Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

Most of all, how could she be falling in love with him?

Rafe wanted her to shower with him.

She refused.

He knew it would take him less than a minute to change her mind. His wife was the most responsive woman he’d ever been with. All he had to do was touch her, kiss her. But if they ended up back in bed, he’d feel even guiltier about how many times he’d made love to her during the night.

So he made do with a kiss. Well, a few kisses. Her eyelids. Her cheeks. Her delectable mouth and, finally, her breasts. She put up a little struggle, a couple of You must not, Raffaele whispers, but she moaned when he tugged away that ratty dress she clutched like a shield and touched his lips to first one delicate nipple and then the other.

Stopping was sheer hell, but knowing she didn’t want him to stop was a gift that made it worthwhile.

“Later,” he said softly, and then he spun her toward the door and told her to hurry up and get ready to go out.

She bristled.

“I do not take orders, Raff—Oh!”

It was the reaction he’d hoped for, the indignant “Oh” when he swatted her lightly on her naked butt—she was clutching her dress again and she seemed to have forgotten it only covered her front—and then a shocked gasp when he followed it up with a quick kiss on that same place.

She all but ran for the bathroom. He chuckled. He knew he’d pay for it later.

At least, he hoped he would.

Twenty minutes later he was showered and dressed.

Jeans. A dark blue sweater and a leather jacket, because the day looked bright but he could see the tops of the trees in the park swaying under the wind. He scooped up his keys and wallet, then headed downstairs. Chiara wouldn’t be ready, of course. He knew women. She would need another twenty, thirty minutes. He’d wait for her near the elevator. It was safer than waiting for her upstairs where all he had to do was go down the hall, turn the doorknob to her room…

But his wife was waiting for him. She’d tamed her hair, damn it, pulling it back into another of those knots, and she was wearing one of those black dresses.

Something must have shown in his face. She blushed a little, brushed her hand down the length of the dress.

“I know this is not what New York women wear, but—”

Rafe wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her. It was the kind of opening he’d been waiting for, and he wasn’t about to let it go by.

“Breakfast can wait,” he said. “First we’ll deal with what New York women wear.”

It was still early. Too early for Saks to be open but why would that stop him? He had a client who knew a guy who a guy…

By the time they’d reached the lobby, he’d made a couple of calls on his cell. And by the time they reached Saks, a polite gentleman in an expensive suit was waiting at a side door to let them in.

Chiara balked. “What are we doing here, Raffaele?”

“I told you,” he said easily, “we’re going to see what it is New York women wear.”

She dug in her heels. “This must be an expensive store.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Her jaw firmed. “I cannot afford it. I have not had time to find a buyer for my mother’s jewels.”

Did she actually think he’d let her sell those jewels? She was his wife. For now, anyway. And a husband supplied his wife’s clothes.

“You can argue with me later,” he said, and he took her hand and led her inside the store.

Her soft ooh’s and aaah’s made him smile as the man in the suit led them through displays of silk scarves and accessories, past endless counters of perfume and cosmetics until they reached the elevators. One was waiting, and the three of them stepped inside.

“Where do we get off?” his wife whispered.

A good question. He hadn’t asked; he’d simply told the guy his client had put him in touch with that he wanted to buy a few things for a lady…

The doors opened. An acre of garments stretched ahead but—Rafe breathed a sigh of relief—a guide was waiting.

Well, a salesclerk. A saleswoman. An associate. Whatever you called an angel who greeted you with a smile and gave no sign that her newest customer looked like she’d stepped off the ancient streets of Sicily.

“Good morning,” she said pleasantly. “My name is Nella. How may I help you?”

Rafe made his first mistake. He asked Chiara what she needed.

Her chin came up. “Nothing!”

He nodded. “And maybe that’s just as well,” he said, eyes wide with innocence. “I mean, even if you did need, oh, I don’t know…let’s say, some sweaters. Jeans. A jacket. A couple of dresses…”

“I just said, Raffaele, I do not need—”