleared his throat. “If you like—if you like, I’ll sit in that chair until you doze off.”
“Would you mind?”
“Mind? No. I’m happy to do it.”
“It would be comfortable for you?”
Comfortable? Not in this lifetime. The chair in question was a Queen Anne, a Marie Antoinette, a Lady Godiva or something like that. It was puny looking. He’d put his own stamp on the living room, the library, the dining room and his bedroom, but he’d grown impatient after a while and turned the interior decorator loose on the guest rooms. One result was this chair. It might hold a dwarf but would it hold a man who stood six-three in his bare feet?
“Raffaele? I would not want you to be uncomfortable.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said with conviction, and he pulled the chair forward, sank onto it and prayed it wouldn’t collapse under his weight.
“Grazie bene,” Chiara said softly.
Rafe nodded. “No problem,” he said briskly. “You just close your eyes and—”
She was asleep.
He sat watching her for a while, the dark curve of her lashes against her pale cheeks, the tumble of her curls against her face, the steady rise and fall of her breasts. A muscle knotted in his jaw, and he reached out and tugged the duvet up, settled it around her shoulders.
He wanted to touch her. Her face. Her hair. Her breasts.
Determinedly he forced his brain from where it was heading. Concentrated on taking deep breaths. He needed to get some rest but it was impossible. The damned chair…
What if he slipped out of the room? She was deep, deep asleep. Yes, but what if she dreamed of Giglio again? He’d promised she wouldn’t, but thus far, his clever predictions had hardly been infallible.
His back ached. His butt. His legs. He looked at the bed. It was king-size. Chiara was curled on one edge. He could sit at a distance from her—sit, not lie—and at least stretch his legs. He wouldn’t touch her and she’d never know he was there.
Rafe made the switch carefully, waiting to make sure she didn’t awaken before he leaned back against the pillows. Yes. That was much better. He knew he wouldn’t sleep even though he was exhausted. He yawned. Yawned again until his jaws creaked. Maybe he’d just shut his eyes for a couple of minutes….
The sun, streaming in through the terrace doors, jolted him awake.
Chiara lay fast asleep in his arms, her hand over his heart, her breath soft and warm against his throat.
Rafe’s body clenched like a fist. He knew the perfect way to wake her. He’d kiss her hair, her eyelids, her mouth. Slowly her lashes would lift. Her beautiful eyes would meet his.
“Chiara,” he’d whisper, and instead of jerking back, she’d say his name, lift her hand to his face, and he’d turn his head, press his mouth to her palm, then to the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat, then to her breasts, breasts that he was now damned sure had never known a man’s caress—
Rafe swallowed a groan of frustration. Then he dropped the lightest of kisses on his sleeping wife’s hair, left her bed and headed to his bathroom for the longest cold shower of his life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SLOWLY, cautiously, Chiara opened her eyes.
Had she been dreaming, or had Raffaele been in bed with her, holding her in his arms?
It must have been a dream. A man wouldn’t get into a woman’s bed only to hold her close. Not even a man like Raffaele, who—she had to admit—seemed to have some decent instincts. Even he would not have slept with her curled against him without…without trying to do something sexual.
And yet the dream had seemed real.
His arms, comforting and strong around her. His body, warm and solid against hers. His heart, beating beneath her palm. And then, just before she awakened, the soft brush of his lips…
A dream, of course. And, at least, not a dream that had sent her into a panic.
Despite the things about him that were good—his gallantry in marrying her, his gentleness last night—he still represented everything she despised.
But she no longer despised him.
&nbs
p; What if he’d actually slept with her in his arms? If she’d awakened, wrapped in his heat? If she had looked up at him, clasped the back of his head, brought his lips to hers…
Chiara shoved aside the bedcovers and rose quickly to her feet. There was a cashmere afghan at the foot of the bed. She wrapped herself in it and padded, barefoot, over a rich Oriental carpet to the doors that opened onto a small terrace.
The morning air was crisp, the colors of the trees across the street, brilliant. Was that Central Park? It had to be. It surprised her. She knew of the park, of course, but she had not expected such an oasis of tranquillity.
