Читать книгу Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 8

WAS the American going to come after her?

Chiara ran blindly into the narrow alley that led to a long-forgotten entrance to Castello Cordiano, following its twists and turns as it climbed steeply uphill.

No one knew this passageway existed. She’d discovered it when she was a little girl, hiding in the nursery closet with her favorite doll to get away from her father’s callousness and her mother’s piety.

It had been her route to freedom ever since, and there was the added pleasure of fooling her father’s men when she seemed to vanish from right under their noses.

The alley ended in a field of craggy stone outcroppings and brambles. A thick growth of ivy and scrub hid the cen-turies-old wooden door that led into the castle. Panting, hand to her heart, Chiara fell back against it and fought to catch her breath. She waited, then peered through a break in the tangled greenery. Grazie Dio! The American had not followedher.

Behaving like the brute he was must have satisfied him.

No surprise there. She’d always known how the world went. Men were gods. Women were their handmaids. The American had gone out of his way to remind her of those truths in the most basic way possible.

Chiara took a last steadying breath, opened the heavy door and slipped past it. A narrow corridor led to a circular staircase that wound into a gloomy darkness broken by what little light came through the balistraria set into the old stone walls. Long moments later, she emerged in the nursery closet. Carefully she stepped into the room itself, eased open the door, checked the corridor, then hurried halfway down its length to her bedroom.

Her heartbeat didn’t return to normal until she was safely inside with the door shut behind her.

What a disaster this day had been!

Yes, she’d gotten farther from the castle than ever before, but so what? The plan to frighten the American and send him running had been a miserable failure. Worse than a failure because instead of frightening him, she’d infuriated him.

Angering a man like that was never a good idea.

Chiara touched the tip of her finger to her lip. Was his blood on her? It was not but she could still feel the imprint of his mouth, could still taste him. The warm, firm flesh. The quick slide of his tongue. The terrifying sense of invasion…

And then, without warning, that sensation low in her belly. As if something were slowly pulsing deep inside.

She blinked, dragged air into her lungs. Never mind going over what had happened. What mattered was what would happen next.

She had badly underestimated the American.

Where was the short, stocky, cigar-chomping pig she’d envisioned? Not that he wasn’t a pig. He was, absolutely. The difference was that she could not have walked into a room and picked him out as one of the goons who did the work of men like her father.

He was too tall. Too leanly built. But it was more than looks that separated him from the men she knew. It was…What? His clothes? The gray, pinstriped suit that had surely been custom-made? The gold Rolex she’d glimpsed on his tanned, hair-dusted wrist?

Maybe it was his air of sophistication.

Or his self-assurance.

Smug self-assurance, even when Enzo had pointed a pistol at him. Even when she’d flung herself on his back. Even when she’d sunk her teeth into his lip to end that vile stamp of I’m-in-charge-here male domination.

That hot, possessive kiss.

Chiara jerked away from the door. She had to work quickly. Dio, if her father saw her now…

She almost laughed as she stripped off the ancient black suit and white, collarless shirt Enzo had found for her. Thinking about Enzo was enough to stop her laughter. What humiliation he had suffered today. And if her father ever learned what he had done…

He would pay a terrible price, and all because of her. She should not have run to him for help, but who else was there to turn to?

Enzo had listened to her story. Then he’d taken her hand in his.

“I can scare him off,” he’d said. “Remember, he is not truly Sicilian. He is American, not one of us, and they are not the same. They are weak. You will see, child. We will catch him by surprise. And while he is still immobilized, I will show him my pistol and tell him to go away. And he will be gone.”

When she protested that it was too dangerous, Enzo had suddenly looked fierce and said he had done things of this sort in the past.

It was hard to imagine.

The old man was her dearest friend. Her only friend. He’d been her father’s driver when she was little and he’d been kind to her, kinder than anyone, even her mother, but her mother had not been made for this world. Chiara had only vague memories of her, a thin figure in black, always kneeling in the old chapel or sitting in a straight-backed parlor chair bent over her Bible, never speaking, not even to Chiara, except to whisper warnings about what life held in store.

About men, and what they all wanted.

“Men are animals, mia figlia,” she’d hissed. “They want only two things. Power over others. And to perform acts of depravity upon a woman’s body.”

Chiara kicked the telltale clothing into the back of her closet, then hurried into the old-fashioned bathroom and turned on the taps over the bathtub.

What her mother had told her was the truth.

