Читать книгу The Scandalous Orsinis: Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 9

THE private jet Rafe had rented flew swiftly through the dark night.

He’d arranged for the rental at the airport in Palermo. The alternative—a six-hour wait for a commercial flight home—had struck him as impossible.

He had no wish to spend a minute more than necessary on Sicilian soil.

The plane itself was very much like the luxuriously appointed one he and his brothers owned; the pilot and copilot were highly recommended, the cabin attendant pleasant and efficient. She’d made sure he was comfortable, that he had a glass of excellent Bordeaux on the table beside him, that filet mignon would be fine for dinner—not that he was in the mood for dinner—and then she’d faded from sight.

A night flight on a private jet was generally a great place to relax after a difficult day.

But not this time. A muscle in Rafe’s cheek ticked.

This time, he was not alone.

A woman was seated across the aisle. Nothing terribly unusual in that. Women had traveled with him before. His PA. His attorney. Clients. His sisters. An occasional mistress, accompanying him for a weekend in Hawaii or Paris.

This woman was none of those things.

She sat wrapped in a black coat even though the cabin was a steady 72 degrees Fahrenheit. She sat very still, her shoulders back, spine rigid. Last he’d looked, her hands were knotted in her lap.

She was an ill-dressed, tight-lipped stranger.

And she happened to be his wife.

Rafe felt the muscle in his cheek jump again.

His wife.

The words, the very concept, were impossible to grasp. He, the man who had no interest in marrying, had married Chiara Cordiano. He’d married a woman he didn’t know, didn’t like, didn’t want, any more than she wanted him.

Rafe shut his eyes, bit back a groan of despair.

How in hell had he let himself get roped into this? Nobody had ever accused him of fancying himself a knight in shining armor. Well, no—but he couldn’t have just stood by and let her be handed over to Pig Man.

Assuming, of course, that would really have happened.

Rafe frowned. But would it?

Her father had wanted his daughter to marry an Orsini. The don had no way of knowing he was not part of Cesare’s organization; Cesare would never have admitted such a thing to an enemy. Cordiano surely would have figured the marriage would strengthen ties between the old world and the new at the same time it settled a debt.

Marrying Chiara to the capo, on the other hand, would have accomplished very little, only ensuring a loyalty that already existed. Why waste her on an underling?

Rafe cursed under his breath.

He’d been scammed.

His father had wanted him to marry his old enemy’s daughter. Freddo Cordiano had wanted the same thing. But he’d said he wouldn’t, and Cordiano had staged a scene straight from a fairy tale. Either the prince married the princess, or the ogre got her.

The only question was, had Chiara known about it?

Rafe folded his arms.

Dutiful Sicilian daughter that she was, what if she’d agreed to do her best to make him think everything that had happened today was real, starting with that ridiculous stuff on the road? A pair of burlesque bandits, stopping his car. Yes. That would have been good staging. Both father and daughter would have known it wouldn’t send him running, that if anything, he’d have been even more determined to reach San Giuseppe.

Even that kiss in the car. Her initial struggle against him, followed by that one sweet sigh of surrender, the softening of her lips, the rich, hot taste of her.

He’d been had.

Aside from him, the only other person who hadn’t been in on the con was Giglio. Chiara and her old man had used the capo as neatly as they’d used him.

Rafe narrowed his eyes.

Final proof? The 1-2-3 wedding ceremony. Cordiano had obviously pulled a bunch of high-powered strings. There’d been no posting of wedding banns, no formalities beyond signing a couple of papers in front of a mayor who’d all but knelt at the don’s feet. A handful of mumbled words and, wham, it was done.

Cordiano had beamed. “You may kiss the bride,” he’d said.

Except, of course, Rafe hadn’t.

Chiara had looked up at him. He’d looked down at her. Her eyes had held no expression; her lips had been turned in. “Do not touch me” had been her message, and he’d come within a heartbeat of saying, “Trust me, baby, you don’t have a thing to worry about.”

That kiss in the car, that one moment of heat. Easy to explain. The encounter on the road had left him pumping adrenaline. Danger, sex. One complemented the other. A man could fool himself into thinking anything when he was in that kind of state.

Rafe sat up straight.

Okay. He understood it all. Not that it mattered. He’d married the woman. Now he had to unmarry her. Next stop, an annulment. Divorce. Whatever it took.

