Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

by Sandra Marton

  “I would like that,” she said softly. “To start over with you, Raffaele.”

  Then she smiled, and he wondered how it was possible for everything good in the world to be captured in a woman’s smile.

  CHAPTER TEN

  HE KNEW he had to get the two of them out of his apartment.

  He was a man, not a martyr. All his good intentions could easily come undone if this sweet, intimate moment stretched on. So he flashed a quick smile, let go of her and stepped back.

  “I,” he said briskly, “am hungry enough to eat a bear.”

  She laughed. “I think it would be difficult to find a bear on Fifth Avenue.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. This is a pretty amazing city.”

  Chiara nodded. “I have read that it is.”

  She had read about New York. Read about it, but not seen it. He’d been so wrapped up in his own selfish misery he hadn’t given a thought to what might make things easier for her.

  She’d just given him the answer.

  He could show her his town. And in the process keep her at a safe distance. A win-win situation, he thought, and decided not to waste time. He took her hand, hurried her to the elevator. When she asked where they were going, he grinned and said they were in pursuit of that bear.

  Of course, none of the restaurants he had in mind had bear on the menu, but he had a long list of favorite places. They’d all be jammed this time of day, but that wasn’t a problem. He’d never needed a reservation to get a great table. It was one of the benefits of being Rafe Orsini.

  When they reached the lobby and he asked the doorman to flag a taxi, Chiara held back.

  Rafe looked at her. “What?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Not true. Something was troubling her; she was biting gently on her bottom lip, the way she always did when she was upset, and if he kept watching her do it he was going to scoop her into his arms and ravish her, right here. The hot image made him sound brusque.

  “Chiara, look, if you don’t want to do this—”

  “Oh, no, Raffaele.” She put her hand lightly on his arm. “I just wondered…could we take the subway?”

  “The what?”

  “The subway. I have read about it. It is in the ground. Well, most of it is in the ground. It whisks people through the city, from one borough to another, from Bronx all the way to the end of the Brooklyn. Sì?”

  She sounded like a tour guide. He wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss her.

  “Sì,” Rafe said, smiling. “But it’s the Bronx, and just plain Brooklyn.

  “Ah. I see. But it is probably foolish…”

  Foolish? That his wife would prefer to ride the subway instead of a taxi? Rafe smiled and took her hand.

  “It’s a great idea,” he said. “I should have thought of it.”

  He warned her it was a few blocks’ walk to the nearest subway station. She smiled and told him she loved to walk. He had never known a woman who said that and meant it, but his Chiara did. She craned her neck at the skyscrapers, gaped at the shop windows, almost skipped along the crowded sidewalks.

  “Oh,” she said, eyes shining, “I have never seen anything like this!”

  No, he thought, watching her. Neither had he.

  Rockefeller Center, when they finally reached it, rated a huge gasp.

  “The statue of Prometheus!”

  Well, hell, was that the name of the big gilded guy? Rafe hadn’t known that. Chiara told him all about it. The legend. The sculptor. How the statue had come to be placed here. He listened, but mostly he just heard his wife’s voice. Soft. Silvery. Happy.

  That was the word.

  She was happy.

  So was he.

  He had never been so happy in his life, he thought in amazement, and while she was still bubbling about Prometheus, he swung her into his arms and kissed her, right there in Rockefeller Center surrounded by thousands of people. Nobody seemed to notice. This was, after all, New York. But when he finally took his lips from hers and she opened her eyes and he saw how they were glowing, he thought he might be more than happy, that he was—that he was—

  “Hungry,” he said, the word coming out quick and sharp, as if he were a man just realizing he’d stepped back from the edge of a cliff. “Why don’t we, ah, why don’t we get something to eat?”

  His head was spinning. He couldn’t think straight. What was nearby? Where could he take her that she would enjoy? Because that was what this was all about, wasn’t it? Showing his wife—this temporary wife—his city? She was his guest. She’d never been to New York before; for all he knew, after their divorce, she might choose to return to Italy.

