Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

Brilliant, he thought as he showered and dressed, then went down the hall to her room and knocked on the door. She would be there. He would be here. No more nonsense, no more temptation—

The door swung open. Rafe stared at his wife. She was wearing another ugly outfit, her face was, as always, bare of makeup, her hair was loose and wild, still damp from the shower.

“Raffaele,” she said shakily, “I am so sorry I spoiled our evening…”

Rafe groaned, hauled her into his arms and kissed her, and when she rose on her toes and kissed him back, he knew there wasn’t a way in the world he was going to send her anywhere.

“Baby,” he said gruffly, “you don’t owe me an apology.”

“Yes. I do. I thought—I suddenly thought that all this made no sense. You. Me. Our marriage…”

Who you are.

The words ran through her mind but she didn’t speak them. For now, it was enough to know who her Raffaele seemed to be.

A man in whose arms she felt safe and wanted.

For as long as it lasted, she would not think of anything more than that.

They had breakfast.

She cooked. Bacon. Eggs. Toast. He ate it all, every bite, and never once thought about the grapefruits languishing in the refrigerator. But he made the coffee, teasing her about it until she laughed and said he had to buy an espresso pot and she would show him how to make real coffee.

Then they went out to see the city. Because, Rafe decided, what was the sense in asking Sayers’s partner to start the ball rolling? Surely, waiting another few days wouldn’t be a problem.

They rode the subway. Up to the Bronx, out to the end of the line in Brooklyn. It was a warm day. They strolled the boardwalk at Coney Island. The rides were closed, but Rafe told Chiara what the big amusement park was like when it was open, what it had been like years ago when he and his brothers had played hooky a couple of times and spent the day here.

“Hooky?”

“Yeah. You know. Cut school.”

She didn’t understand that, either, so he explained. It made her laugh.

“A couple of times, huh?”

He grinned and said, well, yeah, just a couple of times. The other times, they’d gone to other places.

He told her about Dante. And Nicolo. And Falco. She said, wistfully, that it must have been nice, growing up with brothers. He said there were times they were a pain in the—in the behind but that mostly they were great guys.

Around noon he suggested they head back to Manhattan to have lunch.

Chiara cast a longing look at Nathan’s hot dog stand.

“I do not suppose,” she said, “I do not imagine you would prefer to have—”

“Hot dogs?” Rafe laughed, picked her up, swung in a circle with her while she tried to keep a serious face as she demanded he put her down. “A kiss, and I will,” he said, and letting her go after that one modest peck on the lips was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

They went into Nathan’s. He ordered his hot dog with mustard. She ordered hers with sauerkraut.

And onions. And relish.

“May I have French fries, too, please, Raffaele?”

He wanted to tell her she could have anything she wanted, that she already had—that she already had—

“Fries,” he told the kid behind the counter, and told himself to stop thinking, because wherever his head was taking him made absolutely no sense at all.

He’d heard people say that seeing the city with someone who’d never seen it before was eye opening.

Seeing it with his Chiara was more than that. It was wonderful. It was amazing. It was incredible.

It was agony.

The days flew by, and he knew they were living on borrowed time. No matter how many places he showed her, how many little parks and mews they explored, no matter how many chestnut vendors his wife charmed by telling them their chestnuts were perfectly roasted, this was all going to end, and soon.

A good thing, of course. He had his life to lead. That he hadn’t gone to the office in days, that he had no desire to go to it, well, that was not good.

Neither was taking so many cold showers.

What choice did he have? A man walked a beautiful woman to the door of her room every night, kissed her, told himself the kiss would be on the cheek or on the forehead and, instead, ended up capturing her lips with his, ended up with her arms wound tightly around his neck and her sweet, lush body pressed to his…

A man had that happening to him, the only way to save his ass was to stumble down the hall and step into a long, icy shower. Well, if that was the price he had to pay for hours of laughter and companionship—companionship with a woman!—he’d pay it.

The truth was, he loved everything they did. Going to the museums. Walking in the park. Even riding the upper deck of a sightseeing bus. He’d felt like a jerk at first. Then his Chiara had turned her shining, excited face to his and he’d gone from feeling stupid to feeling like a lucky man.