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Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin
Sandra Marton
Raffaele Orsini doesn’t want a wife… But when he meets his arranged bride Raffaele feels honour-bound to marry her. Though she’s not quite what he was expecting… Her plain, dowdy clothes can’t hide her lusciously feminine figure, nor her wildcat temperament!Chiara Cordiano will not love her husband! She tries everything to avoid her fate, but in the blink of an eye Chiara is swept away from her quaint Sicilian town to New York! She wants to hate Rafe, but seduction is in his blood.With his dark, brooding looks and tempting masculinity, she’ll be purring like a kitten!The Orsini Brothers Darkly handsome – proud and arrogant The perfect Sicilian husbands!


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 he caught her face between his hands, taking, demanding, furious with her for the lies, furious with himself for falling for them…
The patriarch of the powerful Sicilian dynasty,
Cesare Orsini, has fallen ill,
and he wants atonement before he dies.
One by one he sends for his sons—he has a mission
for each to help him clear his conscience.
His sons are proud and determined,
but they will do their duty—the tasks they undertake
will change their lives for ever! They are…
THE ORSINI BROTHERS
Darkly handsome—proud and arrogantThe perfect Sicilian husbands! by Sandra Marton
RAFFAELE: TAMING HIS TEMPESTUOUS VIRGIN
October 2009
DANTE: CLAIMING HIS SECRET LOVE-CHILD
December 2009

RAFFAELE:
TAMING HIS
TEMPESTUOUS
VIRGIN
BY

SANDRA MARTON





MILLS & BOON

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)

CHAPTER ONE
RAFFAELE ORSINI prided himself on being a man who was always in control. There was no doubt that his ability to separate emotion from logic was one reason he’d come this far in life.
Rafe could look at a relatively nondescript investment bank or financial corporation and see not what it was but what it could be, given time and money and, of course, the expert guidance he and his brothers could provide. They had created Orsini Brothers only five years ago but they were already an incredible success in the high-stakes world of international finance.
They’d always been incredibly successful with beautiful women.
The brothers shared the dark good looks of their mother and the rapier-sharp intellect of their father, who’d both immigrated to the States from Sicily decades before. Unlike their old man, they’d put their talents into lawful pursuits, but there was a dangerous edge to them that worked to their advantage in bedrooms as well as boardrooms.
It had done so today, when Rafe had outbid a Saudi prince for the purchase of a venerable French bank the Orsinis had wanted for a very long time. He, Dante, Falco and Nicolo had celebrated with drinks a couple of hours ago.
A perfect day, on its way to becoming a perfect evening…
Until now.
Rafe stepped from the lobby of his mistress’s apartment building—his former mistress’s apartment building, he thought coldly—declined the doorman’s offer of a taxi and dragged in a deep breath of cool autumn air. He needed to calm down. Maybe the walk from Sutton Place to his Fifth Avenue penthouse would do it.
What was it with women? How could they say something at the start of an affair even when they damned well didn’t mean it?
“I am completely dedicated to my career,” Ingrid had said in that sexy Germanic purr of hers after the first time they’d gone to bed. “You need to know that, Rafe. I am not at all interested in settling down, so if you are—”
Him? Settle down? He still remembered how he’d laughed and rolled her beneath him. The perfect woman, he’d thought as he began making love to her again. Gorgeous. Sexy. Independent…
Yeah. Right.
His cell phone rang. He yanked it from his pocket, glared at the number on the screen and dumped the thing back into his jacket. It was Dante. The last thing he wanted was to talk to one of his brothers. The image in his head was still too fresh. Ingrid, opening the door. Ingrid, not wearing something slinky and sophisticated for their dinner reservations at Per Se but wearing, instead…What? An apron? Not the serviceable kind his mother wore but a thing that was all ruffles and lace and ribbons.
Ingrid, smelling not of Chanel but of roast chicken.
“Surprise,” she’d trilled. “I’m making dinner tonight!”
She was? But she had no domestic skills. She’d told him that. Laughed about it.
Not tonight. Tonight she’d walked her fingers up his chest and whispered, “I’ll bet you didn’t know I could cook, liebling.”
Except for the liebling, it was a line he’d heard before. It made his blood run cold.
The scene that played out next had been all too predictable, especially her shrill accusations that it was time to take their relationship to a new level and his blurting out, “What relationship?”
Rafe could still hear the sound of whatever it was she’d thrown at him hitting the door as he exited.
His cell phone rang again. And again, until finally he cursed, hauled the damned thing from his pocket and flipped it open.
“What?” he barked.
“And good evening to you, too, bro.”
Rafe scowled. A woman walking toward him veered away.
“I am not in the mood for games, Dante. You got that?”
“Got it,” his brother said cheerfully. Silence. Then Dante cleared his throat. “Problems with the Valkyrie?”
“Not a one.”
“Good. Because I’d hate to lay this on you if you and she are—”
“Lay what on me?”
His brother’s sigh came through the phone. “Command performance, eight o’clock tomorrow morning. The old man wants to see us.”
“I hope you told him what he can do with that request.”
“Hey, I’m just the messenger. Besides, Mama called, not him.”
“Hell. Is he supposed to be at death’s door again? Did you tell her he’s too mean to die?”