  No. Damn it, no. She wouldn’t do that. Go all the way across the ocean. Go so far away from him…

  Somebody bumped into them. Rafe blinked, clasped Chiara’s hand and set off at brisk pace.

  La Grenouille.

  That was the name of the restaurant he took her to.

  Chiara knew it meant frog, though why anyone would name a place so elegant after so humble a creature was beyond her.

  She also understood what Raffaele did not.

  She was as out of place here as, well, as a frog.

  Everyone was looking at her. Okay. Maybe not everyone, but they might as well have been. The diners were as upscale as the restaurant, the women all fashionably dressed, their faces and hair testament to time spent in the city’s finest salons.

  What must they think of her in her ugly black dress, ugly black shoes, ugly black coat? Not that it mattered. Her Raffaele was an amazing man, but he would never get a table here. It was too crowded. And then there was the way she looked…

  But they did get a table. Immediately. A banquette, and she knew, instinctively, it was a coveted spot. Waiters appeared. Busboys. Menus, wine lists…

  She told Raffaele to order for her.

  It was enough to watch him select a wine, a meal, to watch him smile when she bit into her salmon and offered a sigh of approval.

  And it was more than enough to watch the women watching him, their covetous glances turning to disbelief when they turned their attention to her.

  Yes, she thought, her chin lifting, oh, yes, I am with this man. This beautiful man who is generous and kind and caring.

  Was that why the waitstaff deferred to him? Or was it because of something darker? Was her Raffaele’s power similar to that of her father?

  Chiara’s meal, until now so perfect, suddenly seemed inedible.

  “Chiara?”

  She looked up. Raffaele was watching her. He looked troubled.

  “Sweetheart, if you don’t like what I ordered for you—”

  “No. No, it is fine. I am…I am tired, I think. All that walking…”

  He was on his feet in a second, helping her from her chair, dropping a stack of bills on the table. The captain hurried toward them. Was everything all right?

  No, Chiara thought, everything was not all right. She was married to a man who was everything she despised…except, she was not really married to him and she did not really despise him. What she felt for him was—It was—

  A tremor went through her. Raffaele curved his arm around her.

  “I’ll get a taxi,” he said softly, “and we’ll go home.”

  She nodded. Except, it wasn’t her home, it was his. This was all temporary. And that was good, was it not? Of course it was. She had no place in Raffaele Orsini’s life. She didn’t want a place in it. She didn’t, didn’t, didn’t…

  Oh, God.

  She did.

  When they reached his place, he wanted to call his doctor.

  Chiara refused. She was still pale but at least she had stopped trembling.

  “I am tired, Raffaele, that is all. A night’s sleep and I’ll be fine.”

  She went to her room. He went out to his. It was still early. He thought about phoning Falco. Or Nicolo. Thought about opening his BlackBerry and phoning a woman. The one he’d met the night he’d ende
d things with Ingrid…

  Instead, he undressed, put on a pair of sweats and turned on the TV. Watched an old football game on ESPN. An even older movie on HBO. Clicked through the zillion channels that had absolutely nothing worth viewing and finally tossed the damned remote aside in disgust.

  Taking Chiara out today had been a stupid idea.

  She wasn’t his guest any more than she was his wife. She was an encumbrance. A beautiful encumbrance, but that didn’t change a thing. The sooner he called Sayers’s law partner, the better. He’d get a couple of hours’ sleep and do it first thing in the morning.

  But he couldn’t sleep. Just as well because somewhere around dawn he got an idea. A really good one.

  He had that place on Nantucket. Why not put it to good use? Phone the couple who looked after it when he wasn’t there, tell them to prepare for a guest, arrange for the helicopter service he occasionally used to fly Chiara to the island.

  Brilliant, he thought as he showered and dressed, then went down the hall to her room and knocked on the door. She would be there. He would be here. No more nonsense, no more temptation—

  The door swung open. Rafe stared at his wife. She was wearing another ugly outfit, her face was, as always, bare of makeup, her hair was loose and wild, still damp from the shower.

