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“It is too much,” she said brokenly. “Too much…”

He knew it wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted to see her fly into the sky, then fly into it

again…with him.

“Open your legs for me,” he said in a voice so rough it didn’t seem his own.

“I can’t,” she said breathlessly. “People do not—”

“Open your legs, baby. For me.”

Slowly she did as he’d asked. He touched her with reverence, parted her again, groaned when he

saw the tender bud of her clitoris.

“Chiara,” he said softly, and he put his mouth against her.

Wild little cries burst from her throat. She began to weep. He froze but then he felt her hands in

his hair, holding him to her instead of pushing him away. As if he would ever take his mouth

from her, he thought in wonder. From her taste. Her scent. She was everything a man could ever

want or dream.

She was his.

He slipped his hands under her, lifted her higher into the passionate intimacy of his kiss. He felt

her shudder and then she screamed his name and he knew she had glimpsed the burning rays of

the sun.

Now, he thought, and he moved over her, positioned himself between her thighs and entered her,

teeth gritted with the determination to do it slowly.

He didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to hurt her—

Her legs closed around his hips, urging him on.

Rafe flung his head back, thrust deep, flew over the edge of the earth and took his wife with him.

Chiara lay beneath Raffaele’s hard body, her arms still holding him to her.

His heartbeat was slowing or maybe it was hers. They were so close that she couldn’t tell the

difference. And he was still inside her.

She closed her eyes.

A man, inside her. No. It was this man who was inside her. This man, who had taken her on a

journey so intense she’d never wanted it to end.

This man.

Her husband.

The thought sent a sweet tremor through her. Raffaele stirred. Without thinking, she tightened

her arms around him.

“Hey,” he said softly, and she blushed as she realized he wanted to get off her. Of course he did.

Her mother had told her some things that were obviously incorrect but some were surely

accurate.

For instance, when a man finished with a woman, he had no further wish to remain in her bed.

This was Raffaele’s bed, not hers, but the principle was the same.

What an idiot I am, she thought, and let him go.

He rolled off her, but he didn’t go anywhere. Instead he gathered her into his arms and drew her

close. Surprised, she let him do it—she loved having him do it—but she wasn’t foolish enough to

think he’d hold her for very long.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded and burrowed a little closer, her nose just at the juncture of his shoulder and arm.

She loved the smell of him there. Back home, there’d been times the very scent of a man’s body

made her belly knot and her throat clench but this was different. Rafe’s scent was masculine and

musky and exciting.

“Chiara?” He ran one hand into her hair as he cupped her cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

He had, at that last amazing moment, but she’d have died rather than have stopped him. The feel

of him, deep inside her…It had been pleasure so incredible that even remembering it made her

tremble.

“Damn,” he said gruffly, “I did.”

“No. It’s all right. I did not mind.”

“You didn’t mind?” Suddenly she was no longer lying cradled against him, she was on her back

and he was leaning over her. “Damn it, you have every right to mind,” he said gruffly. “I tried to

go slow but—”

“Raffaele.” She smiled. “It was wonderful.”

He grinned. Such a becoming grin! But then, why wouldn’t it be? He was beautiful.

“Yeah?”

“Wonderful,” she said softly.

“The next time we make love, it’ll be even more wonderful.”

Her heart filled. They had not had sex, they had made love. How wrong her mother had been!

“What?” he said, smiling at her.

She smiled back. “Nothing. I was just thinking…”

“Me, too.” His smile tilted. “About next time.”

“I am glad you are thinking that, Raffaele,” she whispered. “Very glad.”

Rafe kissed her. She sighed and opened her mouth to his. His kiss deepened, his hand cupped her

breast and her nipple engorged at his touch.

“Oh,” she said softly, “oh, yes…”

He slid his hand down her body. Cupped her. Slipped a finger inside those plump folds…And

saw her wince. Cursing softly, he gathered her into his arms.