“No,” Dante said reasonably. “Would you?”
It was Rafe’s turn to sigh. They all adored their mother and sisters even though they seemed able to forgive Cesare Orsini anything. His sons could not. They’d figured out what their father was years ago.
“Damn it,” Rafe said, “he’s sixty-five, not ninety-five. He’s got years ahead of him.”
“Look, I don’t want to listen to more endless speeches about where his banks are and what the combination is to his safe and the names of his lawyers and his accountants any more than you do. But could I tell that to Mama?”
Rafe’s scowl deepened. “All right. Eight o’clock. I’ll meet you guys there.”
“It’s just you and me, man. Nick’s leaving for London tonight, remember? Falco heads for Athens in the morning.”
“Terrific.”
There was a brief silence. Then Dante said, “So, it’s over with you and the Valkyrie?”
Rafe thought of saying everything from “No” to “What makes you think that?” Instead, he shrugged.
“She said it was time to reassess our relationship.”
Dante offered a succinct, one-word comment. It made Rafe laugh; he could almost feel his black mood slipping away.
“I’ve got a cure for Relationship Reassessment,” Dante said.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got a date with that redhead in half an hour. Want me to call, see if she’s got a friend?”
“I’m off women for a while.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that before. Well, if you’re certain…”
“On the other hand, what is it they say about getting right back on a horse after you fall off?”
Dante laughed. “I’ll call you back in ten.”
Wrong. He called back in five. The redhead had a friend. And she’d be delighted to meet Rafe Orsini.
Well, hell, Rafe thought smugly as he hailed a cab, what woman wouldn’t?
He overslept the next morning, showered quickly, skipped shaving, pulled on a black cotton sweater, faded jeans and sneakers and got to his parents’ place before Dante.
Cesare and Sofia lived in a town house in Greenwich Village. Half a century ago, when Cesare had bought the house, the area had actually been part of Little Italy. Times had changed. The narrow streets had turned upscale and chic.
Cesare had changed, too. He’d gone from being a low ranking mobster to being first a capo—the head of the syndicate—and then the boss. A don, though in Sicilian vernacular, the old Italian title of respect had a meaning all its own. Cesare owned a private sanitation company and half a dozen other legitimate businesses, but his true profession was one he would never confirm to his wife, his sons, his daughters.
Rafe went up the steps of the town house and rang the bell. He had a key but never used it. This place had not been his home for many years; he had not even thought of it as home long before he’d left it.
The house was enormous, especially by Manhattan standards. Cesare had used the increasingly large amounts of money brought in by his various enterprises to buy the houses on either side and convert the three buildings into one. Sofia presided over it all with no domestic help. A proper Sicilian housewife, she had always cooked and cleaned for her family. Rafe suspected it helped her cling to the fiction that her husband was just an everyday businessman.
Sofia greeted him as she always did, with a kiss on each cheek and a hug, as if she had not seen him in months instead of a couple of weeks. The she stepped back and gave him a critical look.
“You have not shaved this morning.”
To his chagrin, Rafe felt himself blush. “Sorry, Mama. I wanted to be sure I got here on time.”
“Sit,” she commanded, as she led him into the vast kitchen. “Have breakfast.”
The oak table was covered with bowls and platters. Telling her he’d already had the half grapefruit and black coffee that was his usual morning meal would have invited a lecture on nutrition, Orsini-style, so Rafe took a little of this, a little of that and put them on a plate. Dante sauntered in a couple of minutes later. Sofia kissed him, told him he needed a haircut and pointed him at the table.
“Mangia,” she commanded, and Dante, who took orders from no one, sheepishly complied.
The brothers were on their second espresso when Cesare’s capo, a man who had served him for years, appeared.
“Your father will see you now.”
The brothers put down their forks, patted their lips with their napkins and stood. Felipe shook his head.
“No, not together. One at a time. Raffaele, you are first.”
Rafe and Dante looked at each other. “It’s the prerogative of popes and kings,” Rafe said with a tight smile, his words soft enough so they wouldn’t reach the ears of Sofia, who was stirring a pot of sauce at the stove.
Dante grinned. “Have fun.”
“Yeah. I’m sure it’ll be a blast.”
Cesare was in his study, a dark room made even darker by its overabundance of heavy furnishings, walls crowded with melancholy paintings of madonnas and saints and framed photographs of unknown relatives from the old country. Winecolored drapes hung at the French doors and windows that overlooked the garden.
Cesare himself was seated behind his mahogany desk.
“Shut the door and wait outside,” he told Felipe, and motioned Rafe to a chair. “Raffaele.”
“Father.”
“You are well?”
“I am fine,” Rafe said coolly. “And you?”
Cesare seesawed his hand from side to side. “Cosi cosa. I am all right.”
Rafe raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s a surprise.” He slapped his hands on his thighs and rose to his feet. “In that case, since you’re not at death’s door—”
“Sit down.”
Rafe’s dark blue eyes deepened in color until they were almost black.
“I am not Felipe. I am not your wife. I am not anyone who takes orders from you, Father. I have not done so for many years.”
“No. Not since the day you graduated from high school and told me you were going to a fancy university on a scholarship, and told me what I could do with your tuition money,” Cesare said blandly. “Did you think I had forgotten?”
