Читать книгу The Scandalous Orsinis - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 11

THE cabin spun. The floor tilted. And all Chiara could think was, No, I am not going to pass out again!

Once in a lifetime was enough. What she needed to do now was fight, not faint.

The American had scooped her into his arms.

“Stay with me,” he was saying. “Come on, baby, stay with me!”

He wanted her conscious when he forced himself on her. That chilling realization was enough to chase the gray fog from her brain. Chiara summoned up all her strength and began beating her fists against his shoulders. One blow connected with his chin, and he captured her flailing hands in one of his and held them tightly against his chest.

“Hey,” he said, “take it easy!”

Take it easy? Take it easy? Maybe the women in his world gave in, but she would fight to what might well be her last breath because this man was strong. Very strong. No matter what she did, she could not get free.

“Chiara! Listen to me. I’m trying to help you.”

“Liar! Liar, liar, li—”

“Damn it, are you crazy?”

No, Rafe thought, answering the question himself. Not crazy. She was blind with panic and he couldn’t much blame her. What in hell had he done, all but tearing off her clothes like that? For all she knew, what came next would be—

Hell.

He kept one hand clamped around her wrists, used the other to try and pull the edges of the dress together. It was impossible, especially with her fighting him all the way.

Not exactly the way a man hoped to start his honeymoon. A joke, of course, because this was never going to be a honeymoon but still.

Her head jerked back.

She had some dangerous moves. He had to remember that. The way she could get her knee up, for instance, aiming with precision. Getting in close, putting her off balance, would be his only protection. He swept his arms around her, lifted her off her feet and brought her hard against him.

“Chiara! Stop fighting me!”

The lady was a hellcat personified.

And she was soft. Very soft. Her breasts were flush against his chest. Her belly was against his groin. She was still struggling, moving against him, rubbing against him.

Desperate, Rafe sent a searching glance around him. He needed a place to put her down. Crews on private jets were trained to be discreet but if the attendant chose this minute to see if her passengers wanted something, explaining what was going on might be, at the least, embarrassing.

The Orsini plane had a private bedroom and bathroom in the rear of the cabin. Well, there was a door in the back of this one. He had no idea what was behind it. For all he knew, it might be locked but it was worth—

Chiara’s sharp little teeth grazed his throat. Okay. Enough was enough. One bite a day was all she was going to get. Grunting, he upended her, tossed her over his shoulder and strode down the aisle while his crazy wife panted, raged, pounded the hell out of his back. Please, he thought grimly when he reached the door, grasped the knob.

Rafe breathed a sigh of relief.

The door opened. And beyond it was some kind of room. Not a bedroom. A lounge. Maybe an office. He rolled his eyes. Who cared what it was? There was a desk. A chair. A small lavatory visible beyond a partly opened sliding door. And, best of all, a small leather sofa just made for accommodating an out-of-control female, he thought, and shouldered the door shut.

He went straight for the sofa. Dumped Chiara on it and stood up.

Bad idea.

She was on her feet and trying to fly past him in a heartbeat. He grabbed her, wrestled her down onto the sofa again, squatted in front of her and clamped his hands around her forearms.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I am not going to hurt you.”

Chiara bared her teeth. An attack-trained rottweiler might have given him a friendlier response. Rafe shook his head in frustration. He had a mess on his hands and only himself to blame. He’d scared the life out of his bride. A joke to call her that, but that was what she was, at least for the time being.

His fault, sure, but how was he to know she’d go off like a roomful of high explosives if he touched her?

You didn’t just touch her, that sly voice inside him whispered. True. He’d gone at her as if he were out of control, but whose fault was that, if not hers?

A woman couldn’t play hot and cold. That kiss this morning. That one moment of incredible surrender. Was he supposed to forget it had happened?

Had it been real? Had it been a ploy to get him on her side? Who in hell knew? And what about the insults she’d heaped on him, her easy assumption that he was a villain, that she could buy him off? Did none of that count for anything?

Yes, but she’d been through a lot today. So had he, but it wasn’t the same. He hadn’t been threatened with wedded bliss as the wife of her father’s capo.

If even that had been real. If it hadn’t all been an act, meant to make him agree to a marriage a pair of aging dons on both sides of the Atlantic seemed to want.

For the moment he’d go with believing his wife hadn’t been in on the deal—and why in hell think of her as his wife? She was nothing but a temporary impediment in his life. Maybe she’d calm down once she understood that. Hell, she had to. He couldn’t spend the rest of the flight hanging on to her as she struggled to get away.

Rafe took a long breath.

“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry I frightened you. I never—I mean, I had no idea. The thing is, I got angry. And.” And what? None of that excused what he’d done. Truth time, he thought, and drew another breath. “Here’s the deal, okay? I thought you had been stringing me along. And—”

“Hah!”

