Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

“Chiara.” Rafe smiled and started toward her. “Baby. I’m glad you’re here. I want you to meet my—”

“I have no interest in meeting these men.”

Chiara’s tone was frigid. A good thing, because her pulse was racing so fast that the room was spinning. If she sounded cold, sounded controlled, perhaps she would not weep. Perhaps her Raffaele would never know that he had broken her heart.

“Sweetheart. These are my broth—”

“I left the things I wore on the bed, Raffaele. I am sure you can give them to charity.”

Rafe blinked. What in hell was happening? Why was his Chiara dressed like this? Why was she looking at him through such cold eyes? He’d just been about to tell his brothers that he was in love with his wife, that he was terrified of telling her he loved her because she might say that was all very nice but she wanted her freedom, just as he’d promised.

“Baby. What’s this all about?”

“Do not call me that. And do not treat me as if I were stupid. I assure you, I am not.”

Rafe stepped in front of her as she came down the rest of the steps. “Chiara…”

“Please get out of my way.”

Her chin rose. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. She was, once again, his tough yet vulnerable Chiara. And though he didn’t understand the reason, she was making it clear she didn’t want him.

His eyes narrowed. “What’s going on here?”

“The truth. That is what is going on here. You and your brothers have no need to worry. I do not want this marriage. I never did. I want a divorce, as we agreed, and I want it as fast as possible.”

“Chiara—”

“I heard everything,” she said, and felt her composure slipping. “I heard every word, Raffaele!’

“You heard…? No. Wait a minute. See, you misunderstood. What I was telling my brothers was that…Chiara!” Rafe’s voice rose as she swept past him and ran not to the elevator but to the kitchen.

Okay. At least she hadn’t left. All he had to do was get rid of Nick and Falco and talk to her, get her to listen…

The kitchen?

“Damn it,” Rafe said, “the service entrance!”

Falco grabbed his arm. “Raffaele. Let her go.”

“Damn you, let go of me!”

“Rafe,” Nick said. “Okay, she got the last laugh. So what? Who cares who made the first move? You wanted her gone. Well, she’s gone. Give it a couple of days, a week, you’ll forget this little scene ever—”

Rafe wrenched free of Falco’s hand.

“You idiots,” he roared. “I didn’t want her gone! I love her. I’ll always love her. She’s my wife!”

Nicolo and Falco looked at each other as Rafe raced into the kitchen. The service door stood open. Beyond it the lights above the service elevator showed that it had already reached the basement.

“Cazzo!” Falco said.

“You got that right,” Nick said.

Then they took off after Rafe, who was already pounding down the fire stairs.

Chiara burst into the street and stopped in confusion.

She was on an unfamiliar side street. Then she heard the blare of a horn, looked toward the corner and saw that she was a few hundred feet from Fifth Avenue and its taxis and buses. She had no money for either but that was a problem she’d handle when she had to.

She began to run.

What a fool she’d been! This afternoon, lying in Raffaele’s arms, her heart filled with love, she’d indulged in a little fantasy, let herself think that what she saw in his eyes was more than desire, that it was love.

“Idiota,” she said, and she ran faster.

He didn’t love her. Why would he? She’d been an encumbrance that had changed into a sex toy.

Very nice for him, but then, sex was what men were all about. She knew that, she had always known that. How could she have forgotten?

“Chiara!”

It was his voice. Her Raffaele was running after her, but he wasn’t “her” Raffaele anymore, he wasn’t “her” anything.

“Chiara! Wait!”

She had the advantage of a head start but his legs were longer. He would catch her; it was just a matter of time. She was on Fifth Avenue now. There were taxis whizzing by and she ran into the street, waving her hand wildly, but she might as well have been invisible. The cabs kept going.

“Chiara!”

She looked back. Dio! His brothers were just behind him. She had to do something!

Chiara dove into the snarl of traffic, ignoring the blasting horns, the squeal of brakes. She heard Raffaele shout after her again, and then, mercifully, she was in the park.

Running was easier here.

No cars. No buses. Pedestrians, but she raced past them. She was a good runner. She had strong legs from years of tromping the hills outside San Giuseppe. If she could just put some real distance between her and—