“You have your dates wrong,” Rafe said, even more coldly. “I haven’t taken orders from you since I discovered how you earned your money.”
“So self-righteous,” Cesare mocked. “You think you know everything, my son, but I promise you, any man can step into the darkness of passion.”
“I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about and, frankly, I don’t care. Goodbye, Father. I’ll send Dante in.”
“Raffaele. Sit down. This will not take long.”
A muscle knotted in Rafe’s jaw. Hell, why not? he thought. Whatever his father wanted to tell him this time might be amusing. He sat, stretched out his long legs, crossed them at the ankles and folded his arms over his chest.
“Well?”
Cesare hesitated. It was remarkable to see; Rafe couldn’t recall ever seeing his father hesitant before.
“It is true,” his old man finally said. “I am not dying.”
Rafe snorted.
“What I wished to discuss with you that last time, I did not. I, ah, I was not prepared to do so, though I thought I was.”
“A mystery,” Rafe said, his tone making it clear that nothing his father could say would be of interest.
Cesare ignored the sarcasm. “As I said, I am not dying.” Another beat of hesitation. “But I will, someday. No one ever knows the exact moment but it is possible, as you know, that a man in my, ah, my profession can sometimes meet an unanticipated end.”
Another first. Cesare had never made even token acknowledgment of his ties before.
“Is this your not-so-subtle way of telling me something’s coming? That Mama, Anna and Isabella might be in danger?”
Cesare laughed. “You have seen one too many movies, Raffaele. No. Nothing is, as you put it, ‘coming.’ Even if it were, the code of our people forbids harming family members.”
“They are your people,” Rafe said sharply, “not ‘ours.’ And I am not impressed by honor among jackals.”
“When my time comes, your mother, your sisters, you and your brothers will all be well taken care of. I am a wealthy man.”
“I don’t want any of your money. Neither do my brothers. And we are more than capable of taking good care of Mama and our sisters.”
“Fine. Give the money away. It will be yours to do with as you wish.”
Rafe nodded. “Great.” He started to rise from his chair again. “I take it this conversation is—”
“Sit down,” Cesare said, and then added the one word Rafe had never heard from him. “Please.”
The head of the New York families sat forward. “I am not ashamed of the way I’ve lived,” he said softly. “But I have done some things that perhaps I should not have done. Do you believe in God, Raffaele? Never mind answering. For myself, I am not certain. But only a foolish man would ignore the possibility that the actions of his life may one day affect the disposition of his soul.”
Rafe’s lips twisted in a cool smile. “Too late to worry about that.”
“There are some things I did in my youth—” Cesare cleared his throat. “They were wrong. They were not done for the good of la famiglia but for me. They were selfish things and they have stained me.”
“And this has what to do with me?”
Cesare’s eyes met his son’s. “I am asking you to help me put one of them right.”
Rafe almost laughed. Of all the bizarre requests…
“I stole something of great value from a man who once helped me when no one else would,” Cesare said gruffly. “I want to make amends.”
“Send him a check,” Rafe said with deliberate cruelty. What did all this have to do with him? His father’s soul was his father’s business.
“It is not enough.”
“Make it a big check. Or, hell, make him an offer he can’t refuse.” Rafe’s lips thinned. “That’s you, isn’t it? The man who can buy or intimidate his way into anything?”
“Raffaele. As a man, as your father, I am pleading for your help.”
The plea was astounding. Rafe despised his father for who he was, what he was…but, unbidden, other memories rushed in. Cesare, pushing him on a swing at a playground. Cesare, soothing him when the clown hired for his fourth birthday party had scared him half to death.
His father’s eyes burned with guilt. What would it take to hand-deliver a check and offer a long-overdue apology? Like it or not, this man had given life to him, his brothers and his sisters. He had, in his own manner, loved them and taken care of them. In some twisted way, he had even helped make them what they were. If he’d developed a conscience, even at this late date, wasn’t that a good thing?
“Raffaele?”
Rafe took a deep breath. “Yeah. Okay.” He spoke briskly because he knew how easy it would be to change his mind. “What do you want me to do?”
“I have your word that you will do it?”
“Yes.”
Cesare nodded. “You will not regret this, I promise.”
Ten minutes later, after a long, complex and yet oddly incompletestory, Rafe leaped to his feet.
“Are you insane?” he shouted.
“It is a simple request, Raffaele.”
“Simple?” Rafe laughed. “That’s a hell of a way to describe asking me to go to a godforsaken village in Sicily and marry some—some nameless, uneducated peasant girl!”
“She has a name. Chiara. Chiara Cordiano. And she is not a peasant. Her father, Freddo Cordiano, owns a vineyard. He owns olive groves. He is an important man in San Giuseppe.”
Rafe leaned across his father’s desk, slapped his hands on the brilliantly polished mahogany surface and glared.
“I am not marrying this girl. I am not marrying anyone. Is that clear?”
His father’s gaze was steady. “What is clear is the value of the word of my firstborn son.”
Rafe grabbed a handful of his father’s shirt and hauled him to his feet. “Watch what you say to me,” he snarled.
Cesare smiled. “Such a hot temper, my son. Much as you try to deny it, the Orsini blood beats in your veins.”