“Hah?”

“Why would I string you along,” she panted, “when I would like to string you up?”

How could he want to laugh at a time like this? He couldn’t, not without enraging his wildcat even more. Instead he cleared his throat.

“I thought you were part of the plan. You know, to convince me to marry you.” Her face registered incredulity, but they were getting somewhere: she had stopped struggling, at least for the moment. “Okay,” he said carefully, “I’m going to let go of you. Then I’m going to stand up.” His eyes drifted down; he’d all but forgotten her dress was torn in half, showing all that schoolgirl lingerie.

Showing the small but somehow lush breasts, the narrow waist, the flaring hips.

Rafe forced his gaze back to her face. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“I’ll stand up, and then I’ll get your suitcase so you can change clothes. Okay?”

Chiara glared at him. “I was not part of any plan,” she said with icy precision.

“You want something to wear or not?”

He could see her weighing the offer. At last she nodded.

“Good. Fine.” Slowly he took his hands from her. She scrambled back as he rose to his feet. She looked like hell, not just the torn dress, but her face was devoid of color, her eyes huge and dark.

And he was the cause.

He, the idiot who’d said yes to marriage to save her, had done this.

“Be right back,” he said briskly, striding from the lounge as if shredding a woman’s clothes and scaring the life half out of her were just everyday occurrences.

He didn’t see her suitcase. Just as well. It was probably overflowing with black dresses and he’d seen enough of them to last a lifetime. He grabbed his carry-on bag, headed back to the lounge.

And paused.

Chiara was exactly where he’d left her, clutching the torn dress together at her breasts. The only difference was in her posture. She sat with her head down, her hair tumbling around her face. The fight had gone out of her; she looked small and vulnerable. Mostly she looked defeated, just as she had in her father’s house.

It killed him to see it.

She was shaking. With fear? No, Rafe thought, not this time. He dropped the carry-on bag and hurried to her. She was hovering on the brink of shock. Adrenaline spiked, then dropped, and this was the price you paid.

“Chiara,” he said, when he reached her.

She looked up. He could hear her teeth chattering. He cursed softly, went down on his knees and gathered her into his arms.

She balked. He’d expected it and at the first jerk of her muscles, he drew her even closer against him, whispering her name, stroking one big hand gently up and down her back. Gradually he felt her body begin to still.

“That’s it,” he said softly, his mouth against her temple, his hand still soothing her, and at last she gave a shuddering sigh and leaned into him.

Rafe closed his eyes.

Her face was against his throat. Her lips were slightly parted. He could feel the delicate whisper of her breath, the warmth of it on his skin.

His arms tightened around her. He drew her from the sofa onto her knees. He felt her hands against his chest, one palm flat against his heart.

She was so small. So delicate. He could feel the fragility of her bones and he thought of the time a migrating songbird had flown into one of the windows that lined the terrace of his penthouse. It had been a windy day; when he heard the soft thud of something hitting the glass, he’d thought it must be a chair cushion, but when he went outside, he found the bird, smaller than seemed possible, lying on the marble floor, eyes glazed, heart beating so frantically that he could see the rise and fall of its feathered breast.

Helpless, clueless, he’d carefully scooped the tiny creature into his palm. Minutes had crept by and just when he was about to give up hope, the bird made a soft peep, scrambled upright, blinked, spread its wings and took to the sky.

Chiara stirred like that now. Her eyes swept over his face.

“Okay?” he said softly.

She swallowed. “Yes.”

He felt the same rush of pleasure as the day the tiny bird had survived its brush with death. Still, he went on holding her in his arms. He didn’t want to let her go. She might go into shock again, might need him to comfort her.

“Please let go of me, Signor Orsini.”

So much for needing his comfort.

Rafe got to his feet and retrieved the carry-on bag. She was seated on the sofa again, a portrait of composure except for the gaping dress. He cleared his throat, dropped the bag on the floor and jerked his chin at it.

“Nothing in there will really fit you, of course,” he said briskly.

“I have my own things. In my suitcase.”

“Yeah, well, I grabbed the first bag I saw. Anyway, there’s some stuff that might work. Jeans, sweats, a couple of T-shirts.” He was babbling. She could figure things out for herself, once he gave her some privacy. “I’ll, ah, I’ll wait outside. Let me know when you’re done and then… and then, we’ll talk. Okay?”

Chiara nodded. Her face gave nothing away, but all things considered, he figured he was doing pretty well. He nodded back, stepped from the room, shut the door, folded his arms…

And waited.

He waited for what seemed a very long time. Just when he’d finally decided she was going to pretend he didn’t exist, the door swung open.

His throat constricted.

