The Scandalous Orsinis. Sandra Marton
Читать онлайн книгу.
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 clogged her throat. He seemed to know it and he began whispering to her as he had a few minutes ago. She had to admit he had calmed her then, but she’d been in a state of shock. It was his warmth that had steadied her.
She told herself that a blanket would have had the same effect.
Still, she felt herself responding to his soothing touch, to his voice. She sighed, shut her eyes, felt one of his hands thread into her hair, cup her head, lift her face to his.
Chiara jerked back. “Do not touch me!”
Rafe lifted his hands from her with exaggerated care. She was looking at him as if he was a serial killer. Undoubtedly, the lady had a problem. But it wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t his problem. The minute they reached New York, he’d phone his lawyer and tell her to get started on whatever had to be done to end this sham of a marriage.
The sooner he was out of this mess, the better.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHIARA’S first glimpse of New York City almost took her breath away.
Lights, what seemed like millions of them, lay winking beneath the plane like sparkling diamonds on black velvet. As the jet dropped lower, she could see that the lights were moving. They were lights from automobiles racing along endless intersecting highways.
Where were all these people going in the middle of the night? It was the middle of the night, American time. East Coast time. She would have to remember that. This was not like Italy, where the hour was the same if you were in Rome or Florence or Palermo.
Not that she’d ever been to Rome or Florence. Not that she’d ever been anywhere.
It should have been exciting, the realization that she was about to land on another continent, in a city she’d read of and dreamed about. But it wasn’t.
It was terrifying.
She wasn’t here by choice, she was here as the unwilling bride of a stranger. She knew nothing about her husband. No, she thought, swallowing hard as the plane descended, that was not true. She did know something about him. She knew that he was a man who bore her father’s stamp of approval.
That could only mean he was a hoodlum, just like her father.
Except—except, he wasn’t really like her father. He could be cold and hard, but sometimes there was a tenderness to him, too. And he was beautiful. She knew it was a strange word to use to describe a man but none other suited him. His height. His body. His face, Dio, his face, those hard, masculine angles and planes, that firm mouth.
Firm. Warm. And soft, so soft against hers.
The plane touched down, bumping delicately against the runway. The captain made a pleasant announcement, welcoming them to New York. Chiara, fumbling with her seat belt, rose quickly to her feet. The plane was still moving along the taxiway as she started blindly up the aisle.
A strong hand closed lightly on her elbow.
“I’m happy to see you’re in such a hurry to reach your new home,” her husband said.
She could hear the derision in his voice, feel the posses-siveness of his grasp. Her heart thumped.
God only knew what lay ahead.
Whatever it was, she would face it with courage. If life had taught her anything, it was that you must never show weakness to your oppressor.
Finally the plane came to a stop. The door shushed open. Chiara stepped out into the North American night.
She’d heard all about security procedures, but they evidently didn’t apply to powerful American gangsters. Her husband led her into a small building. He presented their passports to a man who hardly glanced at them. Minutes later they made their way out to a waiting automobile. A uniformed driver stood beside it.
Her steps faltered and her husband’s hand tightened on her elbow.
“Keep moving,” he said coldly. As if she had a choice.
What had the poet said in the Divine Comedy? Something about abandoning hope, all those who entered here.
One last, free breath and Chiara stepped into the back of the limousine.
The big car moved swiftly through the night.
So far, so good, Rafe thought—assuming you discounted the fact that his wife was sitting beside him like a prisoner being driven to her execution.
At least there hadn’t been a reception committee waiting, something he’d half expected. He’d figured Cordiano would have phoned his father. Cesare would have told the family….
What fun that would have been.
The old man gloating. His mother going from being upset that there hadn’t been a big wedding to planning a party that would rival anything Manhattan had ever seen. His sisters teasing him unmercifully. And his brothers.
Lord, his brothers! Better not even to go there.
But the reception committee hadn’t materialized. Clearly, Cordiano had not contacted Cesare. Rafe had no idea why, and frankly he didn’t much care. What mattered was that he had some breathing room. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he’d call his lawyer, start the procedure that would return his life to normal. No matter what he’d told Chiara, he wanted a divorce every bit as much as she did.
The drama on the plane, all that stuff about not giving her a divorce? Meaningless. He’d been ticked off, that was all, and he’d made a threat he had no intention of keeping.
He wanted out.
Traffic was light, this time of night. The big car moved smoothly along the highway, sped along Fifth Avenue and drew to a stop before his building. The doorman greeted them politely; if he found the sight of a woman wrapped in a coat like the kind old ladies wore in bad foreign films unusual, he was too well trained to let it show.
“Do you need help with your bags, Mr. Orsini?”
I need help with my life, Rafe thought, but he tossed him a polite “No, thanks” and headed for his private elevator, his carry-on hanging from his shoulder, Chiara’s old-fashioned leather suitcase clutched in one hand, the other wrapped around her elbow. It would have made things easier to let go, but he knew better.
The last thing he needed tonight was to end up running down Fifth Avenue after her.
They rode the elevator in silence. Nothing new there. They’d made the trip from the airport the same way. The door slid open when they reached his penthouse. Rafe stepped from the car. Chiara didn’t. He rolled his eyes and quick-stepped her into the foyer. The elevator door shut; Rafe sent it to the lobby level and let go of his wife’s arm.
“Okay,” he said briskly, “we’re home.”
He winced. What a stupid remark, but what else was there to say? He dropped their bags, shrugged off his jacket, checked the little stack of mail on the table near the entryway, checked his voice mail, gave Chiara time to say something, do something, but when he turned around she was standing precisely where he’d left her, except she’d backed up so that her shoulders were pressed against the silk-covered