“See? I did hurt you. Forgive me, baby. It’s much too soon.”

“No.” Her cheeks turned pink. “If you would like to…to make love again—”

“I would like to make love straight into tomorrow,” he said solemnly. “But this is your first time

and you need to take it easy.”

She would have protested but he kissed her again, then rose from the bed. She sat up, the sheet

drawn over her breasts, and watched him. Had he changed his mind? Was he leaving her now?

No. He was not. Unashamedly naked, he went into the connecting bathroom and shut the door.

Chiara lay back against the pillows. She felt boneless and happy and exhausted. It was as if she

had experienced a miracle. That sex—that making love could be like this…

But it was not really love. Love was not what Raffaele—what her husband felt for her, and that

was all right because…because it was not what she felt for him, either.

Tears welled in her eyes. And what for? What reason was there to weep? Something that had

begun as a disaster had turned into something, yes, wonderful. She was free of her father, of San

Giuseppe. And she was with a man who had taught her that sex could be the most wonderful

experience of a woman’s life—

Even if he was not going to be in her life…

“Hey.”

Raffaele’s voice was soft. He was standing beside the bed, holding a small basin and a towel.

“Sweetheart. Why are you crying?”

“I am not crying. I am just—I am weepy. Did no one ever tell you that women get weepy when

they are happy?” She sniffed back her tears and hurried to change the subject. “Thank you for the

basin of water but—”

“But you’re going to take care of things yourself.”

“Sì. As I should. As I—Raffaele, that is not for you to do.”

But he was already sitting beside her, the washcloth in his hand.

“Yes,” he said softly, “it is for me to do.” He brought the warm, wet cloth to her thighs, nudged

them gently apart and began laving her with it. “I took your virginity.”

She smiled a little. “Yes,” she whispered. “You did.”

Rafe rinsed the cloth in the basin, wrung it out again and carefully used it on her once more.

There were tiny drops of blood on her thighs and on the cloth. The sight of her blood, the

knowledge that his lovemaking had been the reason she had shed it, was almost overwhelming.

He put the cloth aside, gently dried her with the soft towel, got into the bed and gathered her in

his arms.

“Shut your eyes, sweetheart. You’ve had a long couple of days.”

“Mmm.”

“Just…just let me kiss you first…”

His lips closed over hers. She sighed with pleasure. His mouth moved lower. Along her throat.

She sighed again. His mouth found her breasts and her sighs became moans.

“Raffaele,” she said, as he drew a nipple deep into his mouth. “Raffaele…”

“It’s too soon,” he said thickly, but she slipped a hand between them, touched him, caressed him,

and he groaned and moved over her. “Are you sure?”

Her answer came not in words but in the stroke of her fingers, the arch of her spine, the mingling

of her breath with his.

He drew away, took something from the nightstand drawer. Chiara knew what it was.

A condom.

He had not used one the first time. It was her safe time of month—Miss Ellis had taught her the

basics of biology—but she thought she would not have cared if he had made her pregnant. This

was her Raffaele.

Her husband.

She watched as he tore open the little pack and rolled the condom on. She wanted to do it for

him. To touch him. To explore his hard flesh with her hands, her mouth…

She reached for him as he came back to her, and he entered her slowly, eased into her with such

care that his muscles trembled until, at last, he was deep, deep inside her.

Could a woman die of pleasure? If she did, it would be worth what she felt now.

The rhythm he set was hard and urgent but she stayed with him, thrust for thrust. She cried out,

arched from the bed and, seconds later, cried out again as her Raffaele took her with him into

that place where the sun blazed forever.

“Chiara,” he whispered. “My beautiful, beautiful bride.”

Tears again rose in her eyes. She blinked them back and returned his tender kisses as he drew her

close in his arms. Moments later his breathing was deep and even, but she lay awake for a very

long time, torn between incredible joy and heartbreaking despair.

Raffaele was her husband.

Except, he was not. Not really.

And this, all of this, could not last.