She was wearing one of his T-shirts over a pair of his workout shorts. The shirt hung to her knees; the shorts fell to midcalf. Her feet were bare. Her hair was a soft cloud of dark chocolate silk: he figured she must have found his brush and used it.

She should have looked comical. At least foolish.

She didn’t.

She looked beautiful.

It made him smile. Big mistake. Her chin rose and he knew she was about to give him hell.

“Thank you for the clothes, signor.”

“It’s Rafe.”

“Thank you, Signor Orsini,” she repeated, and took a deep breath. It made the thin cotton T-shirt fabric lift in a way that drew his gaze to her breasts. “And for this,” she said, in a voice that stopped him thinking about the shirt and what was under it. Looking up, he saw the unmistakable glint of steel in her hand. “Touch me again, and I will kill you!”

Well, hell. His brush wasn’t the only thing she’d found. She’d found his nail scissors, too.

“Chiara,” he said calmly, “put that down.”

“Not until we reach New York and you set me free.”

“You are free.” His mouth twisted. “I married you. I didn’t buy you.”

“I told you. I want an annulment. A divorce. Whatever is legally necessary.”

He could feel his temper rising. She was hardly in the position to make demands.

“I have money.”

His eyebrows rose. “What?”

“I have my mother’s jewels. I told you about them. Obviously, you were not listening.” Her eyes met his. “They are very valuable. I will give them to you in exchange for my freedom.”

The woman had a wonderful opinion of him. It annoyed him and he told himself to stay calm.

“Do you think this is a bazaar? That you can haggle with me to get what you want?”

Her face colored. “No. I did not mean—” She took a deep breath. “I see what you are trying to do, signor. You think, if you direct this conversation elsewhere, you will dissuade me.”

He lifted one dark eyebrow. “Dissuade?”

“Sì. It means—”

“I know what it means. Someone taught you some fancy English in that hole-in-the wall town of yours.”

“San Giuseppe is not ‘my’ town,” she said coldly. “And yes, Miss Ellis taught me, as you say, some fancy English.”

“One of your father’s girlfriends?”

She laughed. Miss Ellis had been seventy. Tall, thin, about as approachable as a nun—but the best teacher in the world, until her father had decided she was filling Chiara’s head with too much worldly nonsense. It still hurt to remember the day he’d dismissed her.

“One of my tutors,” Chiara said, and lifted her chin. “Thanks to her, you will not be able to dissuade me in English or in several other languages.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“You are supposed to be warned, Signor Orsini. I am not prepared to take what has been forced upon me by you and my father standing up.”

Rafe grinned. He couldn’t help it. For all he knew, she spoke a dozen languages but there was a difference between speaking English like a native and speaking it like a scholar, especially when the words came from the mouth of a woman who looked like an armed street urchin.

“You find this amusing, signor? I promise, I will defend myself if you approach me again.”

He thought about going straight at her and snatching the scissors away. He wouldn’t get hurt—it would be like taking candy from a baby—but what the hell, this was just getting interesting.

“So, you want out of our marriage.”

“It is not a marriage, it is an alliance between my father and yours.”

“Whatever,” he said, as if he didn’t know damned well she was probably right. He made a show of shaking his head. “I guess modern women just don’t believe in keeping their vows anymore.”

Chiara clucked her tongue. “Such nonsense! Neither of us wants this marriage and you know it.”

For some reason her certainty irked him. “And you know this about me because…?”

Her eyes narrowed. The tip of her tongue came out and touched her top lip, then swept back inside, to be replaced by a delicate show of small—and, he knew—sharp white teeth that sank, with great delicacy, into her bottom lip.

His gut knotted. His entire body tensed. Ridiculous, but then, the entire day had been ridiculous. Why should things become normal now?

“I mean,” he said, sounding like the voice of reason, “I’m Italian. What if I don’t believe in divorce?”

What if the sun went nova? He wasn’t Italian, except by heritage. He was American. That was how he thought of himself. And while he didn’t believe people should bounce in and out of matrimony, he did believe in divorce when no other solution made sense.

Like now, when they’d both been forced into a union neither wanted… which was exactly what she’d said.

Yes, but why make this easy for her?

He’d been suckered into this. Even if she hadn’t been party to the plan, she hadn’t protested it, either. Now she wanted out. Fine. So did he. But first he wanted some answers. And this woman—his wife—was the only one who could provide them.

“I’m waiting, baby. Why should I agree to a divorce? After all, I flew across the ocean to marry you.”

Chiara blinked. “But you told my father—”

“I know what I told him. I said I had no wish to marry you.” Rafe shrugged. “Any good businessman knows better than to accept the first offer when he’s negotiating a deal.”