Her father ruled his men and his town with an iron fist. As for the rest…she’d overheard the coarse jokes of his men. She’d felt their eyes sliding over her. One in particular looked at her in a way that made her feel ill.

Giglio, her father’s second in command. He was an enormous blob of flesh. He had wet-looking red lips and his face was always sweaty. But it was his eyes that made her shudder. They were small. Close set. Filled with malice, like the eyes of a wild boar that had once confronted her on the mountain.

Giglio had taken to watching her with a boldness that was terrifying.

The other day, walking past her, his hand had brushed her buttocks and seemed to linger. She had gasped and shrunk from him; her father had been in the room. Hadn’t he seen what had happened? Then why hadn’t he reacted?

Chiara blanked her mind to the memory as she sank deep into the tub of hot water. She had more important things to worry about right now.

She and Enzo had failed. The American would keep his appointment with her father. The question was, would he recognize her? Enzo could keep out of his way but she couldn’t. She was, after all, the reason for the American’s visit.

She was on display. For sale, like a prize goat.

All she could do was pray that he would not recognize her. It was possible, wasn’t it? She’d be wearing a dress, her hair would be scraped back into its usual bun, she would speak softly, behave demurely and keep her eyes on the floor. She would make herself as invisible as possible.

And even if he recognized her, she could only pray that he would not want her, even though it would be an honor for him to wed the daughter of Don Freddo Cordiano.

A man like that would surely refuse such a so-called honor. Why take her when he could have his pick of women? Though she found all that overt masculinity disgusting, she knew there were those who’d be dazzled by the rugged face, the piercing blue eyes, the hard, powerful body.

Dio, so powerful!

Heat suffused her cheeks.

That moment, when he’d pulled her onto his lap, when she’d felt him beneath her. The memory made her tremble. She had never imagined…

She knew a man’s sexual organ had that ability. She was not ignorant. But that part of him had felt enormous. Surely a woman’s body could not accommodate something of such size…

A knock sounded at the door. Chiara shot up straight in the water.

“Sì?”

“Signorina, per favore, il vostro padre chiede che lo unite nella biblioteca.”

Chiara held herself very still. Her father wanted her in the library. Was he alone, or had the American arrived? “Maria? È solo, il mio padre?”

“No, signorina. Ci è un uomo con lui. Uno Americano. Ed anche il suo capo, naturelmente.”

Oh God. Chiara closed her eyes. Not just the American. Giglio was there, too.

Could the day get any worse?

Could the day get any worse?

Rafe felt a muscle jump in his cheek. Why bother wondering? It already had.

First the nonsense with Robin Hood and Maid Marian. Then the girl sinking her teeth into his lip. Now this. Twenty minutes of being trapped in an uncomfortable chair in a library even more depressing than his father’s, with a similar clutch of saints and stiffly posed ancestors looking down from the walls. He had an unwanted glass of grappa in his hand, a fat cigar he’d declined on the table beside him and the finishing touch, a butt-ugly mass of muscle and fat named Giglio, overflowing in a chair across from his.

Cordiano had introduced the man as a business associate. His capo, was more like it. It was the accessory du jour for hoodlums.

The capo had not taken his eyes off Rafe, and nasty eyes they were. Small. Set too close together. Unblinking and altogether mean. At first Rafe had ignored it, but it was getting to him.

For some reason the pig man didn’t like him. Fine. The feeling was mutual.

Added to all that, Cordiano seemed intent on spinning endless, self-aggrandizing tales set in the glory days of his youth, when men were men and there was nothing anybody could do about it.

Rafe didn’t care. All he wanted was to get out of here, back to Palermo, back to the States and a world that made sense, but until they got down to basics, he was stuck.

His attempts to move things along had gotten nowhere.

After the handshakes, the how-was-your-trip question and his it-was-fine response—because no way was he going to tell this sly old fox and his capo that he’d been had by a doddering old highwayman and a woman—after all that plus the ceremonial handing over of the unwanted cigar and the obligatory glass of grappa, Rafe had handed Cordiano his father’s sealed letter.

“Grazie,” the don said and tossed it, unopened, on his desk. Each time he paused for breath, Rafe tried to launch into the verbal form of his father’s apology. No luck. Cordiano didn’t give him a chance.

At least the marriage proposal had not been mentioned. Maybe Cesare had already explained that Rafe would not be availing himself of the generous offer to take his old enemy’s obviously undesirable daughter off his hands.

