Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

Their eyes met. Her husband looked handsome and earnest and…and, God oh God, she was not falling in love with him, she was already in love with him. Desperately in love with him, and suddenly she knew that it didn’t matter if he was a soldier in his father’s organization or not.

Heaven help her, she didn’t care. All that mattered was that she loved him. And she was going to lose him.

“Chiara? Can you do that? Can you put your trust in me for this?”

She wanted to weep. Or rise from her chair and fling herself into her Raffaele’s arms.

“Sμ,” she whispered.

He smiled and said they had to be driving their poor waiter crazy, and would she like him to order for her? Chiara nodded because she didn’t trust herself to speak.

If she did, she would say words he didn’t want to hear, that she loved him…

That she would always love him, and treasure these days that she had been his wife.

Halfway through the meal, Rafe realized he’d never phoned his PA to tell her he’d be coming in today.

He’d ignored his schedule all week, but at least he’d phoned her each morning to say he wouldn’t be in.

He hadn’t even thought of phoning her today.

He’d had other things on his mind this morning, and just remembering those other things made him want to sweep Chiara into his arms, carry her off and make love to her. Make love with her.

Make her come, and this time, when she cried out his name, he’d tell her—he’d tell her—

The floor seemed to tilt.

Tell her what?

All at once it seemed hard to breathe.

What had happened to all last night’s resolutions? He was too old to let sex, even great sex, muddle his head. As for what he’d planned, taking Chiara to the Orsini offices…He had to be out of his mind!

What would he have said to his brothers? How would he have introduced her? Good morning, how are you guys today and, by the way, this is my wife?

Aside from anything else, what was the point? Why would it matter if she saw him as a respectable banker or went on believing he was a thug with a good wardrobe? Yes, he was…he was fond of her. He enjoyed being with her. But the whole arrangement, this supposed marriage, had the staying power of a dandelion in a windstorm.

Rafe blew out a long, hard breath.

Wow.

All that stuff about not digging yourself further into a hole? He’d come within inches of burying himself so deep that getting out would have required a bulldozer.

Thank God he’d come to his senses.

He’d hail a cab, have it drive by the office, point the place out to Chiara. She could reach whatever conclusion she liked about him and his choice of occupations. Then he’d kiss her because, yeah, the sex was great. But that didn’t mean he had to explain himself to her. So he’d kiss her, step out of the cab, go to work, let the cabbie take her back uptown. Once he was in his office, he’d phone Sayers’s office. If she was back, fine. If not, who gave a damn if her partner creaked when he walked? Hell, a divorce was just a divorce. Any attorney could handle it.

What a relief, that he could suddenly see things with such clarity. He’d been in a fog the past few days, but the fog had lifted, the sun was out—

“More coffee?” the waiter said.

“No,” Rafe replied. Chiara looked at him in surprise. Had he sounded a little brusque? Maybe, but suddenly he was a man in a hurry. How could he have let things get so far out of hand? “I just realized,” he told her, “that I have a couple of appointments later this morning.”

She nodded. Her face lost a little of its animation but she put her napkin beside her plate and rose to her feet before he could even get to his.

“Or course,” she said politely. “You must work today.”

“Yes, that’s right. So, we’ll just drive by my place—”

“It is not necessary, Raffaele.”

“No. We’ll drive by. Then, uh, then you can go back to the apartment while I—”

His voice trailed away as he peeled off a bunch of bills and dropped them on the table, too much in a rush, now that he’d come to his senses, to waste time waiting for the check.

A taxi pulled to the curb as they stepped into the street. As soon as its passengers got out, Rafe reached for the door and motioned Chiara in. He got in after her, gave the driver the address and sat back. He’d held her hand all the way downtown. Now he sat with his arms folded, saying nothing.

Chiara was silent, too. He glanced at her once. She was pale. It made him feel lousy. The cab pulled to the curb. Rafe looked out the window at the familiar building. It had a cast-iron facade, typical of many of the old buildings in the area, adorned with graceful arches and friezes. He and his brothers had put hundreds of thousands of dollars into restoring it; it had been named a New York City landmark and featured in half a dozen architectural magazines after the work was completed. He was proud of it—they all were—and he realized now he’d been hoping Chiara would like it, hell, that she’d find it charming, but what did that matter? What did her likes, her dislikes, her thoughts about him have to do with anything?