The Scandalous Orsinis. Sandra Marton

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