The Scandalous Orsinis: Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin. Sandra Marton
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the warmth of it on his skin.
His arms tightened around her. He drew her from the sofa onto her knees. He felt her hands against his chest, one palm flat against his heart.
She was so small. So delicate. He could feel the fragility of her bones and he thought of the time a migrating songbird had flown into one of the windows that lined the terrace of his penthouse. It had been a windy day; when he heard the soft thud of something hitting the glass, he’d thought it must be a chair cushion, but when he went outside, he found the bird, smaller than seemed possible, lying on the marble floor, eyes glazed, heart beating so frantically that he could see the rise and fall of its feathered breast.
Helpless, clueless, he’d carefully scooped the tiny creature into his palm. Minutes had crept by and just when he was about to give up hope, the bird made a soft peep, scrambled upright, blinked, spread its wings and took to the sky.
Chiara stirred like that now. Her eyes swept over his face.
“Okay?” he said softly.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
He felt the same rush of pleasure as the day the tiny bird had survived its brush with death. Still, he went on holding her in his arms. He didn’t want to let her go. She might go into shock again, might need him to comfort her.
“Please let go of me, Signor Orsini.”
So much for needing his comfort.
Rafe got to his feet and retrieved the carry-on bag. She was seated on the sofa again, a portrait of composure except for the gaping dress. He cleared his throat, dropped the bag on the floor and jerked his chin at it.
“Nothing in there will really fit you, of course,” he said briskly.
“I have my own things. In my suitcase.”
“Yeah, well, I grabbed the first bag I saw. Anyway, there’s some stuff that might work. Jeans, sweats, a couple of T-shirts.” He was babbling. She could figure things out for herself, once he gave her some privacy. “I’ll, ah, I’ll wait outside. Let me know when you’re done and then… and then, we’ll talk. Okay?”
Chiara nodded. Her face gave nothing away, but all things considered, he figured he was doing pretty well. He nodded back, stepped from the room, shut the door, folded his arms…
And waited.
He waited for what seemed a very long time. Just when he’d finally decided she was going to pretend he didn’t exist, the door swung open.
His throat constricted.
She was wearing one of his T-shirts over a pair of his workout shorts. The shirt hung to her knees; the shorts fell to midcalf. Her feet were bare. Her hair was a soft cloud of dark chocolate silk: he figured she must have found his brush and used it.
She should have looked comical. At least foolish.
She didn’t.
She looked beautiful.
It made him smile. Big mistake. Her chin rose and he knew she was about to give him hell.
“Thank you for the clothes, signor.”
“It’s Rafe.”
“Thank you, Signor Orsini,” she repeated, and took a deep breath. It made the thin cotton T-shirt fabric lift in a way that drew his gaze to her breasts. “And for this,” she said, in a voice that stopped him thinking about the shirt and what was under it. Looking up, he saw the unmistakable glint of steel in her hand. “Touch me again, and I will kill you!”
Well, hell. His brush wasn’t the only thing she’d found. She’d found his nail scissors, too.
“Chiara,” he said calmly, “put that down.”
“Not until we reach New York and you set me free.”
“You are free.” His mouth twisted. “I married you. I didn’t buy you.”
“I told you. I want an annulment. A divorce. Whatever is legally necessary.”
He could feel his temper rising. She was hardly in the position to make demands.
“I have money.”
His eyebrows rose. “What?”
“I have my mother’s jewels. I told you about them. Obviously, you were not listening.” Her eyes met his. “They are very valuable. I will give them to you in exchange for my freedom.”
The woman had a wonderful opinion of him. It annoyed him and he told himself to stay calm.
“Do you think this is a bazaar? That you can haggle with me to get what you want?”
Her face colored. “No. I did not mean—” She took a deep breath. “I see what you are trying to do, signor. You think, if you direct this conversation elsewhere, you will dissuade me.”
He lifted one dark eyebrow. “Dissuade?”
“Sì. It means—”
“I know what it means. Someone taught you some fancy English in that hole-in-the wall town of yours.”
“San Giuseppe is not ‘my’ town,” she said coldly. “And yes, Miss Ellis taught me, as you say, some fancy English.”
“One of your father’s girlfriends?”
She laughed. Miss Ellis had been seventy. Tall, thin, about as approachable as a nun—but the best teacher in the world, until her father had decided she was filling Chiara’s head with too much worldly nonsense. It still hurt to remember the day he’d dismissed her.
“One of my tutors,” Chiara said, and lifted her chin. “Thanks to her, you will not be able to dissuade me in English or in several other languages.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?”
“You are supposed to be warned, Signor Orsini. I am not prepared to take what has been forced upon me by you and my father standing up.”
Rafe grinned. He couldn’t help it. For all he knew, she spoke a dozen languages but there was a difference between speaking English like a native and speaking it like a scholar, especially when the words came from the mouth of a woman who looked like an armed street urchin.
“You find this amusing, signor? I promise, I will defend myself if you approach me again.”
He thought about going straight at her and snatching the scissors away. He wouldn’t get hurt—it would be like taking candy from a baby—but what the hell, this was just getting interesting.
“So, you want out of our marriage.”
“It is not a marriage, it is an alliance between my father and yours.”
“Whatever,” he said, as if he didn’t know damned well she was probably right. He made a show of shaking his head. “I guess modern women just don’t believe in keeping their vows anymore.”
Chiara clucked her tongue. “Such nonsense! Neither of us wants this marriage and you know it.”
For some reason her certainty irked him. “And you know this about me because…?”
Her eyes narrowed. The tip of her tongue came out and touched her top lip, then swept back inside, to be replaced by a delicate show of small—and, he knew—sharp white teeth that sank, with great delicacy, into her bottom lip.
His gut knotted. His entire body tensed. Ridiculous, but then, the entire day had been ridiculous. Why should things become normal now?
“I mean,” he said, sounding like the voice of reason, “I’m Italian. What if I don’t believe in divorce?”
What if the sun went nova? He wasn’t Italian, except by heritage. He was American. That was how he thought of himself. And while he didn’t believe people should bounce in