Her knees buckled. Rafe cursed, caught his wife in his arms and knew, without question, he’d gotten everything wrong.
CHAPTER SIX
THE cabin spun. The floor tilted. And all Chiara could think was, No, I am not going to pass out again!
Once in a lifetime was enough. What she needed to do now was fight, not faint.
The American had scooped her into his arms.
“Stay with me,” he was saying. “Come on, baby, stay with me!”
He wanted her conscious when he forced himself on her. That chilling realization was enough to chase the gray fog from her brain. Chiara summoned up all her strength and began beating her fists against his shoulders. One blow connected with his chin, and he captured her flailing hands in one of his and held them tightly against his chest.
“Hey,” he said, “take it easy!”
Take it easy? Take it easy? Maybe the women in his world gave in, but she would fight to what might well be her last breath because this man was strong. Very strong. No matter what she did, she could not get free.
“Chiara! Listen to me. I’m trying to help you.”
“Liar! Liar, liar, li—”
“Damn it, are you crazy?”
No, Rafe thought, answering the question himself. Not crazy. She was blind with panic and he couldn’t much blame her. What in hell had he done, all but tearing off her clothes like that? For all she knew, what came next would be—
Hell.
He kept one hand clamped around her wrists, used the other to try and pull the edges of the dress together. It was impossible, especially with her fighting him all the way.
Not exactly the way a man hoped to start his honeymoon. A joke, of course, because this was never going to be a honeymoon but still…
Her head jerked back.
She had some dangerous moves. He had to remember that. The way she could get her knee up, for instance, aiming with precision. Getting in close, putting her off balance, would be his only protection. He swept his arms around her, lifted her off her feet and brought her hard against him.
“Chiara! Stop fighting me!”
The lady was a hellcat personified.
And she was soft. Very soft. Her breasts were flush against his chest. Her belly was against his groin. She was still struggling, moving against him, rubbing against him…
Desperate, Rafe sent a searching glance around him. He needed a place to put her down. Crews on private jets were trained to be discreet but if the attendant chose this minute to see if her passengers wanted something, explaining what was going on might be, at the least, embarrassing.
The Orsini plane had a private bedroom and bathroom in the rear of the cabin. Well, there was a door in the back of this one. He had no idea what was behind it. For all he knew, it might be locked but it was worth—
Chiara’s sharp little teeth grazed his throat. Okay. Enough was enough. One bite a day was all she was going to get. Grunting, he upended her, tossed her over his shoulder and strode down the aisle while his crazy wife panted, raged, pounded the hell out of his back. Please, he thought grimly when he reached the door, grasped the knob…
Rafe breathed a sigh of relief.
The door opened. And beyond it was some kind of room. Not a bedroom. A lounge. Maybe an office. He rolled his eyes. Who cared what it was? There was a desk. A chair. A small lavatory visible beyond a partly opened sliding door. And, best of all, a small leather sofa just made for accommodating an out-of-control female, he thought, and shouldered the door shut.
He went straight for the sofa. Dumped Chiara on it and stood up.
Bad idea.
She was on her feet and trying to fly past him in a heartbeat. He grabbed her, wrestled her down onto the sofa again, squatted in front of her and clamped his hands around her forearms.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I am not going to hurt you.”
Chiara bared her teeth. An attack-trained rottweiler might have given him a friendlier response.
Rafe shook his head in frustration. He had a mess on his hands and only himself to blame. He’d scared the life out of his bride. A joke to call her that, but that was what she was, at least for the time being.
His fault, sure, but how was he to know she’d go off like a roomful of high explosives if he touched her?
You didn’t just touch her, that sly voice inside him whispered. True. He’d gone at her as if he were out of control, but whose fault was that, if not hers?
A woman couldn’t play hot and cold. That kiss this morning. That one moment of incredible surrender. Was he supposed to forget it had happened?
Had it been real? Had it been a ploy to get him on her side? Who in hell knew? And what about the insults she’d heaped on him, her easy assumption that he was a villain, that she could buy him off? Did none of that count for anything?