Something must have shown in his face because the pig man’s eyes narrowed. Rafe narrowed his in return. He felt foolish, like a kid doing his best to stare down the class bully, but what else did he have to keep him occupied?

“—for you, Signor Orsini.”

Rafe blinked and turned toward Cordiano. “Sorry?”

“I said, this has surely been a long day for you and here I am, boring you with my stories.”

“You’re not boring me at all,” Rafe said, and forced a smile.

“Is the grappa not to your liking?”

“I’m afraid I’m not a grappa man, Don Cordiano.”

“And not a cigar man, either,” Cordiano said, with a quick flash of teeth.

“Actually…” Rafe put his glass on the small table beside the chair and rose to his feet. The pig man stood up, too. Enough, Rafe thought. “I am also not a man who enjoys being watched as if I might steal the silver, so tell your watchdog to relax.”

“Of course.” The don chuckled, though the sound was remarkably cheerless. “It is only that Giglio sees you as competition.”

“Trust me, Cordiano, I’m not the least bit interested in taking his job.”

“No, no, certainly not. I only meant that he is aware that I have been searching for a way to thank him for his years of dedication, and—”

“And I’m sure you’ll find an appropriate reward but that doesn’t concern me. I’m here on behalf of my father. I’d appreciate it if you’d read his letter.”

Cordiano smiled. “But I know what it says, signor. Cesare begs my forgiveness for what he did almost half a century ago. And you, Raffaele—may I call you that?—and you are to assure me that he means every word. Yes?”

“That’s pretty much it.” And still not a word about daughters and marriage, thank God. “So, I can return home and tell him his apology is accepted? Because it’s getting late. And—”

“Did your father tell you what it is he did?”

“No. He didn’t. But that’s between you and—”

“I was his—I suppose you would call it his sponsor.”

“How nice for you both.”

“He repaid my generosity by stealing la mia fidanzata.”

“I’m sorry but I don’t speak—”

“Your father stole my fiancée.” Cordiano’s smile turned cold. “He eloped with her in the middle of the night, two days before we were to marry.”

“I don’t understand. My father has a wife. She…” Rafe’sjaw dropped. “Are you saying my mother was engaged to you?”

“Indeed she was, until your father stole her.”

All that “dark passion” stuff was starting to make sense. Now what? What could he say? It was hard enough to picture a young Cesare but to imagine his mother as a young woman running away with him…

“Did you think this was about something simple?” The don’s voice was as frigid as his smile. “That is why he sent you here, boy. To offer a meaningful apology, one I would accept. An eye for an eye. That is our way.”

Rafe shot a quick look at the capo. Was that what this was all about? He’d put in his time in the Marines; he and his brothers had all served their country. He could give a good account of himself against, what, 350 pounds of fat and muscle, but in the end…

“An eye for an eye. Or, now that so many years have gone by, a deed for a misdeed.” Cordiano folded his arms over his chest. “Your father took my bride. I will show him forgiveness by letting you take my daughter as yours. Do you see?”

Did he see? Rafe almost laughed. No way. Not even a genius would see any logic in that.

“What I see,” he said flatly, “is that you have a daughter you want to get rid of.”

Pig Man made a humming sound deep in his throat.

“And somehow, you and my old man cooked up this cockeyed scheme. Well, forget about it. It’s not going to happen.”

“My daughter needs a husband.”

“I’m sure she does. Buy one, if that’s what it takes.”

The mountain of muscle grunted and took a step forward. Rafe could feel the adrenaline pumping. Hell, he thought, eyeing the capo, he could do more than put up a good fight. Angry as he was, he could take him.

“I have your father’s word in this matter, Orsini.”

“Then you have nothing, because it is not his word you need, it’s mine. And I can damned well assure you that—”

“There you are,” Cordiano said sharply, glaring past him. “It took you long enough to obey my orders, girl.”

Rafe swung around. There was a figure in the doorway. Chiara Cordiano had come to join them. A weak finger of late afternoon sunlight pierced a narrow gap in the heavy window draperies, lending a faint outline to her thin shape.

“Have you turned to stone?” the don snapped. “Step inside. There is a man here who wants to meet you.”

Like hell he did, Rafe almost said, but he reminded himself that none of this was the girl’s fault. If anything, he felt a stab of pity for her. He’d already figured that she was homely. Maybe it was worse than that. For all he knew, she had warts the size of watermelons.

