Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

Heart pounding, she unbuttoned her coat and shrugged it from her shoulders.

“Listen to me,” she said, and hated the way her voice shook. “Signor Orsini. I do not want to be your wife any more than you want to be my husband.”

“And?”

“And we are trapped. You had no choice but to marry me and—”

His eyes narrowed again. She had already learned enough about him to know that was not a good sign.

“Is that what you think?”

“Your father wanted it.” He said nothing and she hurried on. “And my father wanted it. So—”

“So, I did it to please them both?”

“Yes. No. Perhaps not.” She was losing ground; she could sense it. The thing to do was speak more quickly, make him see that she understood why he’d done what he’d done and that he could gain by undoing it. American gangsters could be bought. She had watched enough films to know a great deal about America, and this was one of the things she knew.

“Perhaps my father made promises to you. Perhaps he said he would reward you.”

He sat back. Folded his arms again. Watched her, waited, said nothing, everything about him motionless, his body, his face, nothing moving but that damnable muscle in his cheek.

“Did he offer you a reward, signor? I can make a better offer.”

The corners of his lips curved. “Can you,” he said, very softly.

“As soon as we get to America, we will end the marriage. It is an easy thing to do in your country, yes?”

He shrugged. “And you walk away. From me. From your charming father. From that miserable little town. Everybody lives happily ever after. Right?”

He understood! The relief was enormous. “Yes,” she said, with a quick smile. “And you get—”

“Oh, I know what I get, baby. But I’d get that, anyway.”

Chiara shook her head. “I don’t under—”

“That black thing you’re wearing.”

Confused, she looked down at herself again, then at him. “The black thing? You mean, my dress?”

“What’s under it?”

She blinked. “Under…?”

“Give me a break, okay? You’re not deaf. Stop repeating what I say and answer the question. What’s under that dress?”

Color heated her face. “My…my undergarments.”

He grinned. She almost made the old-fashioned word sound real. “Silk? Lace? Bra? Panties?” His smile tilted. “Or is it a thong?”

Chiara shot to her feet. “You’re disgusting!”

“You know, it took me a while but I finally figured it out. This get-up. The clothes, the hair, the ‘Don’t touch me’ all but painted on your forehead—it was all for me, wasn’t it?”

She swung away. His hands fell hard on her shoulders and he spun her to him. He wasn’t smiling anymore; his face was hard, his eyes cold.

“The real Chiara Cordiano is the one I kissed in that car.”

“You are pazzo! Crazy! Let go of me. Let go of—”

Rafe bent his head and kissed her. It was a stamp of masculine power and intent, and when she tried to twist away from him, he caught her face between his hands and kissed her even harder, forcing her lips apart, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, taking, demanding, furious with her for the lies, furious with himself for falling for them.

Furious, because he was stupid enough to want to reclaim that one sweet moment when he’d kissed her and she’d responded.

Except, she hadn’t.

That, too, had been a lie just like everything else, including the way she was weeping now, big, perfect tears streaming down her face as he drew back.

If he hadn’t known better, he’d have bought into the act.

“Come on, baby,” he said with vicious cruelty, “what’s the point in prolonging this? Get out of that ridiculous dress. Do what you undoubtedly do best.” His mouth twisted. “Do it really well and I might just give you that divorce you’re after.”

“Please,” she sobbed, “please…”

“Damn it,” Rafe growled. He’d had enough. He reached out with one hand, grabbed the collar of her ugly black dress, tore it open from the neckline to the hem…

And saw white cotton.

Sexless, all but shapeless white cotton. Bra. Panties. The kind of stuff his sisters had worn beneath their school uniforms when they were kids, stuff he and his brothers used to cackle over when they saw those innocent, girlish garments drying on the line in the backyard.

He stood, transfixed, uncertain. Was this, too, part of the act?

“Don’t,” Chiara whispered, “I beg you, don’t, don’t, don’t…”