  “Raffaele,” she said shakily, “I am so sorry I spoiled our evening…”

  Rafe groaned, hauled her into his arms and kissed her, and when she rose on her toes and kissed him back, he knew there wasn’t a way in the world he was going to send her anywhere.

  “Baby,” he said gruffly, “you don’t owe me an apology.”

  “Yes. I do. I thought—I suddenly thought that all this made no sense. You. Me. Our marriage…”

  Who you are.

  The words ran through her mind but she didn’t speak them. For now, it was enough to know who her Raffaele seemed to be.

  A man in whose arms she felt safe and wanted.

  For as long as it lasted, she would not think of anything more than that.

  They had breakfast.

  She cooked. Bacon. Eggs. Toast. He ate it all, every bite, and never once thought about the grapefruits languishing in the refrigerator. But he made the coffee, teasing her about it until she laughed and said he had to buy an espresso pot and she would show him how to make real coffee.

  Then they went out to see the city. Because, Rafe decided, what was the sense in asking Sayers’s partner to start the ball rolling? Surely, waiting another few days wouldn’t be a problem.

  They rode the subway. Up to the Bronx, out to the end of the line in Brooklyn. It was a warm day. They strolled the boardwalk at Coney Island. The rides were closed, but Rafe told Chiara what the big amusement park was like when it was open, what it had been like years ago when he and his brothers had played hooky a couple of times and spent the day here.

  “Hooky?”

  “Yeah. You know. Cut school.”

  She didn’t understand that, either, so he explained. It made her laugh.

  “A couple of times, huh?”

  He grinned and said, well, yeah, just a couple of times. The other times, they’d gone to other places.

  He told her about Dante. And Nicolo. And Falco. She said, wistfully, that it must have been nice, growing up with brothers. He said there were times they were a pain in the—in the behind but that mostly they were great guys.

  Around noon he suggested they head back to Manhattan to have lunch.

  Chiara cast a longing look at Nathan’s hot dog stand.

  “I do not suppose,” she said, “I do not imagine you would prefer to have—”

  “Hot dogs?” Rafe laughed, picked her up, swung in a circle with her while she tried to keep a serious face as she demanded he put her down. “A kiss, and I will,” he said, and letting her go after that one modest peck on the lips was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  They went into Nathan’s. He ordered his hot dog with mustard. She ordered hers with sauerkraut. And onions. And relish.

  “May I have French fries, too, please, Raffaele?”

  He wanted to tell her she could have anything she wanted, that she already had—that she already had—

  “Fries,” he told the kid behind the counter, and told himself to stop thinking, because wherever his head was taking him made absolutely no sense at all.

  He’d heard people say that seeing the city with someone who’d never seen it before was eye opening.

  Seeing it with his Chiara was more than that. It was wonderful. It was amazing. It was incredible.

  It was agony.

  The days flew by, and he knew they were living on borrowed time. No matter how many places he showed her, how many little parks and mews they explored, no matter how many chestnut vendors his wife charmed by telling them their chestnuts were perfectly roasted, this was all going to end, and soon.

  A good thing, of course. He had his life to lead. That he hadn’t gone to the office in days, that he had no desire to go to it, well, that was not good.

  Neither was taking so many cold showers.

  What choice did he have? A man walked a beautiful woman to the door of her room every night, kissed her, told himself the kiss would be on the cheek or on the forehead and, instead, ended up capturing her lips with his, ended up with her arms wound tightly around his neck and her sweet, lush body pressed to his…

  A man had that happening to him, the only way to save his ass was to stumble down the hall and step into a long, icy shower. Well, if that was the price he had to pay for hours of laughter and companionship—companionship with a woman!—he’d pay it.