WAS there a specific protocol for a woman’s behavior when she woke in a man’s arms?

Did you lie motionless until he was awake? Slip free of his embrace, gather up your clothes and

tiptoe from the room? What if all that shifting around woke him?

What did people say to each other after they’d spent the night making love?

They’d made love again and again, Chiara thought with a little shudder of pleasure. And each

time had been different and even better than the last.

How could her mother have been so wrong? This was not pain or submission or humiliation.

This was pure joy, a heart-stopping, breathless climb to the very top of a mountain and then a

long, dizzying flight to the stars.

At least, it was when Raffaele Orsini was your lover.

During the night she’d awakened to his kisses. She’d shot from sleep with her heart pounding,

struggling against the alien, male touch.

“No,” she’d said sharply, and he’d framed her face with his hands.

“Chiara. Sweetheart, it’s me.”

Slowly she’d became aware of the familiarity of the hard body poised just over hers. His scent.

His features. His skin, smooth and warm over taut muscle.

“Raffaele,” she’d whispered.

“I’m sorry, Chiara. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“No. You didn’t. I just…What time is it?”

“It’s late. Very late. You should be asleep.”

She’d smiled, lifted her hand, stroked it against the sexy stubble on his jaw. “Mmm. So should

you.”

“Soon,” he’d whispered, between kisses. “But first, a kiss…”

One kiss. Then another. She’d lifted her arms and wound them around his neck. His kisses

deepened. Her response intensified. That part of him she had so feared was already hard against

her belly. Now it swelled even more.

Why had she ever been afraid of this? Being held so intimately. Being kissed as if you were a

man’s only hope of salvation. The stroke of a strong, callused hand.

The pulsing, aroused flesh that was so beautifully, fiercely male.

“Raffaele,” she’d whispered.

Shamelessly she’d wrapped one leg high around his. He’d said her name in a voice so filled with

desire that it had been like a caress, slipped a hand beneath her and raised her into him. When his

erect penis had nudged against her, she’d caught her breath.

Instantly he pulled back. “Forgive me, sweetheart. You’re sore.”

“I ache,” she’d whispered, “but not because I am sore, Raffaele, I ache for you. I want you inside

me.” Overcome with embarrassment, she’d buried her face against his shoulder. “Oh. I should

not have said—”

“Yes,” he’d said fiercely, cupping the back of her head, lifting her face to his until their eyes met.

“You should. I love hearing you say that you want me.”

“I do,” she’d replied, “I want you, want you, want—”

Their mouths fused. Moments later he had been deep inside her.

Remembering, Chiara smiled. Actually, she was a little tender, but it was a wonderful

tenderness, a reminder of her husband’s lovemaking…

Her smile faded.

Her husband. Her very temporary husband. How had she forgotten that? More to the point, how

had she forgotten that, despite his gentleness, his kindness, her husband was in the same

“profession” as her father?

She wanted to weep. Her mother had things wrong. Sex was not ugly. It was a drug to make a

woman forget the truth.

Quickly she pushed the blankets aside and moved out of Raffaele’s embrace. There was enough

early-morning light in the room so she could see her clothes, discarded on the floor. If she was

quiet…

“Hey.”

She froze, her dress clasped against her body, her back to the bed.

“What time is it?” Raffaele yawned; the bedding rustled. She knew he must be reaching for the

clock on the nightstand. “Chiara,” he groaned, “it’s barely six-thirty.” His voice dropped to a

husky purr. “Come back to bed.”

She took a steadying breath, forced the mental image of her husband’s muscled, beautiful body

from her mind. The important thing was to speak calmly. She had behaved foolishly, but it

would not happen again. He needed to understand that.

“Six-thirty is late for me. At home, I would already be in the kitchen, making coffee.”

His chuckle was low and sexy. “We tried that, remember? I’m the one who makes the coffee

around here.”

“It does not matter who makes the coffee. What matters is that your housekeeper will be arriving