Slowly Rafe let go of the shirt. He stood upright, drew a deep, steadying breath.
“I live by my word, Father. But you extracted it with a lie. You said you needed my help.”
“And I do. You said you would give it to me. Now you say you will not.” His father raised his eyebrows. “Which of us told the lie?”
Rafe stepped back. He counted silently to ten. Twice. Finally he nodded.
“I gave my word, so I’ll go to Sicily and meet with this Freddo Cordiano. I’ll tell him you regret whatever it was you did to him decades ago. But I will not marry his daughter. Are we clear about that?”
Cesare shrugged. “Whatever you say, Raffaele. I cannot force your compliance.”
“No,” Rafe said grimly. “You cannot.”
He strode from the room, using the French doors that opened into the garden. He had no wish to see his mother or Dante or anyone.
Marriage? No way, especially not by command, especially not to suit his father—especially not to a girl born and raised in a place forgotten by time.
He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t crazy.
More than four thousand miles away, in the rocky fortress that her father called his home and she called her prison, Chiara Cordiano shot to her feet in disbelief.
“You did what?” she said in perfect Florentine Italian. “You did what?”
Freddo Cordiano folded his arms over his chest. “When you speak to me, do so in the language of our people.”
“Answer the question, Papa,” Chiara said, in the rough dialect her father preferred.
“I said, I found you a husband.”
“That’s insane. You cannot marry me to a man I’ve never even seen.”
“You forget yourself,” her father growled. “That is what comes of all the foolish ideas put in your head by those fancy governesses your mother demanded I employ. I am your father. I can marry you to whomever I wish.”
Chiara slapped her hands on her hips. “The son of one of your cronies? An American gangster? No. I will not do it, and you cannot make me.”
Freddo smiled thinly. “Would you prefer that I lock you in your room and keep you there until you grow so old and ugly that no man wants you?”
She knew his threat was empty. He would not lock her in her room. Instead he would keep her a prisoner in this horrible little town, in these narrow, ancient streets she’d spent most of her twenty-four years praying to leave. She had tried leaving before. His men, polite but relentless, brought her back. They would do so again; she would never be free of a life she hated.
And he would surely not permit her to avoid marriage forever. She was a bargaining chip, a means of expanding or securing his vile empire.
Marriage.
Chiara suppressed a shudder.
She knew what that would be like, how men like her father treated their women, how he had treated her mother. This man, though American, would be no different. He would be cold. Cruel. He would smell of garlic and cigars and sweat. She would be little more than his servant, and at night he would demand things of her in his bed…
Tears of anger glittered in Chiara’s violet eyes. “Why are you doing this?”
“I know what is best for you. That is why.”
That was a laugh. He never thought of her. This marriage was for his own purposes. But it wasn’t going to take place. She was desperate, but she wasn’t crazy.
“Well? Have you come to your senses? Are you prepared to be a dutiful daughter and do as you are told?”
“I’d sooner die,” she said, and though she wanted to run, she forced herself to make a cool, stiff-backed exit. But once she’d reached the safety of her own room and locked the door behind her, she screamed in rage, picked up a vase and flung it at the wall.
Twenty minutes later, calmer, cooler, she splashed her face with water and went looking for the one man she loved. The man who loved her. The one man she could turn to.
“Bella mia,” Enzo said, when she found him, “what is wrong?”
Chiara told him. His dark eyes grew even darker.
“I will save you, cara,” he said.
Chiara threw herself into his arms and prayed that he would.

CHAPTER TWO
RAFE decided not to tell anyone where he was going.
His brothers would have laughed or groaned, and there were certainly no friends with whom he’d discuss the Machiavellian intrigues of the Orsini don and his interpretation of Sicilian honor.
Honor among thieves, Rafe thought grimly as his plane touched down at Palermo International Airport. He’d had to take a commercial flight; Falco had taken the Orsini plane to Athens. But even without the benefit of coming in via private jet, he moved swiftly through Passport Control.
Rafe’s mood was dark. The only thing that kept him from snarling was knowing he’d have this ridiculous errand behind him in a day.
Maybe, he thought as he stepped out of the terminal into the heat of a Sicilian early autumn, just maybe he’d buy his brothers a round of drinks in a couple of weeks and when they were all laughing and relaxed he’d say, “You’ll never guess where I was last month.”
He’d tell them the story. All of it, starting with his meeting with Cesare. And they’d nod with approval when he described how gently he’d told Chiara Cordiano he was sorry but he wasn’t about to marry her and, yes, he would be gentle because, after all, it wasn’t the girl’s fault.
A weight seemed to lift from his shoulders.
Okay. This might not be as bad as he’d figured. What the hell, this was a nice day for a drive. He’d have lunch at some picturesque little trattoria on the way to San Giuseppe, phone Freddo Cordiano and tell him he was en route. Once he arrived, he’d shake the old guy’s gnarled hand, say something polite to the daughter and be back in Palermo by evening. His travel agent had booked him into a hotel that had once been a palace; she’d said it was elegant. He’d have a drink, then dinner on the balcony of his suite. Or maybe he’d stop at the bar. Italian women were among the most beautiful in the world. Well, not the one he was on his way to see, but she’d be history by evening.
By the time he reached the car rental counter, Rafe was smiling…
But not for long.