  The truth was, he loved everything they did. Going to the museums. Walking in the park. Even riding the upper deck of a sightseeing bus. He’d felt like a jerk at first. Then his Chiara had turned her shining, excited face to his and he’d gone from feeling stupid to feeling like a lucky man.

  The one thing they hadn’t done, the one thing he longed to do, was buy his wife new clothes to replace those awful things she kept pulling out of her seemingly bottomless suitcase.

  But he wasn’t a fool. His Chiara was proud. If he so much as suggested buying her new stuff, he knew he might hurt her. And he’d sooner have slit his throat than do that. Besides, she was beautiful to him just as she was and anytime he caught some idiot looking at her and smirking, Rafe turned the smirk to panic with one cold glance.

  So, the days were perfect. But there was, inevitably, that time each evening he left Chiara at her bedroom door.

  He was a healthy, heterosexual male with healthy appetites. He’d wanted a lot of women in his life…but he had never wanted one the way he wanted her. His body ached for her. Well, why wouldn’t it?

  The problem was, his heart ached, too.

  Crazy, he knew, because sex and desire had nothing to do with the heart.

  That was what he was busy telling himself at the end of yet another long day. They’d had fun but without warning, over dinner at a little place in Chinatown, somewhere between the steamed dumplings and the Szechuan beef, Rafe looked at his wife and that aching heart of his suddenly hardened.

  What kind of game was she playing?

  This was her fault. All of it. That they were married. That they were in this mess. That he was going crazy, torn between wanting to drag her into his bed and believing he had to treat her as if she were made of glass.

  And she knew it. Women always knew these things.

  What did it all mean? Was it an act? The country mouse bit. The give-me-the-simple-life thing. The hot kisses that she had to know ended for him in the kind of anguish he hadn’t experienced since he was sixteen.

  Was it an act?

  What else could it be? he thought coldly. And while she was in the middle of saying something about something—who gave a damn what—he tossed his chopsticks on his plate and got to his feet.

  Chiara looked up. “Raffaele?”

  “It’s late,” he said gruffly. “And I’m going back
to work tomorrow.” He hadn’t known that until he said it, but, by God, it was one damned fine idea. He yanked out his wallet, tossed some bills on the table. “Let’s go.”

  She was staring at him. He didn’t blink, not even when her eyes began to glitter. Not tears, he told himself. A trick of the light. Or maybe a trick of hers.

  “Let’s go,” he repeated, and she put down her chopsticks and stood up.

  By the time they got a taxi, she was crying. Silently, but she was crying. Was she upset because he’d pulled aside the curtain and taken a good look at what was behind it?

  Frankly, he didn’t care. This was it. No more. Sayers would be back tomorrow. Perfect timing. He’d phone her, set the divorce in motion, and that would be that.

  They rode the taxi in silence, took the elevator to his place the same way. Was she still crying? He couldn’t tell. Her head was turned away; her dark hair hid her face. Good. He’d looked at that face once too often.

  When they stepped into the foyer of his penthouse, she swung toward him.

  “Raffaele.” Her voice trembled. Resolutely he folded his arms over his chest. “Raffaele. What did I do?”

  “Nothing,” he said calmly. “I’m the one. I should have dealt with reality sooner. We’re nothing to each other, Chiara, just two people forced into something neither of them wanted by two old men. Well, it’s time to stop the charade.”

  She winced. He felt his throat constrict but, damn it, somebody had to say it.

  She looked away. A long moment passed. Then she turned her face to his. Her expression startled him. She was calm. Composed. She looked…she looked relieved.

  “Thank you for speaking the truth.” There was no tremor in her voice now. No tears in those violet eyes. “And you are right. There is no sense in continuing this…this charade. I would be grateful if you phoned your attorney tomorrow.”

  He nodded. She went up the stairs. He watched until she vanished from sight, heard her door open, heard it close…

  And knew he had just lost the only thing in the world that mattered.

  “Chiara,” he said, and then he shouted her name and ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time, racing down the hall, throwing open the door to her bedroom. “Sweetheart. Chiara, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t—”