Pedestrians hurried along the sidewalk: kids dressed for school, men and women in business suits, sleepy-looking people in jeans and sweats being tugged along by dogs hurrying to reach the next lamppost. Cars, taxis and buses crowded the road.
The street was busy. Still, it was surprisingly quiet up here.
She hadn’t expected that, either.
The truth was, she hadn’t expected most of what had happened since yesterday. She certainly hadn’t expected what little she’d discovered about Raffaele Orsini.
She had, almost certainly, misjudged his reasons for marrying her. She felt a little guilty about that. Not a lot. After all, they had misjudged each other. But everything pointed to the fact that he had not gone to Sicily to do his father’s bidding.
That he had taken her as his wife only to save her from being given to Giglio.
But, as he had said, he was no Sir Galahad. He was a hoodlum, like her father. Like his father. It was in his blood, even though he looked more like a man who’d stepped out of one of the glossy magazines that had been Miss Ellis’s one weakness….
Or like the David. Michelangelo’s marble masterpiece. She had never actually seen the statue, of course, but one of her tutors had taught her about art, had shown her a photo of the David in a book…
Chiara swallowed dryly.
Did Raffaele look like that statue? Was his naked body that perfect? Was all of him so…so flagrantly, blatantly, beautifully male?
Beautifully male?
Blindly she turned and hurried back into the bedroom.
What did it matter? He could look like one of God’s angels and it wouldn’t change the fact that he was what he was. That he did things, made his money—lots of money, from what she’d seen of his life so far—doing things she didn’t want to think about.
That he had decent instincts was interesting, even surprising, but it didn’t change the facts.
Still, would it not be a good thing to make it clear she was grateful to him for what he had done? She remembered little of what they’d said to each other when he’d come into her room last night. She was pretty sure she’d said thank you, but showing her gratitude would be polite.
How?
She could find ways to make herself useful.
Yes. Of course. She could be useful. He had no wife. Well, he had her but she was not really his wife. The point was, there was no woman here to do things. Clean. Cook. She could do those things. She could start immediately. She could make breakfast. Make coffee.
Coffee! Men liked awakening to the scent of it. When her father came down in the morning, he always said the smell of good, fresh espresso was the perfect way to start a day.
Chiara tore a dress and underwear from her suitcase, rushed into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Rafe always began the day with a shower.
He began this one with two, both icy enough to make his teeth chatter.
The frigid water did the job of quieting his still-jumpy hormones, but nothing could stanch the headache that had settled in just behind his eyes.
He downed two ibuprofen but the trolls inside his skull only laughed and drummed harder.
The headache matched his rapidly deteriorating mood. Was he crazy? He had to be, otherwise why was he taking this Boy Scout routine so far? Bad enough he’d married Chiara. What in hell had possessed him to sleep with her? To really sleep with her—no euphemism involved.
Waking up in bed with a woman you couldn’t have plastered against you and a hard-on you didn’t want in your sweats was not a good idea, especially if you were stuck with the woman and unable to do anything about the hard-on.
Uh-uh. Definitely not a way to begin the day.
And when, exactly, had he turned so accepting of the mess he was in?
Rafe glared as he stepped out of the shower stall and toweled off.
Not just a Boy Scout. At the rate he was going, he was pushing for the Order of the Arrow with oak leaf clusters. And for what reason? He’d done his good deed for her. Now, he’d do a good deed for himself.
Divorce court, next stop.
Absolutely, it was time to phone his lawyer. First, though, he needed to get his head working right. A couple of aspirin, to help move the ibuprofen along. Then coffee. Lots of coffee. Strong and black. That would do it.
When a man put, what, eight, nine thousand miles on his internal clock in twenty-four hours and got married to a woman he didn’t want, that man definitely needed something to bring him down. Mileage and a marriage. It sounded like one of those self-help books, but what it was, was the reason he wasn’t thinking straight.
Why else would he have suddenly felt such compassion, okay, such tenderness for the babe who’d screwed up his life?
Wanting to make it with her? That was understandable. He was male. She was female and under those crazy outfits she wore, she wasn’t bad-looking. Yeah, but there was no way in the world he’d follow through on those most basic of male instincts.