He’d reserved an SUV, or the Italian equivalent. Generally, he disliked SUVs—he preferred low, fast cars like the ’Vette he had back home, but he’d checked a map and San Giuseppe was high in the mountains. The road to it looked as if it might be more a goat track than anything else, so he’d opted for the traction of an SUV.
What waited at the curb was not an SUV. It was the one kind of car he actually despised, a big, black American thing, a model long favored by his father and his pals.
A Mobster Special.
The clerk shrugged and said there must have been a communications error but, scusi, this was all she had.
Perfect, Rafe thought as he got behind the wheel. A gangster’s son on a gangster’s errand, driving a gangster’s car. All he needed was a fat cigar between his teeth.
So much for being in a better mood.
Things didn’t improve after that. He’d been far too generous, calling the ribbon of potholed dirt with the steep slope of the mountain on one side and a dizzying plummet to the valley on the other a goat track.
It was more like a disaster waiting to happen.
Ten miles. Twenty. Thirty, and he’d yet to see another car. Not that he was complaining. There wasn’t really enough room for two cars. There wasn’t really enough room for—
Something black bolted from the trees and into the road.
Rafe cursed and stood on the brakes. The tires fought for purchase; the big car shimmied from side to side. It took all his skill to bring it to a stop. When he did, the hood was inches from the yawning space that overhung the valley.
He sat absolutely still. His hands, clutching the steering wheel, were trembling. He could hear the faint tick-tick of the cooling engine, the thud of his own heart.
Gradually the ticking of the engine faded. His heartbeat slowed. He dragged air into his lungs. Okay. The thing to do was back up, very carefully…
Something banged against his door. Rafe turned toward the half-open window. There was a guy outside the car and he was obviously dressed for an early Halloween. Black shirt. Black trousers. Black boots.
And an ancient, long-barreled black pistol, pointed straight at Rafe’s head.
He’d heard stories of road bandits in Sicily and laughed them off, but only a jackass would laugh at this.
The guy made some kind of jerking motion with the pistol. What did it mean? Get out of the car? Hell, no. Rafe wasn’t about to do that. The pistol waved again. Or was it shaking? Was the guy shaking? Yeah. He was, and that was not good. A nervous thief with a gun…
A nervous thief with white, wispy hair and rheumy eyes. And liver spots on the hand that held the pistol.
Wonderful. He was going to be robbed and killed by somebody’s grandfather.
Rafe cleared his throat. “Easy, Grandpa,” he said, even though the odds were good the old boy couldn’t understand a word of English. He held up his hands, showed that they were empty, then slowly opened the door. The bandit stepped to the side and Rafe got out, carefully skirting the edge of the road and the void beyond it. “Do you speak English?” Nothing. He searched his memory. “Voi, ah, voi parlate inglese?” Still nothing. “Okay, look, I’m going to take my wallet from my pocket and give it to you. Then I’m gonna get back in the car and—”
The pistol arced through the air. He tried not to wince as it wobbled past his face.
“Watch yourself, Gramps, or that thing’s liable to go off. Okay. Here comes my wallet—”
“No!”
The old man’s voice shook. Shaking voice. Shaking hand. This was getting better and better. It would make an even better story than the one he’d already figured on telling his brothers, assuming he lived to tell it.
“Hugoahway!”
Hugoahway? What did that mean? The old guy’s name, maybe, but it didn’t sound Italian or Sicilian.
The old man poked the end of the pistol into Rafe’s flat belly. Rafe narrowed his eyes.
Another poke. Another gruff “Hugoahway” and, damn it, enough was enough. Rafe grabbed the barrel of the pistol, yanked it from the bandit’s shaking fingers and tossed it over the cliff.
“Okay,” he said, reaching for the old man, “okay, that’s—Oof!”
Something hit him, hard, from the rear. It was a second thief, wrapping his arms around Rafe’s neck as he climbed on his back. Rafe grabbed his assailant’s arms and wrenched the guy off him. The thief grunted, struggled, but he was a lightweight, and Rafe swung him around, worked his hands down to the guy’s wrists…
Hell, this one was only a kid. Not just lightweight but flyweight. The kid, too, was dressed all in black, this time including a deep-brimmed, old-fashioned fedora that obscured his face.
A flyweight, but a fighter.
The kid was all over him, kicking, trying to claw him, damn it, trying to bite him! Rafe hoisted the boy to his toes.
“Stop it,” he shouted.
The kid snarled something unintelligible in return, lifted a knee and took aim. Rafe twisted away.
“Are you deaf, boy? I said, stop!”
Evidently, stop didn’t translate well because the kid didn’t. He came at Rafe and the old guy joined the fracas, pummeling him with what looked like a small tree branch.
“Hey,” Rafe said indignantly. This was not how things were supposed to go. He was the tough guy here; tough guys didn’t get beaten up by boys and old men. He knew damned well he could stop the attack, just a couple of good punches would do it, but the thought of hitting Methuselah and a teenage delinquent was unappealing.
“Look,” he said reasonably, “let’s sort this out. Gramps, put down that stick. And you, boy, I’m gonna let go of you and—”
Bad move. The kid aimed his knee again. This time, he caught Rafe where he lived with devastating accuracy. Rafe grunted with pain, drew back his fist and managed a right cross to the kid’s jaw.
