The Scandalous Orsinis. Sandra Marton
Читать онлайн книгу.
and yelped when his fingers closed around the hot glass. The predictable thing happened. It slipped from his hands, smashed against the floor, and spewed hot water over his bare toes.
“Oh, Dio mio!”
Chiara threw out her hands. One connected with a cast-iron skillet. The predictable thing happened again. The skillet tumbled from the counter and landed on Rafe’s still-naked, now scalded toes.
“Figlio di puttana!”
“Raffaele!” Chiara said, sounding shocked.
Rafe ignored her, hopped to the fridge and hit a button. Ice cubes tumbled into his hand. He squeezed his fingers around some, let the others dump on his toes.
Damn it all, his life had turned into a reality show. And it was all this woman’s fault. No. It was his. Why had he brought her home with him? Okay, maybe he’d had to marry her. So what? He could have left her in Palermo. He could have dumped her at a Manhattan hotel. He could have done a hundred things that wouldn’t have put her under his roof.
Chiara said his name again and he swung toward her.
“Are you… are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he said coldly.
She gestured at his hand, then at his foot. “I am sorry, Raffaele.”
Her voice quavered. She was on the verge of tears. Who gave a damn?
“I only meant to do a good thing. To show you that I appreciate all you have done for me.”
“The only way you could do that would be to erase yesterday, and that’s not about to happen.”
The tears appeared, filling her eyes until they glittered like diamonds. So what? Women were good at producing instant tears. It didn’t change a thing.
“Stop that,” he growled.
She turned her back and cried harder.
It made him feel bad but, hell, she probably wanted him to feel bad. She was clever. Somewhere between the ceremony in San Giuseppe and their arrival here, he’d managed to forget that. Well, he wouldn’t forget it again. This was the woman who’d waylaid him on the road. Who’d kissed him as if she wanted to suck out his tonsils right before she went into her Petrified Virgin routine. Forget what he’d thought last night, that she was as much a victim as he was.
Still, he sure as hell didn’t want her crying over a couple of stupid accidents.
“Okay,” he said, “that’s enough. It’s only a kitchen.”
“I burned your fingers.”
“You didn’t burn them, I did.” He turned her toward him, held up his hand, flexed his fingers. “See? They’re fine. That ice did the trick.”
“I broke your toes.”
“Toe. Just one. The big one.” He looked down; so did she. He flexed his toes, forced himself not to wince. The damned thing probably was broken but he’d sooner have walked on nails that admit it. “See? It’s fine. Ice can do wonders.”
She gave a little hiccup and raised her face to his. Hell, he thought, his throat tightening, didn’t they teach women how to sob delicately in Weeping 101 anymore? Because there was nothing delicate about Chiara’s red eyes and runny nose. She was a veritable mess, as sorry a mess as the room and their marriage.
And yet she looked even more beautiful.
How could that be? Everything she had on was ugly. She wore no makeup. She’d wept her way into ruddy-faced disaster.
“Raffaele.” Her voice broke. More tears overflowed and trickled down her cheeks. “I am so sorry. For everything. For ruining your life, ruining your kitchen—”
“Hush,” he said, and then he did the only logical thing.
He cupped her face, brought his lips to hers and kissed her.
His head told him it was a mistake. You didn’t kiss a woman you intended to get rid of. You certainly didn’t kiss a woman who’d made it clear she was afraid of any kind of physical intimacy.
Except… except, she wasn’t struggling. Wasn’t gasping with fear or anger. No, he thought in wonder, no.
She was melting in his arms.
It happened so fast that it stunned him.
One second he was holding a weeping woman whose spine might have been fashioned of steel. The next, she was on her toes, leaning into him. Her arms were tight around his neck. Her heart was racing against his.
It was what should have happened early this morning, he thought.
And then he stopped thinking.
Her hands speared into his hair. She moaned, dragged his face down to hers. He whispered her name, slanted his mouth hungrily over hers, cupped her backside and lifted her up and into his straining erection. Her breath caught. He thought he’d frightened her but she moved against him, moved again, a tentative thrust of her lower body and it came as close as anything could to undoing him.
“Raffaele,” she whispered.
The word trembled on her lips, wafted over his.
“Chiara. My beautiful Chiara.”
His hands rose. Cupped her breasts. She cried out, said his name, made the sweet little sounds a woman makes when she wants a man.
He swept aside whatever remained on the granite counter, clasped her waist and lifted her onto it. Not like this, logic said, not here, not for her first time!
To hell with logic.
He wanted her, now. Needed her, now. He was dizzy with it, crazed with it, with wanting to kiss her, touch her, bury himself inside her.
Somehow he forced himself to slow down. He kissed her eyelids, her temples, her mouth. Sweet. Soft. Warm. Her lips clung to his. He felt the first delicate whisper of her tongue against his, and desire, hot and fierce, shot through him like an arrow.
“Raffaele? Raffaele. I want—I want—”
“Tell me,” he said hoarsely, between deep, hot kisses. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”
Everything, she thought. Oh Dio, she wanted everything.
Raffaele’s mouth, drinking from hers. The silken intrusion of his tongue. His thumbs tracing the arc of her cheekbones, her throat, her breasts. And, yes, what he was doing now. Undoing the endless row of jet buttons on her dress. Baring her flesh to him. The curve of her breasts, rising above her bra.
He kissed the hollow of her throat. Nipped lightly at the skin. She gasped; her head fell back. She would have fallen back, too—she was boneless—but he caught her shoulders, his strong hands supporting her as he brought her to him and kissed her again and again.
It wasn’t enough. None of it was enough. How could it be enough? She ached for him.
For his possession.
She sobbed his name. His eyes met hers. They were black with desire; the bones of his face stood out in stark relief. She knew what it meant.
For the first time, a frisson of fear slid greasily through her belly.
“Raffaele,” she said breathlessly, “Raffaele…”
He grasped the hem of her dress, bunched it in his big hands and raised it to the tops of her thighs. Stepped between them. Still watching her face, he laid one hand over that place between her legs, that temple of evil her mother had warned against.
She cried out.
“Raffaele,” she said, and he slipped his fingers under the edge of her underpants, and now she felt the wetness in that place, the heat, the throbbing of her pulse.
“Omylord,”