She was also a woman defeated. Everything about her said so.

She moved slowly. Her head was bowed, showing dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her hands were folded before her, resting at her waistline, assuming she had one. It was impossible to tell because her dress was shapeless, as black and ugly as her shoes. Lace-ups, he thought with incredulity, the kind he’d seen little old ladies wearing back home on Mulberry Street.

He couldn’t see her face but he didn’t need to.

It would be as plain as the rest of her.

No wonder her father was trying to give her away. No man in his right mind would want such a pitiful woman in his bed.

Okay. He’d be polite. He could do that much, he thought, and opened his mouth to say hello.

Pig Man beat him to it.

“Buon giorno, signorina,” the capo said.

Except, he didn’t say it, he slimed it. How else to describe the oiliness in the man’s voice? Maybe Chiara Cordiano thought so, too. Rafe saw a tremor go through her narrow shoulders.

“Signor Giglio has spoken to you,” the don snapped. “Where are your manners?”

“Buon giorno,” she said softly.

Rafe cocked his head. Was there something familiar about her voice?

“And you have not greeted our guest, Signor Raffaele Orsini.”

The woman inclined her head. Not easy to do; her chin was damned near already on her chest.

“Buon giorno,” she whispered.

“In English, girl.”

Her hands twisted together. Rafe felt another tug of sympathy. The poor thing was terrified.

“That’s okay,” he said quickly. “I don’t know much Italian but I can manage a hello. Buon giorno, signorina. Come sta?”

“Answer him,” Cordiano barked.

“I am fine, thank you, signor.”

There was definitely something about her voice…

“Why are you dressed like this?” her father demanded. “You are not going into a convent. You are going to be married.”

“Don Cordiano,” Rafe said quickly, “I’ve already told you—”

“And why do you stand there with your head bowed?” Cordiano grabbed his daughter’s arm, his fingers pressing hard. She winced, and Rafe took a step forward.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

The capo lunged forward but Cordiano held up his hand.

“No, Giglio. Signor Orsini is correct. He is in charge of things now. It is his right, and his alone, to discipline his fiancée.”

“She is not my…” Rafe shot the woman a quick glance, then lowered his voice. “I already told you, I am not interested in marrying your daughter.”

Cordiano’s eyes turned hard. “Is that your final word, Orsini?”

“What kind of man are you, to put your daughter through something like this?” Rafe said angrily.

“I asked you a question. Is that your final word?”

Could a man feel any worse than Rafe felt now? He hated what Cordiano was doing to the girl. Why in hell didn’t she say something? Was she meek, or was she stupid?

Not my worry, he told himself, and looked at Freddo Cordiano.

“Yes,” he said gruffly, “it is my final word.”

Pig Man laughed. The don shrugged. Then he clamped his fingers around his daughter’s delicate-looking wrist.

“In that case,” he said, “I give my daughter’s hand to my faithful second in command, Antonio Giglio.”

At last the woman’s head came up. “No,” she whispered. “No,” she said again, and the cry grew, gained strength, until she was shrieking it. “No! No! No!”

Rafe stared at her. No wonder she’d sounded familiar. Those wide, violet eyes. The small, straight nose. The sculpted cheekbones, the lush, rosy mouth…

“Wait a minute,” he said, “just wait one damned minute…”

Chiara swung toward him. The American knew. Not that it mattered. She was trapped. Trapped! She had to do something…

Desperate, she wrenched her hand out of her father’s.

“I will tell you the truth, Papa.You cannot give me to Giglio. You see—you see, the American and I have already met.”

“You’re damned right we have,” Rafe said furiously. “On the road coming here. Your daughter stepped out of the trees and—”

“I only meant to greet him. As a gesture of—of goodwill.” She swallowed hard; her eyes met Rafe’s and a long-forgotten memory swept through him of being caught in a firefight in some miserable hellhole of a country when a terrified cat, eyes wild with fear, had suddenly, inexplicably run into the middle of it. “But…but he…he took advantage.”

Rafe strode toward her. “Try telling your old man what really happened!”

“What really happened,” she said in a shaky whisper, “is that—is that right there, in his car—right there, Papa, Signor Orsini tried to seduce me!”

Giglio cursed. Don Cordiano roared. Rafe would have said, “You’re crazy, all of you,” but Chiara Cordiano’s dark lashes fluttered and she fainted, straight into his arms.