It must have been a good one because the boy went down in a heap.
Still struggling for air, Rafe started to turn toward the old man. “Listen to me,” he gasped….
The tree limb whacked him in the back of his head.
And Rafe went down beside the kid.
He came around slowly.
Ah, God, his head hurt. Methuselah had crowned him, the kid had kneed him. He had been totally and completely humiliated.
Could the day get any worse?
The old guy was sitting in the road, holding the kid in his arms, rocking him, talking to him in rapid and seemingly anguished Sicilian. He didn’t even look up as Rafe rose painfully to his feet.
“Okay,” he said gruffly, “okay, old man. Stand up. You hear me? Let go of the kid and get up.” The old man ignored him. Rafe reached down and grabbed a spindly arm. “I said, stand up!”
“Hugoahway!” the old guy shouted, and suddenly the words made sense. What he was saying was, You go away. Well, hell, he’d definitely oblige, but first he had to make sure the boy was okay. Stopping this unlikely duo from robbing him was one thing; killing them was another.
Rafe shoved the bandit aside, reached for the unconscious boy, lifted him into the crook of his arm. The kid moaned, his hat fell off, and…
And the boy wasn’t a boy at all.
He was—she was a girl. No. Not a girl. A woman with a pale oval face and a silky mass of long, dark hair. He’d KO’d a woman. So much for wondering if the day could get any worse.
Carefully he scooped her up, ignored the old guy pulling at his sleeve and carried her to the side of the road that abutted the sloping mountain. Her head lolled back. He could see the pulse beating hard in the delicate hollow of her throat. The angle of her body made her breasts thrust against the rough wool of her jacket.
He set her down against the grassy rise. She was still unconscious.
She was also incredibly beautiful.
Only an SOB would notice such a thing at a moment like this, but only a fool would not. Her hair wasn’t just dark, it was the color of a cloudless night. Her brows were delicate wings above her closed eyes; her lashes were dark shadows against razor-sharp cheekbones. Her nose was straight and narrow above a rosy-pink mouth.
Rafe felt a stir of lust low in his belly. And wasn’t that terrific? Lust for a woman who’d tried to turn him into a eunuch, who’d played back-up to an old man with a pistol…
Who now lay helpless before him.
Damn it, he thought, and he caught the woman by the shoulders and shook her.
“Wake up,” he said sharply. “Come on. Open your eyes.”
Her lashes trembled, then slowly lifted, and he saw that her eyes were more than a match for the rest of her face, the irises not blue but the color of spring violets. Her lips parted; the tip of her tongue, delicate and pink, slicked across her mouth.
This time, the hunger that rolled through his belly made him sit back on his heels. Was this all it took? Was being on Sicilian soil enough to make him revert to the barbarian instincts of his ancestors?
Clarity was returning to her eyes. She put her hand to her jaw, winced, then shot him a look filled with hatred.
Those soft-looking pink lips drew back from small, perfect white teeth. “Stronzo,” she snarled.
It was a word any kid who’d grown up in a household where the adults often spoke in Italian would surely understand, and it made him laugh. Big mistake. She sat up, said it again and swung a fist at his jaw. He ducked it without effort and when she swung again, he caught her hand in his.
“That’s a bad idea, baby.”
She hissed through her teeth and shot a look over his shoulder at the old man.
Rafe shook his head.
“Another bad idea. You tell him to come at me, he’ll get hurt.” Disdain shone in her eyes. “Yeah, I know. You figure he got me the first time but, see, here’s the thing. I don’t get taken twice. You got that?”
A string of words flew from her lips. Rafe understood a couple of them but you didn’t need a degree in Italian to get their meaning. The look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know.
“Yeah, well, I’m not a fan of yours, either. Is this how you and Gramps welcome visitors? You rob them? Hijack their cars? Maybe send them tumbling down into the valley?”
Her mouth curled, almost as if she’d understood him, but of course she hadn’t. Not that it mattered. The question was, what did he do with this pair? Leave them here was his first instinct—but shouldn’t he notify the authorities? Yes, but he’d heard stories about Sicily and the cops. For all he knew, this pair were the Italian equivalent of Robin Hood and Little John—except, Little John had turned out to be Maid Marian.
The woman had a faint mark on her jaw where he’d slugged her. He’d never hit a woman in his life and it bothered him. For all he knew, she needed medical care. He didn’t think so, not from the way she was acting, but he felt some responsibility toward her, even if he’d only done what he had to do to protect himself.
He could just see telling that to a local judge: “Well, you see, sir, she came at me. And I hit her in self-defense.”
It was the absolute truth but it would probably just give the locals a laugh. He was six foot three; he weighed a tight 240 pounds. She was, what, five-six? And probably weighed 120 pounds less than he did.
Okay. He’d drive the duo home. Maybe what had happened had taught them a lesson.
Rafe cleared his throat. “Where do you and Gramps live?”
She stared at him, chin raised in defiance.
“Ah, dove è—dove è your house? Your casa?”
The woman jerked her hand free. She glared at him. He glared back.
“I’m willing to drive you and Grandpa home. You got that? No cops. No charges. Just don’t push your luck.”
She laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made Rafe’s eyes narrow. Who in hell did she think she was? And what was there for her to laugh about? She’d come at him, yes, but she was the one who’d lost the fight. Now she was out here in the middle of nowhere, at the mercy of a man twice her size.
A man who was angry as hell.
It would take him less than a heartbeat to show her who was in charge, that she was at his mercy, that he had only to cup that perfect, beautiful face in his hands, put his mouth to hers and she’d stop looking at him with such disdain, such coldness, such rage.
A kiss, just one, and her mouth would soften. The rigidity of her muscles would give way to silken compliancy. Her lips would part, she’d loop her arms around his neck and whisper to him and he’d understand that whisper because a man and a woman didn’t need to speak the same language to know desire, to turn anger to something hotter and wilder…
Rafe shot to his feet. “Stand up,” he growled.
She didn’t move. He gestured with his hand.
“I said, stand up. And you, old man, get in the back of the car.”
The old man didn’t move. Nobody did. Rafe leaned toward the woman.
“He’s old,” he said softly, “and I really have no desire to rough him up, so why don’t you just tell him to do what I said.”
She understood him. He could see it in her face.
Rafe shrugged. “Okay, we’ll do it the hard way.”
Her violet eyes flashed. She got to her feet, rattled off a string of words, and the old man nodded, walked to the car and climbed into the back.
Rafe jerked his thumb toward the car. “Now you.”
One last glare. Then she turned away, marched to the car and started to climb in beside the old guy.
“The passenger seat,” Rafe snapped. “Up front.”
She said something. It was something women didn’t say, not even on the streets of his youth.
“Anatomically impossible,” he said coldly.
Color rose in her face. Good. She did understand English, at least a little. That would make things easier. She got into the car. He slammed the door after her, went around to the driver’s side and climbed behind the wheel.
“How far up the mountain do you live?”
She folded her arms.
Rafe ground his teeth together, started the car, carefully backed away from the sheer drop and continued up the road in silence. Minutes passed, as did miles. And just when he’d pretty much given up hope he’d ever see civilization again, a town appeared. A wooden signpost that looked as if it had been here forever announced its name.
San Giuseppe.
He stopped the car and took in his first sight of the Sicily of his father.
Houses overhung a narrow, cobblestoned street that wound its steep way up the mountain. Washing hung on clotheslines strung across rickety-looking balconies. The steeple of a church pierced a cloudless sky that overlooked a line of donkeys plodding after a small boy.
Cesare had insisted on showing him a couple of grainy snapshots of the town, taken more than fifty years ago. Nothing had changed, including the castle that loomed over it all.
Castello Cordiano.
Rafe put the car in gear. The woman beside him shook her head and reached for the door.
“You want to get out here?”
An arrogant lift of her chin brought into prominence the bruise he’d inflicted. Guilt racked him and he took a deep breath.
“Listen,” he said. “About your jaw…”
Another flash of those violet eyes as she swung toward him.
“Yeah, I know. Believe me, the feeling’s mutual. All I’m trying to say is that you should put some ice on that bruise. It’ll keep the swelling down. And take some aspirin. You know what aspirin is? As-pi-rin,” he said, knowing how idiotic he must sound but not knowing any other way to get his message through.
She snapped out an order. The old man replied; his tone suggested he was protesting but she repeated the order and he sighed, opened the door and stepped from the car.
Rafe caught her elbow as she moved to follow the old guy.
“Did you understand what I said? Ice. And aspirin. And—”
“I understood every word,” she said coldly. “Now see if you understand, signor. Go away. Do you hear me? Go away, just as Enzo told you to do.”
Rafe stared at her. “You speak English?”
“I speak English. And Italian, and the Sicilian form of it. You, quite obviously, do not.” Those stunning eyes narrowed until only a slash of color showed. “You are not welcome here. And if you do not leave of your own accord, Enzo will see to it that you do.”
“Enzo? You mean Grandpa?” Rafe laughed. “That’s one hell of a threat, baby.”
“He is more a man than you will ever be.”
“Is he,” Rafe said, his voice gone low and dangerous and instead of thinking, he caught her by the shoulders and lifted her across the console, into his lap. She struggled, beat at him with her fists but he was ready. He caught both her hands in one of his, slid the other into her hair, tilted her head back and kissed her.
Kissed her as he’d fantasized kissing her, back on that road. She fought, but it was pointless. He was hot with fury and humiliation…
Hot with the feel of her against him. Her mouth, soft under his. Her breasts, tantalizing against the hardness of his chest. Her rounded backside, digging into in his lap.
His body reacted in a heartbeat, his sex swelling until he was sure it had never been this huge or throbbed with such urgency. She felt it happen; how could she not? He heard her little cry of shock, felt it whisper against his mouth. Her lips parted and she tried to bite him but he turned the attempt against her, used it as a chance to deepen the kiss, to slip his tongue into the silky warmth of her mouth. She gasped again, made a little sound of distress…
And then something happened.
Her mouth softened under his. Sweetened. Turned warm and willing, and the knowledge that he could take her, right here, right now, made his already-hard body turn to stone. He let go of her wrists, slid his hand under her jacket, cupped the delicate weight of her breast…
Her teeth sank into his lip.
