The Scandalous Orsinis: Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin. Sandra Marton

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      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.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHIARA’S first glimpse of New York City almost took her breath away.

      Lights, what seemed like millions of them, lay winking beneath the plane like sparkling diamonds on black velvet. As the jet dropped lower, she could see that the lights were moving. They were lights from automobiles racing along endless intersecting highways.

      Where were all these people going in the middle of the night? It was the middle of the night, American time. East Coast time. She would have to remember that. This was not like Italy, where the hour was the same if you were in Rome or Florence or Palermo.

      Not that she’d ever been to Rome or Florence. Not that she’d ever been anywhere.

      It should have been exciting, the realization that she was about to land on another continent, in a city she’d read of and dreamed about. But it wasn’t.

      It was terrifying.

      She wasn’t here by choice, she was here as the unwilling bride of a stranger. She knew nothing about her husband. No, she thought, swallowing hard as the plane descended, that was not true. She did know something about him. She knew that he was a man who bore her father’s stamp of approval.

      That could only mean he was a hoodlum, just like her father.

      Except—except, he wasn’t really like her father. He could be cold and hard, but sometimes there was a tenderness to him, too. And he was beautiful. She knew it was a strange word to use to describe a man but none other suited him. His height. His body. His face, Dio, his face, those hard, masculine angles and planes, that firm mouth.

      Firm. Warm. And soft, so soft against hers.

      The plane touched down, bumping delicately against the runway. The captain made a pleasant announcement, welcoming them to New York. Chiara, fumbling with her seat belt, rose quickly to her feet. The plane was still moving along the taxiway as she started blindly up the aisle.

      A strong hand closed lightly on her elbow.

      “I’m happy to see you’re in such a hurry to reach your new home,” her husband said.

      She could hear the derision in his voice, feel the posses-siveness of his grasp. Her heart thumped.

      God only knew what lay ahead.

      Whatever it was, she would face it with courage. If life had taught her anything, it was that you must never show weakness to your oppressor.

      Finally the plane came to a stop. The door shushed open. Chiara stepped out into the North American night.

      She’d heard all about security procedures, but they evidently didn’t apply to powerful American gangsters. Her husband led her into a small building. He presented their passports to a man who hardly glanced at them. Minutes later they made their way out to a waiting automobile. A uniformed driver stood beside it.

      Her steps faltered and her husband’s hand tightened on her elbow.

      “Keep moving,” he said coldly. As if she had a choice.

      What had the poet said in the Divine Comedy? Something about abandoning hope, all those who entered here.

      One last, free breath and Chiara stepped into the back of the limousine.

      The big car moved swiftly through the night.

      So far, so good, Rafe thought—assuming you discounted the fact that his wife was sitting beside him like a prisoner being driven to her execution.

      At least there hadn’t been a reception committee waiting, something he’d half expected. He’d figured Cordiano would have phoned his father. Cesare would have told the family….

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