Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

And yet, just looking at her filled him with joy. With delight. With…with—

He frowned and barked Chiara’s name. She spun toward him.

He knew what he had to tell her. That it was getting late. That they had things to do. That he had no idea why he’d said he’d show her how he actually earned his living because what he was going to do was phone Marilyn Sayers’s office and demand an immediate appointment so they could get moving with this divorce thing.

“Raffaele? Did you want to tell me something?”

“Yes,” he said gruffly. “I wanted to tell you…to tell you—” A muscle knotted in his jaw. “I wanted to tell you that you look beautiful.”

Chiara smiled. “It is the jacket. And the sweater. And—”

“The hell it is,” he said, and then she was in his arms and he was kissing her with a hunger that exceeded anything he’d ever imagined.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HE MADE a call on his cell phone while Chiara stepped into the cab he’d hailed, told the doorman to expect a delivery from Saks, that the porter was to take everything to his penthouse and stack it all in the master bedroom.

Then he climbed into the cab, took his wife’s hand and told the cabby to take them to Balthazar, a Soho bistro where the morning meal was as much a ritual as an art.

He was greeted warmly by name and led to his usual table. It offered a modicum of privacy, though privacy was in short supply here, but the crowds, the noise, were part of the charm.

The busboy brought their menus. Chiara said thank you, opened hers but didn’t look at it. She was too busy looking around the busy room.

Rafe didn’t look at his menu, either. He was too busy looking at his wife.

Lord, how beautiful she was! And it wasn’t the new clothes; it was her. She was beautiful and filled with life. She’d chattered away almost nonstop once they left Saks, excited by the sights, the architecture, the crowds.

“Such a city,” she’d said with delight. “So filled with people! Where can they all be going in such a hurry?”

Where am I going? Rafe had thought.

Not just out to breakfast. He was heading somewhere at the speed of light, a place he had never been before, and if that made no sense, he was stuck with it. The only sure thing was that he was heading there because of his wife.

He knew it was foolish to think of her that way, but legally that was who she was. His wife. Mrs. Rafe Orsini. Mrs. Raffaele Orsini, and when had he come to prefer the sound of his actual given name? He’d never felt comfortable with it, maybe because it had always been a reminder of his ancestry and all he’d imagined went with it.

The way his wife said it, “Raffaele” was a benediction. His wife. His beautiful, bright, exciting wife…

“Oh, Raffaele, this is a wonderful place!”

Chiara was leaning toward him, smiling. He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Do you come here often? It seems a long way from where you live.”

The waiter hovered beside them. Rafe waved him off.

“It is, but my office is just a couple of blocks from here.”

Her smile dimmed. “Your office.”

“Yes. So I’ve gotten into the habit of stopping here for breakfast when I have the chance.”

“You don’t work from home like…like—”

“Like your old man or mine? No. My operation’s too big for that, though there are times I wish I could.”

“Oh.”

Her “oh” sounded flat. He knew what she was thinking, that his “operation” must be even more powerful than her father’s. Let her think it. It would only increase her surprise and, he hoped, her pleasure when she saw the Orsini Brothers building and his handsome office.

“So,” he said briskly, “what would you like for breakfast?”

Chiara looked down at her menu. She could feel the joy in her heart draining away. All this—the night in her husband’s arms, the shopping trip this morning…

A dream.

She must not forget that again.

No matter what Raffaele made her feel, he was part of a world she hated. He had come to San Giuseppe to do his father’s bidding because he was a good soldier in the Sicilian sense of the word.

It was just as well this so-called marriage would end as soon as his attorney returned to the city.

Suddenly the thought of eating made her feel sick. Carefully she put down the menu.

“Actually, Raffaele, I am not very—I am not terribly hungry.”

She tried to pull her hand free of his. He wouldn’t let her. Instead he leaned close.

“Chiara,” he said softly, “the day’s just begun. Don’t sit in judgment on me yet.” He kissed her palm. “Okay?”