The Scandalous Orsinis: Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin. Sandra Marton
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to speak the same language to know desire, to turn anger to something hotter and wilder.
Rafe shot to his feet. “Stand up,” he growled.
She didn’t move. He gestured with his hand.
“I said, stand up. And you, old man, get in the back of the car.”
The old man didn’t move. Nobody did. Rafe leaned toward the woman.
“He’s old,” he said softly, “and I really have no desire to rough him up, so why don’t you just tell him to do what I said.”
She understood him. He could see it in her face.
Rafe shrugged. “Okay, we’ll do it the hard way.”
Her violet eyes flashed. She got to her feet, rattled off a string of words, and the old man nodded, walked to the car and climbed into the back.
Rafe jerked his thumb toward the car. “Now you.”
One last glare. Then she turned away, marched to the car and started to climb in beside the old guy.
“The passenger seat,” Rafe snapped. “Up front.”
She said something. It was something women didn’t say, not even on the streets of his youth.
“Anatomically impossible,” he said coldly.
Color rose in her face. Good. She did understand English, at least a little. That would make things easier. She got into the car. He slammed the door after her, went around to the driver’s side and climbed behind the wheel.
“How far up the mountain do you live?”
She folded her arms.
Rafe ground his teeth together, started the car, carefully backed away from the sheer drop and continued up the road in silence. Minutes passed, as did miles. And just when he’d pretty much given up hope he’d ever see civilization again, a town appeared. A wooden signpost that looked as if it had been here forever announced its name.
San Giuseppe.
He stopped the car and took in his first sight of the Sicily of his father.
Houses overhung a narrow, cobblestoned street that wound its steep way up the mountain. Washing hung on clotheslines strung across rickety-looking balconies. The steeple of a church pierced a cloudless sky that overlooked a line of donkeys plodding after a small boy.
Cesare had insisted on showing him a couple of grainy snapshots of the town, taken more than fifty years ago. Nothing had changed, including the castle that loomed over it all.
Castello Cordiano.
Rafe put the car in gear. The woman beside him shook her head and reached for the door.
“You want to get out here?”
An arrogant lift of her chin brought into prominence the bruise he’d inflicted. Guilt racked him and he took a deep breath.
“Listen,” he said. “About your jaw…”
Another flash of those violet eyes as she swung toward him.
“Yeah, I know. Believe me, the feeling’s mutual. All I’m trying to say is that you should put some ice on that bruise. It’ll keep the swelling down. And take some aspirin. You know what aspirin is? As-pi-rin,” he said, knowing how idiotic he must sound but not knowing any other way to get his message through.
She snapped out an order. The old man replied; his tone suggested he was protesting but she repeated the order and he sighed, opened the door and stepped from the car.
Rafe caught her elbow as she moved to follow the old guy.
“Did you understand what I said? Ice. And aspirin. And—”
“I understood every word,” she said coldly. “Now see if you understand, signor. Go away. Do you hear me? Go away, just as Enzo told you to do.”
Rafe stared at her. “You speak English?”
“I speak English. And Italian, and the Sicilian form of it. You, quite obviously, do not.” Those stunning eyes narrowed until only a slash of color showed. “You are not welcome here. And if you do not leave of your own accord, Enzo will see to it that you do.”
“Enzo? You mean Grandpa?” Rafe laughed. “That’s one hell of a threat, baby.”
“He is more a man than you will ever be.”
“Is he,” Rafe said, his voice gone low and dangerous and instead of thinking, he caught her by the shoulders and lifted her across the console, into his lap. She struggled, beat at him with her fists but he was ready. He caught both her hands in one of his, slid the other into her hair, tilted her head back and kissed her.
Kissed her as he’d fantasized kissing her, back on that road. She fought, but it was pointless. He was hot with fury and humiliation.
Hot with the feel of her against him. Her mouth, soft under his. Her breasts, tantalizing against the hardness of his chest. Her rounded backside, digging into in his lap.
His body reacted in a heartbeat, his sex swelling until he was sure it had never been this huge or throbbed with such urgency. She felt it happen; how could she not? He heard her little cry of shock, felt it whisper against his mouth. Her lips parted and she tried to bite him but he turned the attempt against her, used it as a chance to deepen the kiss, to slip his tongue into the silky warmth of her mouth. She gasped again, made a little sound of distress.
And then something happened.
Her mouth softened under his. Sweetened. Turned warm and willing, and the knowledge that he could take her, right here, right now, made his already-hard body turn to stone. He let go of her wrists, slid his hand under her jacket, cupped the delicate weight of her breast.
Her teeth sank into his lip.
Rafe jerked back and put his hand to the tiny wound. His finger came away bearing a drop of crimson.
“Pig,” she said, her voice shaking. “No good, filthy pig!”
He stared at her, saw her shocked eyes, her trembling mouth, and heard his father’s voice reminding him that any man could step into the darkness of overwhelming passion.
“Listen,” he said, “listen, I didn’t mean—”
She opened the door and bolted from the car, but not before she’d flung a string of Sicilian curses at him.
Hell, he thought, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing it against his lip, for all he knew, he deserved them.
CHAPTER THREE
WAS the American going to come after her?
Chiara ran blindly into the narrow alley that led to a long-forgotten entrance to Castello Cordiano, following its twists and turns as it climbed steeply uphill.
No one knew this passageway existed. She’d discovered it when she was a little girl, hiding in the nursery closet with her favorite doll to get away from her father’s callousness and her mother’s piety.
It had been her route to freedom ever since, and there was the added pleasure of fooling her father’s men when she seemed to vanish from right under their noses.
The alley ended in a field of craggy stone outcroppings and brambles. A thick growth of ivy and scrub hid the centuries-old wooden door that led into the castle. Panting, hand to her heart, Chiara fell back against it and fought to catch her breath. She waited, then peered through a break in the tangled greenery. Grazie Dio! The American had not followed her.
Behaving like the brute he was must have satisfied him.
No surprise there. She’d always known how the world went. Men were gods. Women were their handmaids. The American had gone out of his way to remind her of those truths in the most basic way possible.