Problem solved.

Not that he would just abandon his blushing bride. Yes, she’d trapped him, but he wasn’t blameless. He, the man who prided himself on logical thinking, had not thought logically. The price for digging yourself out of a hole, even when someone else had handed you the shovel, was never cheap.

He would do the honorable thing. Arrange a financial settlement. Considering all the effort Chiara had gone to, hauling him in, she was entitled to it. Then she could return to Sicily and he could forget all about—

“Signor Orsini.”

He looked up. Chiara stood next to him. He tried not to shake his head at the sight. When they were kids, his sister Anna had gone through a Goth period that had, thankfully, lasted only about a minute. She’d dressed in black from head to toe. She’d even dyed her long, blond hair black.

“You look like something the cat dragged in,” he’d told her, with all the aplomb of an older brother.

But a cat would not have bothered dragging Chiara in. Or out. She looked too pathetic. Well, except for the hair. Even skinned back in that damned bun again, it had the gloss of a raven’s wing.

Was looking like this part of the act?

“Yes?”

Yes?

Chiara forced herself not to show any reaction. Three hours of silence, and the best Raffaele Orsini could come up with was yes, said in a way that almost hung it with icicles?

Still, yes was an improvement. She would try not to show her annoyance.

“Signor. We must talk.”

His eyes narrowed to dark blue slits. Chiara was puzzled, but then she realized he was considering what she’d said, as if she’d made a request, when what she’d made was a demand.

She wanted to stamp her foot in fury! What an imbecile! Did he think she was a stray cat he’d taken in? That she would be so grateful she would simply sit quietly and let him do whatever he wished with her life?

She had not signed herself over to this man.

Yes, she’d married him. Heaven knew she had not wanted to do it, but choosing between going to America with a hoodlum and remaining in San Giuseppe with a killer had made her decision easy.

The only surprise was that he’d gone through with the ceremony, such as it was. She’d spent the last few hours trying to come up with a reason; by now, she had several.

Her father had paid him to do it. His father had paid him to do it. Her father had threatened him with what would happen if he didn’t, though she had to admit, that was a slim possibility. Whatever else he was, the American was not a coward.

Perhaps he had finally realized the benefits of marrying the don’s daughter. She had no illusions about her feminine appeal: she was mousy, skinny, nothing at all like the voluptuous females who caught men’s eyes. What she was, was a link to her father, and thus, to power.

Not that the American’s reasons for marrying her mattered.

He’d done it, was what counted, and she’d even felt a rush of gratitude that he had saved her from being given to Giglio—but gratitude only went so far. The bottom line, as they said in all those American movies she watched late at night on TV, was that she had no wish to be married, none to stay married. And from his silence, from the way he looked at her now, she was fairly certain Raffaele Orsini felt the same.

It was time to lay the cards on the table.

She told him exactly that.

“Signor. It is time to lay the cards on the table.”

One dark eyebrow lifted. He seemed amused. “Whose cards?”

Chiara frowned. “What do you mean, whose cards? The cards. Is that not what one lays on the table?”

“Not precisely. They’re either your cards or mine.” That faint hint of amusement—a smirk, was closer to accurate—disappeared from his face. “Sit down.”

“I would rather—”

“Sit,” he barked, jerking his chin toward the leather seat angled toward his.

She bristled. Just as she’d suspected. He thought he owned her. Well, he didn’t, and the sooner he knew that, the better, but there was no sense in getting sidetracked right now.

“Well?”

He had folded his arms across his chest and sat staring at her, his expression unreadable. He’d discarded his suit coat soon after they’d boarded the plane, stripped away his tie, opened the top two buttons of his white shirt and rolled back his sleeves.

The look on his face, the lack of formality in his clothing, his posture… had he done it deliberately to intimidate her? He looked—he looked very masculine. Aggressive. Those wide shoulders, so clearly defined by the fine cotton of his shirt. The strong, tanned column of his throat. The tanned and muscular forearms.

“Let me know when you’re done with the inventory.”

Chiara jerked her head up. His tone was silken, that hint of amusement back on his face. She flushed. Why was he making this so difficult? He had not wanted this marriage any more than she. The only reason she had kept silent the last hours was because she’d assumed he would make the first move.

