The Scandalous Orsinis: Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin. Sandra Marton
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but why make this easy for her?
He’d been suckered into this. Even if she hadn’t been party to the plan, she hadn’t protested it, either. Now she wanted out. Fine. So did he. But first he wanted some answers. And this woman—his wife—was the only one who could provide them.
“I’m waiting, baby. Why should I agree to a divorce? After all, I flew across the ocean to marry you.”
Chiara blinked. “But you told my father—”
“I know what I told him. I said I had no wish to marry you.” Rafe shrugged. “Any good businessman knows better than to accept the first offer when he’s negotiating a deal.”
“A deal?” She stared at him in disbelief. “You mean—you mean, you intended to go through with it all the time? You only let my father think he could hand me off to that… that animal?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
First, dissuade. Now, implied. Tricky words, even for native English speakers, which Chiara was not. What she was, his scissors-wielding bride, was a font of surprises.
“I married you,” he said calmly. “Never mind my reasons. As for you… I didn’t see Daddy holding a shotgun on you during the ceremony.”
“I do not understand what that means.”
“It means you married me without a word of argument.”
“I would have married a… a donkey if it meant I didn’t have to marry Giglio!”
“You’re no prize package either, baby.”
Color rushed into her cheeks. “You know what I mean. And do not call me ‘baby.’ I am a grown woman.”
Yes. She was. A beautiful grown woman, but there was much more to her than that.
Her face wasn’t just lovely, it was animated. Her eyes weren’t just a color that reminded him of violets, they were bright with intelligence. He’d seen enough of her body to know it was feminine and lush, but it was the proud way she held herself that impressed him, something in her stance that said she would fight to the end for what she believed.
She was, as she said, a grown woman.
His woman.
His wife.
Rafe felt his body stir. They were alone, still a few hours from landing. He’d scared the hell out of her by coming at her with all the subtlety of a hormone-crazed bull, but then, he’d misjudged her.
She wasn’t a femme fatale; she was inexperienced. After all, how many lovers could a woman have in a town the size of San Giuseppe? Cesare had described her as a virgin, but obviously that was impossible. There were no virgins in today’s world, not even tucked away in remote towns in the Sicilian hills.
No, things had not gone well a little while ago, but whether his wife wanted to admit it or not, she had responded to him when he’d kissed her before. She’d let him hold her in his arms. All he had to do was take those stupid scissors from her, gather her close, kiss her, slip his hand under that T-shirt.
Was he insane? For one thing, this woman was not his wife. Well, she was, but not for long. For another, sleeping with her would only complicate things.
Besides, if he touched her, she’d come apart in terror. Her reaction to him hadn’t been an act. It hadn’t been because he hadn’t used any finesse. She’d been out of her mind with fear. Real, honest fear. Something awful had happened to her. Something had hurt her so much that she hid inside those godawful black dresses.
Who had done this to her? A man, surely. Giglio? One of the other brutes her father employed?
Hot rage swept through him. He told himself he’d feel this about the violation of any woman, that it had nothing to do with Chiara in particular.
The hell it didn’t.
She was his. Temporarily, until he could figure out what to do with her, her but for now she belonged to him. And he was a man who would always protect what was his.
“Chiara.”
She looked at him. “Who hurt you?”
She stared at him. The color drained from her face. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Yeah, you do. Why did you scream when I touched you?”
“What you mean is, why didn’t I melt with delight.”
The words dripped venom, but she wasn’t going to put him off that easily. Rafe folded his arms over his chest. “It’s a simple question. What made you so frightened of men?”
“What you mean is, why am I unwilling to let men have their way with me?”
“How about not telling me what I mean and just answering the question? What are you afraid of?”
“If we play a round of Twenty Questions, do I win a divorce?”
He was in front of her in two strides. Her hand shot up, the little scissors glinting. Rafe didn’t bother playing games. He caught her wrist, took the scissors from her and tossed them on the sofa.
“One question,” he said brusquely, “and I want an answer. Why are you afraid of sex?”
“I am not afraid. Besides, what I am or am not is none of your business.”
The woman was impossible! “It’s every bit my business,” he said sharply. “You’re my wife.”
She laughed. Hell, he couldn’t blame her. Sure, a smalltown official owned by her father had mumbled some words at them, but the truth was, she was no more his wife than he was her husband.
Except, he was. He had a piece of gilt-edged paper tucked inside his passport case that proved it.
“Was it because you thought I was going to—” he felt his face heat “—to force you?” He cupped her elbows. “Because I wasn’t. I got rough, yeah, and I shouldn’t have, but I would never have taken you against your will.” Her eyes called him a liar; he couldn’t much blame her for that, either. “It’s the truth. I’m no saint, but I’d never force a woman to make love with me.”
“Love,” she said, with a little snort of disdain.
“That’s what men and women do. They make love.” His hands tightened on her. “I’d never sleep with a woman who didn’t want me.”
No, Chiara thought, no, he wouldn’t have to.
A woman would go to him willingly. Raffaele Orsini was all the things women supposedly wanted in a man. He was strong, good-looking and so masculine there were moments he made her feel dizzy.
So, if a woman liked sex, she would like him. And there were women who liked sex. She was not a fool. She understood that, even though she would never want to be one of those women.
No matter what he claimed, sex was for the man. A woman had to go along with it, if she married. The nudity. The intimacy. The slap of flesh against flesh, the smell of sweat, the terrible, painful, humiliating invasion of your body.
Her mother had explained it all so that she would be prepared if—when—it came time for her to take a husband. “I would not wish my daughter to go to her wedding night without knowing what awaits her,” Mama had said.
A shudder went through her. The American saw it. Big, brave, macho creature that he was, he reacted instantly.
“Chiara.”
She shook her head, stepped back, but he put his arms around her and drew her against him. She let him do it; the sooner she convinced him she was fine, the sooner he’d let her go.
She could feel the heat coming from him. Feel the hardness of his male body. Smell his male scent. Fear