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—”
She turned toward him. She was sobbing; her face was wet with tears.
“Baby,” he whispered, and then she was in his arms.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RAFE gathered his wife tightly in his arms, his heart soaring as she looped her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his.
He knew that his anger had been nothing but a pathetic attempt at hiding the truth. He wanted her, had wanted her from that first kiss in Sicily. And she wanted him.