She knew how it was with men like him. They needed to believe they were in charge, even when they weren’t.

She drew a breath, then let it out. “What you did—asking me to marry you—”

He snorted. “I didn’t ask you anything.”

“No. Not if one wishes to be precise, but—”

“I am being precise.”

“Well, yes. Of course. What I mean is, if you hadn’t proposed—”

“You keep getting that wrong, baby. I didn’t propose.”

“I mean it only as a figure of speech, Signor Orsini.”

“And I mean it as fact. I didn’t ask. I didn’t propose.” His eyes narrowed again. “And yet, surprise, surprise, here we are.”

She nodded, but it was not a surprise at all. Never mind all her speculation. He had been sent to marry her and he had done so. All the rest was meaningless.

“So?”

He was waiting. Fine. She just had to phrase this right.

“Here we are indeed,” she said politely, as if the topic had to do with finding themselves in the same shop instead of in a plane heading for America. “And… and—”

She hesitated. This was the tricky part. Convincing him he had done all he had to do, that now he could take a step that would free them both, might be a challenge. She had a small fortune to offer him in exchange for a divorce. Her mother had left her all her jewelry. Her mother had never worn any of it. Vanity, she’d said, was a sin. But Mama had not been completely unworldly. She’d hidden her jewels, told Chiara where to find them in case, someday, she should need what they might buy.

Today that time had come.

She had the jewels hidden in the bottom of the small suitcase she’d packed. The American could have them all if he would grant her her freedom.

Still, she had to phrase her argument properly, not dent his macho ego.

Her throat, her mouth had gone dry. Unconsciously she swept the tip of her tongue lightly over her lips.

“And,” she continued, “this isn’t what I want. What either of us wants.”

He said nothing, and she touched the tip of her tongue to her lips again. Rafe watched her do it, and a fist seemed to close slowly in his belly.

Did she know what she doing? Was the gesture innocent or deliberate? Her tongue was pink. It was a kitten’s tongue. It had touched his, however briefly; he could remember the silken feel of it.

She was still talking, but he had no idea what she was saying. His eyes lifted; he studied her face. It was bright with animation. She had, as he’d noticed before, some fairly good features.

Good? The truth was she was beautiful.

Those big violet eyes were fringed by long, thick lashes. The straight little nose was perfectly balanced above a lush, dusty-rose mouth. Her cheekbones weren’t just razor sharp, they were carved.

Why did she dress as she did? Why did she hold herself so stiffly? Why did she confine what he now remembered was a silky mane of thick curls in such an unbecoming style? Was it all illusion? Was it part of the scam?

“Why do you wear your hair like that?”

He hadn’t meant to ask the question. Obviously, she hadn’t expected it. She’d still been talking about something or other. Now she fell silent in midsentence and stared at him as if he’d asked her to explain how to solve a quadratic equation. Then she gave a nervous little laugh.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your hair. Why do you pull it back?”

To keep her father’s men from looking at her the way this man was looking at her now, but she knew better than to tell him that. It wasn’t the same thing, anyway. When Giglio and the others looked at her, she felt her skin crawl. But her skin wasn’t crawling now. It was… it was… it was tingling.

Chiara’s hand flew to her hair. “It’s… it’s neater this—”

“Let it loose.”

The American’s voice was rough. His eyes were blue flames. She could see a muscle knotting and unknotting in his cheek.

Suddenly it seemed hard to breathe. “I don’t… I don’t see any reason to—”

“The reason is that I’m telling you to do it,” Rafe said, and a shocked little voice inside him whispered, What in hell are you doing?

It was a good question.

He was not a man who believed in ordering women around. He’d explain that, explain that he’d only been joking…

“Let your hair loose, Chiara,” he said, and waited.

The seconds crept by. Then, slowly, she put her hands to her hair. The neat bun came undone. Her hair—thick, lustrous, curling—fell down her back.

The fist in his belly tightened again.

“That’s better.”

She nodded. Cleared her throat. Knotted her hands in her lap.

“As I was saying—”

“It’s warm in here.”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t find it—”

“You don’t need that coat.”

She looked down at herself, then at him. “I’m… I’m comfortable.”

“Don’t be silly.” He reached toward her, caught the coat’s lapels in his hands. “Take it off.”

