The Scandalous Orsinis. Sandra Marton
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her creamy skin. Wisps of hair had escaped the ugly bun and lay against her cheeks, as delicately curled as the interior of the tiny shells that sometimes washed up on the beach at Rafe’s summer place on Nantucket Island.
She looked almost unbelievably fragile.
But she wasn’t, he reminded himself. She was as tough as nails and as wily as a fox.
“Come on,” he said sharply. “Open your eyes and drink.”
Her lashes fluttered again, then lifted. She stared up at him, her pupils deep as a moonless night and rimmed by a border of pale violet.
“What… what happened?”
Nice. Trite, but nice.
“You passed out.” He smiled coldly. “And right on cue.”
Did defiance flash in those extraordinary eyes? He couldn’t be sure; she leaned forward, laid cool, pale fingers over his tanned ones as she put her mouth to the glass.
Her throat worked as she swallowed. A couple of sips and then she looked up at him. Her lips glistened; her eyes were wide. The tip of her tongue swept over her lips and he could imagine those lips parted, that tongue tip extended, those eyes locked, hot and deep, on his—
A shot of raw lust rolled through him. He turned away quickly, put the glass on a table and stepped back.
“Now that you’re among the living again, how about telling your old man the truth?”
“The truth about.” Her puzzled gaze went from her father to Rafe. “Oh!” she whispered, and her face turned scarlet.
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. Her reactions couldn’t be real. Not the Victorian swoon, not her behavior at the memory of what had happened in the car. He’d kissed her, for God’s sake. That was it. He’d lifted her into his lap and kissed her and, okay, she’d ended up biting him, but only after she’d responded, after he’d gotten hard as stone and she’d felt it and…
And he’d behaved like an idiot.
He was not a man who did things like that to women. A little playing around during sex was one thing; he’d had lovers who liked a hint of domination, but having a woman whisper “more” even as she pretended something else was not the same as what had happened with Chiara Cordiano.
What in hell had gotten into him? He’d been furious, but anger had nothing to do with sex… did it?
It was a subject to consider at another time. Right now he might just have a problem on his hands. This culture had its roots in times long gone. Its rules, its mores, were stringent.
Back home, a kiss, even a stolen one, was just a kiss. Here it could be construed as something else.
“Don Cordiano,” he said carefully, “I kissed your daughter. I’m sorry if I offended her.”
“And I am to accept your apology?”
The don’s tone was arrogant. It made Rafe bristle.
“I’m not asking you to accept it,” he said sharply, and turned to Chiara. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. If I frightened you, I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps you would care to explain how you managed to meet with my daughter before you met with me.”
Perhaps he would, Rafe thought, but he’d be damned if he’d stand here and admit he’d almost been bested by a slip of a girl and an old man. Besides, that part of the story belonged to Cordiano’s daughter, he thought grimly, and looked at her again. But she locked her hands together in her lap, bent her head and studied them as if she had no part in this conversation.
The hell with that.
“Your turn, signorina,” Rafe said coldly.
Chiara felt her heart thump. The American was right.
This was the time for her to say, “You have it wrong, Papa. This man didn’t ‘meet’ me, not the way you make it sound. I stopped him on the road and tried to scare him away.”
What a joke!
Instead of scaring him away, she’d brought him straight to San Giuseppe. And she couldn’t explain that, not without telling her father everything, and that meant she’d have to tell him about Enzo.
No matter what the consequences, exposing Enzo’s part in the mess would be fatal.
She knew her father well. He would banish Enzo from San Giuseppe, the place where the old man had spent his entire life. Or—her heart banged into her throat—or Enzo could suffer an unfortunate accident, a phrase she’d heard her father use in the past.
She was not supposed to know such things, but she did. When she was little, her father would say that Gio or Aldo or Emilio had left his employ but by the time she was twelve, she’d figured it out.
No one “left” the don. They had accidents or vanished, and their names were never mentioned again.
She could not risk having such a thing happen to Enzo. And yet if she didn’t come up with something, who knew what her father might do to Rafe Orsini? Not that she cared about him, but she surely didn’t want his “accident” on her conscience.
“Well? I am waiting.”
Her father wasn’t talking to her; he was glaring at Raffaele Orsini… but she would reply. She would make up the story as she went along and pray the American would not correct her version.
“Papa. Signor Orsini and I met when I—when I—”
“Silence!” her father roared. “This does not concern you.
Signor Orsini? I demand an explanation.”
“Demand?” Rafe said softly.
“Indeed. I am waiting for you to explain your actions.”
Her father’s face was like stone. Chiara had seen men cower from that face. Orsini, for all his studied toughness, surely would do the same. That patina of arrogant masculinity would crumble and he’d tell her father the entire story.
“I don’t explain myself to anyone,” the American said coldly.
Her father stiffened. “You came here to beg my forgiveness for an insult half a century old. Instead, you insult me all over again.”
“I don’t beg, either. I offered you my father’s apology, and I apologized to your daughter. As far as I’m concerned, that ends our business.”
Chiara held her breath. The room seemed locked in stillness, and then her father’s lips curved in what was supposed to be a smile. But it was not; she knew it.
Still, what he said next surprised her.
“Very well. You are free to leave.”
The American nodded. He started for the door as her father strode toward her.
“On your feet,” he snarled.
Raffaele Orsini had already opened the door, but he paused and turned around at her father’s words.
“Let’s be clear about something, Cordiano. What happened—that I kissed your daughter—wasn’t her fault.”
“What you say has no meaning here. Now, get out. Chiara. Stand up.”
Chiara rose slowly to her feet. Her father’s face was a study in fury. She knew he would have hurt her if she were a man, but some old-world sense of morality had always kept him from striking her.
Still, he would not let what had happened pass. Raffaele Orsini could insist that the kiss had not been her fault until the end of eternity. Her father would never agree. A woman was supposed to defend her honor to her last breath.
She had not.
Someone had to pay for the supposed insult her father had suffered