Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

Why would a man need a million things to cook in when he didn’t cook?

In the center of it all was Chiara, dressed like an undertaker in a calf-length black something and clunky black shoes, her hair scraped back in that damned bun. Chiara, who had decided to take over his kitchen. Chiara, who was, without question, about to utter those famous eight words…

“What are you doing?” he said sharply.

She spun toward him. “Raffaele!”

“I asked you a question. What are you doing?”

She hesitated, looking around her, then at him. “I suppose you had no idea I could cook.”

Okay. It was a variation but the theme was the same. Man, had he ever misjudged her!

She gave him a hesitant smile. “I was making coffee.”

Rafe folded his arms over his chest. “Come on, baby.” His voice was like ice. Amazing, considering that he could feel his blood pressure soaring into the stratosphere. “Just coffee? How about breakfast? Eggs. French toast. Waffles. You can make all that stuff, right?”

She swallowed. Nodded. Offered another cautious smile. Rafe could feel his anger growing. She wanted out of this marriage? The hell she did, he thought in escalating fury, and his BP went through the roof.

“I have a housekeeper,” he snarled. “The time comes I want something cooked, I’ll ask her to cook it.”

Chiara’s smile vanished. “Yes. Of course. I told you, I only wished to make coffee. Espresso.

But I could not find an espresso pot so—”

“You couldn’t find it because I don’t have one. Or did you assume having an Italian name means I came out of my mother’s womb with an espresso maker tucked in my…hands?”

“No. I mean, yes.” She caught her lip between her teeth. “I did not mean to make you angry.”

“I am not angry,” Rafe said. “Why would I be angry? Just because you’ve decided you don’t want out of this nonsensical marriage—”

“What?”

“Just because you think the I-can-cook thing will change my mind—”

“You are pazzo! Of course I want—what did you call it—out of this marriage!” Her hands slapped on her hips. “And I have no idea what the I-can-cook thing is!”

“A likely story.”

Chiara drew herself up. “I do not have to listen to this idiocy.”

“No. You have to clean up my kitchen.” Rafe glared. “Look at it. You tore it apart, and—”

The sound of something bubbling drew his attention. His gaze swept past her. His French press was on a front burner of the big Viking range. The burner glowed red-hot; the press was filled with water.

With boiling water.

He cursed, sprinted across the room, grabbed the French press and yelped when his fingers closed around the hot glass. The predictable thing happened. It slipped from his hands, smashed against the floor, and spewed hot water over his bare toes.

“Oh, Dio mio!”

Chiara threw out her hands. One connected with a cast-iron skillet. The predictable thing happened again. The skillet tumbled from the counter and landed on Rafe’s still-naked, now scalded toes.

“Figlio di puttana!”

“Raffaele!” Chiara said, sounding shocked.

Rafe ignored her, hopped to the fridge and hit a button. Ice cubes tumbled into his hand. He squeezed his fingers around some, let the others dump on his toes.

Damn it all, his life had turned into a reality show. And it was all this woman’s fault. No. It was his. Why had he brought her home with him? Okay, maybe he’d had to marry her. So what? He could have left her in Palermo. He could have dumped her at a Manhattan hotel. He could have done a hundred things that wouldn’t have put her under his roof.

Chiara said his name again and he swung toward her.

“Are you…are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said coldly.

She gestured at his hand, then at his foot. “I am sorry, Raffaele.”

Her voice quavered. She was on the verge of tears. Who gave a damn?

“I only meant to do a good thing. To show you that I appreciate all you have done for me.”

“The only way you could do that would be to erase yesterday, and that’s not about to happen.”

The tears appeared, filling her eyes until they glittered like diamonds. So what? Women were good at producing instant tears. It didn’t change a thing.

“Stop that,” he growled.

She turned her back and cried harder.

It made him feel bad but, hell, she probably wanted him to feel bad. She was clever. Somewhere between the ceremony in San Giuseppe and their arrival here, he’d managed to forget that. Well, he wouldn’t forget it again. This was the woman who’d waylaid him on the road. Who’d kissed him as if she wanted to suck out his tonsils right before she went into her Petrified Virgin routine. Forget what he’d thought last night, that she was as much a victim as he was.