Chiara felt her heart leap. She was alone with this stranger. Completely alone, in a way she had never been alone with a man before. Enzo, yes. Her father. San Giuseppe’s old, halfdemented priest. But this was different.

This man was young. He was strong. He was her husband.

That gave him rights. Privileges. She knew about those things, oh God, she knew.

“The coat.” His voice was harsh. “Take it off.”

Heart pounding, she unbuttoned her coat and shrugged it from her shoulders.

“Listen to me,” she said, and hated the way her voice shook. “Signor Orsini. I do not want to be your wife any more than you want to be my husband.”

“And?”

“And we are trapped. You had no choice but to marry me and—”

His eyes narrowed again. She had already learned enough about him to know that was not a good sign. “Is that what you think?”

“Your father wanted it.” He said nothing and she hurried on. “And my father wanted it. So—”

“So, I did it to please them both?”

“Yes. No. Perhaps not.” She was losing ground; she could sense it. The thing to do was speak more quickly, make him see that she understood why he’d done what he’d done and that he could gain by undoing it. American gangsters could be bought. She had watched enough films to know a great deal about America, and this was one of the things she knew.

“Perhaps my father made promises to you. Perhaps he said he would reward you.”

He sat back. Folded his arms again. Watched her, waited, said nothing, everything about him motionless, his body, his face, nothing moving but that damnable muscle in his cheek.

“Did he offer you a reward, signor? I can make a better offer.”

The corners of his lips curved. “Can you,” he said, very softly.

“As soon as we get to America, we will end the marriage. It is an easy thing to do in your country, yes?”

He shrugged. “And you walk away. From me. From your charming father. From that miserable little town. Everybody lives happily ever after. Right?”

He understood! The relief was enormous. “Yes,” she said, with a quick smile. “And you get—”

“Oh, I know what I get, baby. But I’d get that, anyway.”

Chiara shook her head. “I don’t under—”

“That black thing you’re wearing.”

Confused, she looked down at herself again, then at him.

“The black thing? You mean, my dress?”

“What’s under it?”

She blinked. “Under…?”

“Give me a break, okay? You’re not deaf. Stop repeating what I say and answer the question. What’s under that dress?”

Color heated her face. “My… my undergarments.”

He grinned. She almost made the old-fashioned word sound real. “Silk? Lace? Bra? Panties?” His smile tilted. “Or is it a thong?”

Chiara shot to her feet. “You’re disgusting!”

“You know, it took me a while but I finally figured it out. This get-up. The clothes, the hair, the ‘Don’t touch me’ all but painted on your forehead—it was all for me, wasn’t it?”

She swung away. His hands fell hard on her shoulders and he spun her to him. He wasn’t smiling anymore; his face was hard, his eyes cold.

“The real Chiara Cordiano is the one I kissed in that car.”

“You are pazzo! Crazy! Let go of me. Let go of—”

Rafe bent his head and kissed her. It was a stamp of masculine power and intent, and when she tried to twist away from him, he caught her face between his hands and kissed her even harder, forcing her lips apart, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, taking, demanding, furious with her for the lies, furious with himself for falling for them.

Furious, because he was stupid enough to want to reclaim that one sweet moment when he’d kissed her and she’d responded.

Except, she hadn’t.

That, too, had been a lie just like everything else, including the way she was weeping now, big, perfect tears streaming down her face as he drew back.

If he hadn’t known better, he’d have bought into the act.

“Come on, baby,” he said with vicious cruelty, “what’s the point in prolonging this? Get out of that ridiculous dress. Do what you undoubtedly do best.” His mouth twisted. “Do it really well and I might just give you that divorce you’re after.”

“Please,” she sobbed, “please…”

“Damn it,” Rafe growled. He’d had enough. He reached out with one hand, grabbed the collar of her ugly black dress, tore it open from the neckline to the hem.

And saw white cotton.

Sexless, all but shapeless white cotton. Bra. Panties. The kind of stuff his sisters had worn beneath their school uniforms when they were kids, stuff he and his brothers used to cackle over when they saw those innocent, girlish garments drying on the line in the backyard.

He stood, transfixed, uncertain. Was this, too, part of the act?

“Don’t,” Chiara whispered, “I beg you, don’t, don’t, don’t…”

Her knees buckled. Rafe cursed, caught his wife in his arms and knew, without question, he’d gotten everything wrong.