The Scandalous Orsinis. Sandra Marton
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urgent,” he said.
She gave a sexy little laugh. “How nice!”
Rafe felt a second’s unease. Were they talking about the same thing?
“Where are you?” she asked.
He told her.
“Perfect. I have a rental a couple of blocks away.”
“What’s it like?”
Another little laugh. “I’m sure you’ll think it’s perfect.” She gave him the address, told him to meet her there in twenty minutes.
Rafe disconnected, his concerns gone. Perfect? Absolutely. He checked his watch, turned down Fifty-seventh Street.
Half an hour later, he was striding towards his condo, furious at fate, at life, at his own stupidity.
Elaine Chilton had been waiting for him, all right… on a pale pink sofa in a red silk teddy and black stilettos, and okay, maybe he hadn’t handled things exactly right. Maybe you didn’t look at a half-naked woman and say, “Oh sorry! See, what I meant was, I’m interested in finding an apartment for this woman who’s living with me.”
Definitely a poor choice of words, he thought as he marched into his own apartment building, glowered at the hapless doorman and stepped into his elevator.
He probably deserved the names the Chilton babe had called him, if not the slap. At least he’d stopped himself from saying, “Okay, now that that’s out of the way, what about the rental?”
The car shot upward. Next step was to call a hotel. The Waldorf. The St. Regis. Not as homey as a furnished apartment but who cared? What counted was that Chiara would be there, he would be here. And as soon as Sayers was in her office, things would start to be okay.
The elevator door slid open. Rafe stepped out—and found Chiara, waiting for him as Elaine Chilton had been waiting.
Not quite.
No silk teddy. No stiletto heels. No pink sofa. Chiara was seated in his foyer in an Eames chair, back straight, knees all but locked, hands folded in her lap, dressed in yet another of those incredibly ugly black outfits.
Then, why did seeing her go through him like a surge of electricity?
“Raffaele.” She rose to her feet, hands still tightly clasped. “I am sorry.”
Her voice was small but her eyes were steady on his. She was that combination of vulnerability and defiance that got to him every time.
“I seem to say that to you a great deal but…” She licked her lips. He could no more have kept from following the quick swipe of her pink tongue than he could have kept from breathing. “But I overreacted. You were simply trying to save me from embarrassment in front of your housekeeper. I should have understood that.”
Rafe forced his gaze from her mouth. Not a good plan. He looked into her eyes, instead, and saw that they glittered with unshed tears.
“No,” he said, “it’s my fault. I’ve handled this all wrong. I know what you want and I—” Why was his voice so rough? He cleared his throat. “I’ve been in touch with my attorney.”
Chiara shook her head. Her hair was still loose. He’d set it free hours ago, when he’d kissed her. The wildness of her curls was in direct contrast to her black dress and sensible shoes.
“Please, let me finish. This is difficult for me but I must say it.” She drew a deep breath. “The… the kissing, Raffaele. It was inexcusable.”
“Yes.” He swiped his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry about that, Chiara. I shouldn’t have—”
“My response, I mean. It was wrong. I have no explanation to offer. I can only say I regret it and—”
“Don’t,” he said quickly, his voice even rougher. “Don’t regret it, sweetheart. Please.”
“But I.” Color flooded her face. “I should not have kissed you back.”
“Chiara. That was a good thing. A healthy thing. Responding to a man’s kisses. To my kisses.”
“But I do not. I have never…”
Her voice faded. She looked away from him. She’d known this would be difficult, admitting that what happened whenever he touched her was as much her fault as his, but what she hadn’t expected was that seeing him would make her feel light-headed. Almost dizzy. Afraid to keep meeting his gaze because looking into his beautiful blue eyes made her want to… want to.
She felt a light touch on her hair. His hand, stroking the curls back from her temples. His fingers, threading into the strands. A moan rose in her throat. What was happening? She wanted to sigh his name, lift her face to his.
“No,” she said quickly, “no, it must not happen again. Those things I did—”
“You kissed me,” he said in a low voice. “And I kissed you. Kissing isn’t wrong, sweetheart.”
Somehow, his hand was cupping her chin. Somehow, her face was lifting to his.
And then his mouth was on hers.
He was kissing her, kissing her gently, and she was kissing him back. She caught his sweater in her hands, knotted the soft cotton in her fists and rose to him.
His arms swept around her. He gathered her against him and she framed his face with her hands, her lips soft and warm against his. She was making little sounds, moans of pleasure and desire, and he knew she was his for the taking.
He had only to lift her into his arms, carry her up the stairs to his bed. What he wanted, what he had wanted from the first time he’d kissed her, would become reality.
He would make love to her.
Take her innocence.
Take it, and be no better than bastards like her father and Giglio, men who would exploit this beautiful, brave woman instead of honoring and protecting her.
He kissed her one last time. Then he rested his forehead against hers.
“Chiara.” His voice sounded rusty; he cleared his throat.
“Sweetheart. I have a great idea. Let’s… let’s start over.”
“Start over?”
“Yes. You. Me. The situation we’re in… We don’t have to be enemies, Chiara. We can be friends.”
She looked baffled. Why wouldn’t she? It was probably the last thing she’d expected him to say. Hell, it was the last thing he’d expected to say. But it was right, and he knew it.
He would be her friend, not her lover, even if it killed him.
“I would like that,” she said softly. “To start over with you, Raffaele.”
Then she smiled, and he wondered how it was possible for everything good in the world to be captured in a woman’s smile.
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