Rafe jerked back and put his hand to the tiny wound. His finger came away bearing a drop of crimson.
“Pig,” she said, her voice shaking. “No good, filthy pig!”
He stared at her, saw her shocked eyes, her trembling mouth, and heard his father’s voice reminding him that any man could step into the darkness of overwhelming passion.
“Listen,” he said, “listen, I didn’t mean—”
She opened the door and bolted from the car, but not before she’d flung a string of Sicilian curses at him.
Hell, he thought, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing it against his lip, for all he knew, he deserved them.

CHAPTER THREE
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.

CHAPTER FOUR
IT WAS like being trapped in a nightmare. One minute, Rafe was about to launch into his father’s all-too-florid verbal apology. The next—
The next, Chiara Cordiano was lying as limp as laundry in his arms.
Was she faking it? The woman was a class-A actress. First a tough bandit, then a demure Siciliana, when the truth was, she was anything but demure.
A little while ago, she’d attacked him with the ferocity of a lioness.
And there’d been that sizzling flash of sexual heat.
Oh, yeah. The lady was one hell of an actress and this was her best performance yet. Claiming he’d tried to seduce her. He’d kissed her, was all, and one kiss did not a seduction make.
The don was holding his capo back with a hand on his arm and an assortment of barked commands. Rafe knew that Pig Man wanted to kill him. Good. Let him try. He was more than in the mood to take on the load of lard.
First, though, the woman in his arms had to open her eyes and admit she’d lied.
He looked around, strode to a brocade-covered sofa and unceremoniously dumped her on it. “Chiara,” he said sharply. No response. “Chiara,” he said again, and shook her.
Pig Man snarled an obscenity. Rafe looked up.
“Get him out of here, Cordiano, or so help me, I’m gonna lay him out.”
The don snapped out an order, pointed a finger at the door. The capo shrugged off his boss’s hand. Like any well-trained attack dog, he did as he’d been ordered but not without one last threatening look at Rafe.
“This is not over, American.”
Rafe showed his teeth in a grin. “Anytime.”
The door swung shut. Cordiano went to a mahogany cabinet, poured brandy into a chunky crystal glass and held it out. Give it to her yourself, Rafe felt like saying but he took the glass, slipped an arm around Chiara’s shoulders, lifted her up and touched the rim of the glass to her lips.
“Drink.”
She gave a soft moan. Thick, dark lashes fluttered and cast shadows against her creamy skin. Wisps of hair had escaped the ugly bun and lay against her cheeks, as delicately curled as the interior of the tiny shells that sometimes washed up on the beach at Rafe’s summer place on Nantucket Island.
She looked almost unbelievably fragile.
But she wasn’t, he reminded himself. She was as tough as nails and as wily as a fox.
“Come on,” he said sharply. “Open your eyes and drink.”
Her lashes fluttered again, then lifted. She stared up at him, her pupils deep as a moonless night and rimmed by a border of pale violet.
“What…what happened?”
Nice. Trite, but nice.
“You passed out.” He smiled coldly. “And right on cue.”
Did defiance flash in those extraordinary eyes? He couldn’t be sure; she leaned forward, laid cool, pale fingers over his tanned ones as she put her mouth to the glass.
Her throat worked as she swallowed. A couple of sips and then she looked up at him. Her lips glistened; her eyes were wide. The tip of her tongue swept over her lips and he could imagine those lips parted, that tongue tip extended, those eyes locked, hot and deep, on his—
A shot of raw lust rolled through him. He turned away quickly, put the glass on a table and stepped back.
“Now that you’re among the living again, how about telling your old man the truth?”
“The truth about…” Her puzzled gaze went from her father to Rafe. “Oh!” she whispered, and her face turned scarlet.
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. Her reactions couldn’t be real. Not the Victorian swoon, not her behavior at the memory of what had happened in the car. He’d kissed her, for God’s sake. That was it. He’d lifted her into his lap and kissed her and, okay, she’d ended up biting him, but only after she’d responded, after he’d gotten hard as stone and she’d felt it and…
And he’d behaved like an idiot.
He was not a man who did things like that to women. A little playing around during sex was one thing; he’d had lovers who liked a hint of domination, but having a woman whisper “more” even as she pretended something else was not the same as what had happened with Chiara Cordiano.
What in hell had gotten into him? He’d been furious, but anger had nothing to do with sex…did it?
It was a subject to consider at another time. Right now he might just have a problem on his hands. This culture had its roots in times long gone. Its rules, its mores, were stringent.
Back home, a kiss, even a stolen one, was just a kiss. Here it could be construed as something else.
“Don Cordiano,” he said carefully, “I kissed your daughter. I’m sorry if I offended her.”
“And I am to accept your apology?”
The don’s tone was arrogant. It made Rafe bristle.
“I’m not asking you to accept it,” he said sharply, and turned to Chiara. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. If I frightened you, I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps you would care to explain how you managed to meet with my daughter before you met with me.”
Perhaps he would, Rafe thought, but he’d be damned if he’d stand here and admit he’d almost been bested by a slip of a girl and an old man. Besides, that part of the story belonged to Cordiano’s daughter, he thought grimly, and looked at her again. But she locked her hands together in her lap, bent her head and studied them as if she had no part in this conversation.

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