The Scandalous Orsinis. Sandra Marton

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      A shudder went through her. “It was so real. His hands on me. His mouth.”

      “Shh,” Rafe said again, an unreasoning rage filling him at the picture she’d painted. “Giglio can’t get to you. Not anymore.”

      Silence. Another shudder. Then, a whisper so low he could hardly hear it.

      “What?” he said, and bent his head closer to hers.

      “I said… I said I have been awful to you, Raffaele. You saved me from him. And instead of saying thank you, I have accused you of… of all kinds of terrible things.”

      He smiled. “Seems to me we’ve done a pretty good job of accusing each other of all kinds of terrible things.”

      “It is only that I never expected any of this to happen. My father had threatened to marry me to an American but—”

      “Just what every guy hopes,” Rafe said, trying to lighten things. “To be a beautiful woman’s worst nightmare.”

      His little attempt at humor flew straight over her head. “No,” she said quickly, “I did not dream of you, Raffaele, I dreamed of—”

      “I know. I only meant. Chiara, you have to believe me. My father wanted me to marry you, yes, but I didn’t have any intention of doing it. Not that a man wouldn’t be lucky to marry you,” he added quickly, “but—”

      Her hand lifted; she placed her fingers lightly over his lips.

      “It… it isn’t that I don’t want to be your wife. It’s that I do not want to be any man’s wife. Do you understand?”

      He didn’t. Not really. He’d been dating women since he’d turned sixteen and he’d never yet come across one whose ultimate goal, no matter what she claimed, wasn’t marriage.

      Then he thought of what he knew of the woman in his arms. Her father’s domination. Her isolation. Above everything else, her fear of sex, a fear he’d done little to ease over the past several hours.

      “Truly,” she said, “it is not you. It would be any man.” She drew back in his arms, her face turned up to his, her eyes brilliant, her dark lashes spiky with tears. “Do you see?”

      God, she was so beautiful! So vulnerable, lying back in his arms.

      “Yes,” he said, his voice a little rough, “I do see. But you need to know—you need to know not all men are beasts, sweetheart.”

      A wan smile curved her lips. “Perhaps you are the exception.”

      The exception? If he were, his body wouldn’t be responding to the tender warmth of hers. He wouldn’t be looking at her and wondering if her mouth tasted as sweet as he remembered, if she was naked under the oversize cotton thing he assumed was a nightgown.

      “I… I appreciate your decency,” she said, and every miserable male instinct he owned shrieked, Yeah? Then how about proving it?

      He sat up straight, all but tore Chiara’s encircling arms from his neck and set her back against the pillows, grateful—hell, hopeful—that his baggy sweats would hide the effect she’d had on him.

      “Well,” he said brightly, “you’ll be okay now.” She didn’t answer. “So, ah, so try to get some sleep.” Still no answer. He cleared his throat. “Chiara? About that divorce?”

      “Yes?”

      The hopeful note in the single word would have thrilled him if this were Ingrid or any one of a hundred other women. As it was, it only made him feel a pang of remorse.

      “I’ll phone my attorney first thing in the morning and get it started.”

      She gave a deep sigh. “Grazie bene, Raffaele. The jewels—”

      “Forget about them. They’re yours.”

      “I can, at least, use them to pay my share of the legalities.”

      “I said, I don’t want them.” He knew he sounded harsh but, damn it, did she really think he’d let her pay for the severance of their marriage? Okay, it was a bogus marriage but still. “I’d prefer you keep them,” he said, trying for a calmer tone.

      “Grazie. I can use the money they bring to live on. New York is expensive, yes?”

      “New York is expensive, yes. But it won’t be so bad. Not with alimony.”

      “Alimony?”

      Alimony? his baffled brain echoed. A settlement was bad enough but alimony? Why would he pay alimony to a woman who’d been his wife for, what, twenty-four hours?

      “I do not expect alimony, Raffaele. We have not had a real marriage.”

      “Yeah, but this is America. Everybody pays alimony,” he said with a straight face, even though he could already hear his lawyer screaming in legal horror.

      Chiara smiled. “I think,” she said, very softly, “I think, perhaps, you are an honorable man, Raffaele Orsini.”

      Guilt made his jaw tighten. She wouldn’t think that if she could see the response of his body to the soft hand she laid upon his thigh. He took that hand, gave it a brisk little shake and stood up.

      “Okay,” he said brightly, “sleep time.”

      Her smile faded.

      “You won’t have that bad dream again,” Rafe said softly. She didn’t answer and he cleared his throat. “If you like—if you like, I’ll sit in that chair until you doze off.”

      “Would you mind?”

      “Mind? No. I’m happy to do it.”

      “It would be comfortable for you?”

      Comfortable? Not in this lifetime. The chair in question was a Queen Anne, a Marie Antoinette, a Lady Godiva or something like that. It was puny looking. He’d put his own stamp on the living room, the library, the dining room and his bedroom, but he’d grown impatient after a while and turned the interior decorator loose on the guest rooms. One result was this chair. It might hold a dwarf but would it hold a man who stood six-three in his bare feet?

      “Raffaele? I would not want you to be uncomfortable.”

      “I’ll be fine,” he said with conviction, and he pulled the chair forward, sank onto it and prayed it wouldn’t collapse under his weight.

      “Grazie bene,” Chiara said softly.

      Rafe nodded. “No problem,” he said briskly. “You just close your eyes and—”

      She was asleep.

      He sat watching her for a while, the dark curve of her lashes against her pale cheeks, the tumble of her curls against her face, the steady rise and fall of her breasts. A muscle knotted in СКАЧАТЬ