Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

He wanted out.

Traffic was light, this time of night. The big car moved smoothly along the highway, sped along Fifth Avenue and drew to a stop before his building. The doorman greeted them politely; if he found the sight of a woman wrapped in a coat like the kind old ladies wore in bad foreign films unusual, he was too well trained to let it show.

“Do you need help with your bags, Mr. Orsini?”

I need help with my life, Rafe thought, but he tossed him a polite “No, thanks” and headed for his private elevator, his carry-on hanging from his shoulder, Chiara’s old-fashioned leather suitcase clutched in one hand, the other wrapped around her elbow. It would have made things easier to let go, but he knew better.

The last thing he needed tonight was to end up running down Fifth Avenue after her.

They rode the elevator in silence. Nothing new there. They’d made the trip from the airport the same way. The door slid open when they reached his penthouse. Rafe stepped from the car.

Chiara didn’t. He rolled his eyes and quickstepped her into the foyer. The elevator door shut; Rafe sent it to the lobby level and let go of his wife’s arm.

“Okay,” he said briskly, “we’re home.”

He winced. What a stupid remark, but what else was there to say? He dropped their bags, shrugged off his jacket, checked the little stack of mail on the table near the entryway, checked his voice mail, gave Chiara time to say something, do something, but when he turned around she was standing precisely where he’d left her, except she’d backed up so that her shoulders were pressed against the silk-covered wall.

She looked exhausted and terrified, lost in the awful black coat. Defiance, or an attempt at it, glittered in her wide eyes, but the overall effect was—there was no other word for it—pathetic.

Despite himself, he felt a surge of pity along with the gnawing realization that there was no point in being angry with her. Never mind his accusations. The truth was unavoidable. Neither of them had wanted this marriage.

She was as trapped as he. More so, maybe. He, at least, was on his own turf. She, however, was in a place she didn’t know, a country she didn’t know…

Hell, he thought, and cleared his throat. “Chiara?” She looked at him. “Why don’t you, ah, why don’t you take off your coat?”

She didn’t answer. Okay. He’d try again.

“Would you, ah, would you like something to eat?”

Nothing. His jaw tightened. She wasn’t going to help him one bit.

“Look,” he said, “I know this isn’t what either of us wanted—”

“It is what you wanted,” she said coldly.

“Me? Hell, no. Why would you think—”

“You won’t agree to a divorce.”

“Yeah. Right.” Rafe ran his hand through his hair. “Look, about that—”

“The one thing I promise you, signor, is that I will never be a real wife to you!”

“Damn it, if you’d just listen—”

“You can force me to remain your property.” Her chin rose. “You can force me to do a lot of things, but I will never let you forget that I do them unwillingly.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “Are we back to talking about sex?”

The rush of color to her cheeks was answer enough. Why did her vow make him so angry? He had no intention of taking her to bed. Why would he when he could scroll through his BlackBerry and find the names of a dozen women who’d sleep with him and be happy about it?

Beautiful women. Sexy women. Women who’d make this one look like Little Orphan Annie.

“I am talking about female compliance in general and, yes, that would include—it would include—”

“Sex.” He smiled tightly. “You can say the word. It won’t pollute you.”

Her color went from deep pink to bright red. “I know it is difficult for you to believe, but not every woman wants to pretend she enjoys being the recipient of a man’s most base desires.”

Whoa. Her attitude definitely needed updating, but that would be some other man’s problem, not his. Why not tell her she had nothing to worry about? Divorce was just a phone call away—

“Perhaps you think you are entitled to…to special privileges because you supposedly saved me from Giglio.”

Whatever hackles were, he could damn near feel his rise. “Supposedly?”

Chiara shrugged. “You said it yourself. You had every intention of marrying me all along.”

“I said that because I was angry. You know damned well I only did it because your old man threatened to hand you over to his capo.”

“Why should I believe you now?” Her smile was like ice. “After all, signor, you lie with such ease.”