Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

Chiara jerked back. “Do not touch me!”

Rafe lifted his hands from her with exaggerated care. She was looking at him as if he was a serial killer. Undoubtedly, the lady had a problem. But it wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t his problem.

The minute they reached New York, he’d phone his lawyer and tell her to get started on whatever had to be done to end this sham of a marriage.

The sooner he was out of this mess, the better.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHIARA’S first glimpse of New York City almost took her breath away.

Lights, what seemed like millions of them, lay winking beneath the plane like sparkling diamonds on black velvet. As the jet dropped lower, she could see that the lights were moving.

They were lights from automobiles racing along endless intersecting highways.

Where were all these people going in the middle of the night? It was the middle of the night, American time. East Coast time. She would have to remember that. This was not like Italy, where the hour was the same if you were in Rome or Florence or Palermo.

Not that she’d ever been to Rome or Florence. Not that she’d ever been anywhere.

It should have been exciting, the realization that she was about to land on another continent, in a city she’d read of and dreamed about. But it wasn’t.

It was terrifying.

She wasn’t here by choice, she was here as the unwilling bride of a stranger. She knew nothing about her husband. No, she thought, swallowing hard as the plane descended, that was not true.

She did know something about him. She knew that he was a man who bore her father’s stamp of approval.

That could only mean he was a hoodlum, just like her father.

Except—except, he wasn’t really like her father. He could be cold and hard, but sometimes there was a tenderness to him, too. And he was beautiful. She knew it was a strange word to use to describe a man but none other suited him. His height. His body. His face, Dio, his face, those hard, masculine angles and planes, that firm mouth…

Firm. Warm. And soft, so soft against hers…

The plane touched down, bumping delicately against the runway. The captain made a pleasant announcement, welcoming them to New York. Chiara, fumbling with her seat belt, rose quickly to her feet. The plane was still moving along the taxiway as she started blindly up the aisle.

A strong hand closed lightly on her elbow.

“I’m happy to see you’re in such a hurry to reach your new home,” her husband said.

She could hear the derision in his voice, feel the possessiveness of his grasp. Her heart thumped.

God only knew what lay ahead.

Whatever it was, she would face it with courage. If life had taught her anything, it was that you must never show weakness to your oppressor.

Finally the plane came to a stop. The door shushed open. Chiara stepped out into the North American night.

She’d heard all about security procedures, but they evidently didn’t apply to powerful American gangsters. Her husband led her into a small building. He presented their passports to a man who hardly glanced at them. Minutes later they made their way out to a waiting automobile. A uniformed driver stood beside it.

Her steps faltered and her husband’s hand tightened on her elbow.

“Keep moving,” he said coldly.

As if she had a choice.

What had the poet said in the Divine Comedy? Something about abandoning hope, all those who entered here.

One last, free breath and Chiara stepped into the back of the limousine.

The big car moved swiftly through the night.

So far, so good, Rafe thought—assuming you discounted the fact that his wife was sitting beside him like a prisoner being driven to her execution.

At least there hadn’t been a reception committee waiting, something he’d half expected. He’d figured Cordiano would have phoned his father. Cesare would have told the family….

What fun that would have been.

The old man gloating. His mother going from being upset that there hadn’t been a big wedding to planning a party that would rival anything Manhattan had ever seen. His sisters teasing him unmercifully. And his brothers…

Lord, his brothers! Better not even to go there.

But the reception committee hadn’t materialized. Clearly, Cordiano had not contacted Cesare.

Rafe had no idea why, and frankly he didn’t much care. What mattered was that he had some breathing room. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he’d call his lawyer, start the procedure that would return his life to normal. No matter what he’d told Chiara, he wanted a divorce every bit as much as she did.

The drama on the plane, all that stuff about not giving her a divorce? Meaningless. He’d been ticked off, that was all, and he’d made a threat he had no intention of keeping.