He didn’t know much about matrimonial law but what little he did know told him that, as of now, their quickie set of I do’s could be erased in a heartbeat. No sex? No real marriage.
Sleep with the lady and that would change.
Besides, why would he want to sleep with her? She was afraid of sex. What man wanted a scared woman in his bed? Plus, she was a virgin. No question about it anymore.
Imagine. In this day and age, she was a virgin.
Rafe grimaced as he stepped into a pair of faded jeans.
He’d been with a lot of women but never with a virgin. Any man with half a functioning brain knew to avoid that situation, because taking a woman’s virginity was a trap. It left you with the kind of responsibility he most assuredly did not need and did not want.
He zipped his fly, pulled on a gray cotton sweater. He didn’t bother shaving. No point pretending he’d go to his office today. Nothing on his desk was as important as dissolving a relationship that wasn’t a relationship.
He checked the time. It was barely seven. A reasonable hour at which to phone Marilyn Sayers, but first he’d have that coffee. Let the headache tablets do their thing. He wanted to sound cool and controlled when he told Sayers about his incredible situation. She would have questions, but all she really needed to know was where and when the marriage had taken place and that he wanted out, ASAP.
Marriage? He snorted. Ridiculous. He wouldn’t dignify what had happened in San Giuseppe by calling it that. There’d been some kind of ceremony, that was all.
It sure as hell hadn’t been a—
Crash!
Rafe spun toward the door. What was that? It sounded as if a two-car collision had just taken place in his apart—
There it was again, a metallic crash loud enough to make the trolls inside his skull pick up the tempo. By the time the third crash echoed through the penthouse, he was halfway down the stairs, racing down the hall…
He skidded to a stop in the entrance to his kitchen. What the hell…?
It looked as if Bloomingdale’s housewares department had decided to hold a sale right here, in his pristine—his once pristine—kitchen. The white granite countertops, the black stone floor…they were covered with pots and skillets. Big ones. Small ones. Stainless steel. Ironware. Ceramic. The place was ankle-deep in cookware, more than he’d imagined he owned, because the stuff had all been the decorator�
�s idea, not his.
Why would a man need a million things to cook in when he didn’t cook?
In the center of it all was Chiara, dressed like an undertaker in a calf-length black something and clunky black shoes, her hair scraped back in that damned bun. Chiara, who had decided to take over his kitchen. Chiara, who was, without question, about to utter those famous eight words…
“What are you doing?” he said sharply.
She spun toward him. “Raffaele!”
“I asked you a question. What are you doing?”
She hesitated, looking around her, then at him. “I suppose you had no idea I could cook.”
Okay. It was a variation but the theme was the same. Man, had he ever misjudged her!
She gave him a hesitant smile. “I was making coffee.”
Rafe folded his arms over his chest. “Come on, baby.” His voice was like ice. Amazing, considering that he could feel his blood pressure soaring into the stratosphere. “Just coffee? How about breakfast? Eggs. French toast. Waffles. You can make all that stuff, right?”
She swallowed. Nodded. Offered another cautious smile. Rafe could feel his anger growing. She wanted out of this marriage? The hell she did, he thought in escalating fury, and his BP went through the roof.
“I have a housekeeper,” he snarled. “The time comes I want something cooked, I’ll ask her to cook it.”
Chiara’s smile vanished. “Yes. Of course. I told you, I only wished to make coffee. Espresso. But I could not find an espresso pot so—”
“You couldn’t find it because I don’t have one. Or did you assume having an Italian name means I came out of my mother’s womb with an espresso maker tucked in my…hands?”
“No. I mean, yes.” She caught her lip between her teeth. “I did not mean to make you angry.”
“I am not angry,” Rafe said. “Why would I be angry? Just because you’ve decided you don’t want out of this nonsensical marriage—”
“What?”
“Just because you think the I-can-cook thing will change my mind—”
“You are pazzo! Of course I want—what did you call it—out of this marriage!” Her hands slapped on her hips. “And I have no idea what the I-can-cook thing is!”
Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin Page 9