“A deal?” She stared at him in disbelief. “You mean—you mean, you intended to go through with it all the time? You only let my father think he could hand me off to that… that animal?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

First, dissuade. Now, implied. Tricky words, even for native English speakers, which Chiara was not. What she was, his scissors-wielding bride, was a font of surprises.

“I married you,” he said calmly. “Never mind my reasons. As for you… I didn’t see Daddy holding a shotgun on you during the ceremony.”

“I do not understand what that means.”

“It means you married me without a word of argument.”

“I would have married a… a donkey if it meant I didn’t have to marry Giglio!”

“You’re no prize package either, baby.”

Color rushed into her cheeks. “You know what I mean. And do not call me ‘baby.’ I am a grown woman.”

Yes. She was. A beautiful grown woman, but there was much more to her than that.

Her face wasn’t just lovely, it was animated. Her eyes weren’t just a color that reminded him of violets, they were bright with intelligence. He’d seen enough of her body to know it was feminine and lush, but it was the proud way she held herself that impressed him, something in her stance that said she would fight to the end for what she believed.

She was, as she said, a grown woman.

His woman.

His wife.

Rafe felt his body stir. They were alone, still a few hours from landing. He’d scared the hell out of her by coming at her with all the subtlety of a hormone-crazed bull, but then, he’d misjudged her.

She wasn’t a femme fatale; she was inexperienced. After all, how many lovers could a woman have in a town the size of San Giuseppe? Cesare had described her as a virgin, but obviously that was impossible. There were no virgins in today’s world, not even tucked away in remote towns in the Sicilian hills.

No, things had not gone well a little while ago, but whether his wife wanted to admit it or not, she had responded to him when he’d kissed her before. She’d let him hold her in his arms. All he had to do was take those stupid scissors from her, gather her close, kiss her, slip his hand under that T-shirt.

Was he insane? For one thing, this woman was not his wife. Well, she was, but not for long. For another, sleeping with her would only complicate things.

Besides, if he touched her, she’d come apart in terror. Her reaction to him hadn’t been an act. It hadn’t been because he hadn’t used any finesse. She’d been out of her mind with fear. Real, honest fear. Something awful had happened to her. Something had hurt her so much that she hid inside those godawful black dresses.

Who had done this to her? A man, surely. Giglio? One of the other brutes her father employed?

Hot rage swept through him. He told himself he’d feel this about the violation of any woman, that it had nothing to do with Chiara in particular.

The hell it didn’t.

She was his. Temporarily, until he could figure out what to do with her, her but for now she belonged to him. And he was a man who would always protect what was his.

“Chiara.”

She looked at him. “Who hurt you?”

She stared at him. The color drained from her face. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Yeah, you do. Why did you scream when I touched you?”

“What you mean is, why didn’t I melt with delight.”

The words dripped venom, but she wasn’t going to put him off that easily. Rafe folded his arms over his chest. “It’s a simple question. What made you so frightened of men?”

“What you mean is, why am I unwilling to let men have their way with me?”

“How about not telling me what I mean and just answering the question? What are you afraid of?”

“If we play a round of Twenty Questions, do I win a divorce?”

He was in front of her in two strides. Her hand shot up, the little scissors glinting. Rafe didn’t bother playing games. He caught her wrist, took the scissors from her and tossed them on the sofa.

“One question,” he said brusquely, “and I want an answer. Why are you afraid of sex?”

“I am not afraid. Besides, what I am or am not is none of your business.”

The woman was impossible! “It’s every bit my business,” he said sharply. “You’re my wife.”

She laughed. Hell, he couldn’t blame her. Sure, a smalltown official owned by her father had mumbled some words at them, but the truth was, she was no more his wife than he was her husband.

Except, he was. He had a piece of gilt-edged paper tucked inside his passport case that proved it.

“Was it because you thought I was going to—” he felt his face heat “—to force you?” He cupped her elbows. “Because I wasn’t. I got rough, yeah, and I shouldn’t have, but I would never have taken you against your will.” Her eyes called him a liar; he couldn’t much blame her for that, either. “It’s the truth. I’m no saint, but I’d never force a woman to make love with me.”

“Love,” she said, with a little snort of disdain.

“That’s what men and women do. They make love.” His hands tightened on her. “I’d never sleep with a woman who didn’t want me.”

No, Chiara thought, no, he wouldn’t have to.

A woman would go to him willingly. Raffaele Orsini was all the things women supposedly wanted in a man. He was strong, good-looking and so masculine there were moments he made her feel dizzy.

So, if a woman liked sex, she would like him. And there were women who liked sex. She was not a fool. She understood that, even though she would never want to be one of those women.

No matter what he claimed, sex was for the man. A woman had to go along with it, if she married. The nudity. The intimacy. The slap of flesh against flesh, 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.