Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

Yes, but she’d been through a lot today. So had he, but it wasn’t the same. He hadn’t been threatened with wedded bliss as the wife of her father’s capo.

If even that had been real. If it hadn’t all been an act, meant to make him agree to a marriage a pair of aging dons on both sides of the Atlantic seemed to want.

For the moment he’d go with believing his wife hadn’t been in on the deal—and why in hell think of her as his wife? She was nothing but a temporary impediment in his life. Maybe she’d calm down once she understood that. Hell, she had to. He couldn’t spend the rest of the flight hanging on to her as she struggled to get away.

Rafe took a long breath.

“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry I frightened you. I never—I mean, I had no idea…The thing is, I got angry. And…” And what? None of that excused what he’d done. Truth time, he thought, and drew another breath. “Here’s the deal, okay? I thought you had been stringing me along. And—”

“Hah!”

“Hah?”

“Why would I string you along,” she panted, “when I would like to string you up?”

How could he want to laugh at a time like this? He couldn’t, not without enraging his wildcat even more. Instead he cleared his throat.

“I thought you were part of the plan. You know, to convince me to marry you.” Her face registered incredulity, but they were getting somewhere: she had stopped struggling, at least for the moment. “Okay,” he said carefully, “I’m going to let go of you. Then I’m going to stand up.”

His eyes drifted down; he’d all but forgotten her dress was torn in half, showing all that schoolgirl lingerie.

Showing the small but somehow lush breasts, the narrow waist, the flaring hips… Rafe forced his gaze back to her face. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“I’ll stand up, and then I’ll get your suitcase so you can change clothes. Okay?”

Chiara glared at him. “I was not part of any plan,” she said with icy precision.

“You want something to wear or not?”

He could see her weighing the offer. At last she nodded.

“Good. Fine.” Slowly he took his hands from her. She scrambled back as he rose to his feet. She looked like hell, not just the torn dress, but her face was devoid of color, her eyes huge and dark.

And he was the cause.

He, the idiot who’d said yes to marriage to save her, had done this.

“Be right back,” he said briskly, striding from the lounge as if shredding a woman’s clothes and scaring the life half out of her were just everyday occurrences.

He didn’t see her suitcase. Just as well. It was probably overflowing with black dresses and he’d seen enough of them to last a lifetime. He grabbed his carry-on bag, headed back to the lounge…

And paused.

Chiara was exactly where he’d left her, clutching the torn dress together at her breasts. The only difference was in her posture. She sat with her head down, her hair tumbling around her face.

The fight had gone out of her; she looked small and vulnerable. Mostly she looked defeated, just as she had in her father’s house.

It killed him to see it.

She was shaking. With fear? No, Rafe thought, not this time. He dropped the carry-on bag and hurried to her. She was hovering on the brink of shock. Adrenaline spiked, then dropped, and this was the price you paid.

“Chiara,” he said, when he reached her.

She looked up. He could hear her teeth chattering. He cursed softly, went down on his knees and gathered her into his arms.

She balked. He’d expected it and at the first jerk of her muscles, he drew her even closer against him, whispering her name, stroking one big hand gently up and down her back. Gradually he felt her body begin to still.

“That’s it,” he said softly, his mouth against her temple, his hand still soothing her, and at last she gave a shuddering sigh and leaned into him.

Rafe closed his eyes.

Her face was against his throat. Her lips were slightly parted. He could feel the delicate whisper of her breath, the warmth of it on his skin.

His arms tightened around her. He drew her from the sofa onto her knees. He felt her hands against his chest, one palm flat against his heart.

She was so small. So delicate. He could feel the fragility of her bones and he thought of the time a migrating songbird had flown into one of the windows that lined the terrace of his penthouse. It had been a windy day; when he heard the soft thud of something hitting the glass, he’d thought it must be a chair cushion, but when he went outside, he found the bird, smaller than seemed possible, lying on the marble floor, eyes glazed, heart beating so frantically that he could see the rise and fall of its feathered breast.