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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.

The hell with that.

“Your turn, signorina,” Rafe said coldly.

Chiara felt her heart thump. The American was right.

This was the time for her to say, “You have it wrong, Papa. This man didn’t ‘meet’ me, not the

way you make it sound. I stopped him on the road and tried to scare him away.”

What a joke!

Instead of scaring him away, she’d brought him straight to San Giuseppe. And she couldn’t

explain that, not without telling her father everything, and that meant she’d have to tell him about

Enzo.

No matter what the consequences, exposing Enzo’s part in the mess would be fatal.

She knew her father well. He would banish Enzo from San Giuseppe, the place where the old

man had spent his entire life. Or—her heart banged into her throat—or Enzo could suffer an

unfortunate accident, a phrase she’d heard her father use in the past.

She was not supposed to know such things, but she did. When she was little, her father would

say that Gio or Aldo or Emilio had left his employ but by the time she was twelve, she’d figured

it out.

No one “left” the don. They had accidents or vanished, and their names were never mentioned

again.

She could not risk having such a thing happen to Enzo. And yet if she didn’t come up with

something, who knew what her father might do to Rafe Orsini? Not that she cared about him, but

she surely didn’t want his “accident” on her conscience.

“Well? I am waiting.”

Her father wasn’t talking to her; he was glaring at Raffaele Orsini…but she would reply. She

would make up the story as she went along and pray the American would not correct her version.

“Papa. Signor Orsini and I met when I—when I—”

“Silence!” her father roared. “This does not concern you. Signor Orsini? I demand an

explanation.”

“Demand?” Rafe said softly.

“Indeed. I am waiting for you to explain your actions.”

Her father’s face was like stone. Chiara had seen men cower from that face. Orsini, for all his

studied toughness, surely would do the same. That patina of arrogant masculinity would crumble

and he’d tell her father the entire story.

“I don’t explain myself to anyone,” the American said coldly.

Her father stiffened. “You came here to beg my forgiveness for an insult half a century old.

Instead, you insult me all over again.”

“I don’t beg, either. I offered you my father’s apology, and I apologized to your daughter. As far

as I’m concerned, that ends our business.”

Chiara held her breath. The room seemed locked in stillness, and then her father’s lips curved in

what was supposed to be a smile. But it was not; she knew it.

Still, what he said next surprised her.

“Very well. You are free to leave.”

The American nodded. He started for the door as her father strode toward her.

“On your feet,” he snarled.

Raffaele Orsini had already opened the door, but he paused and turned around at her father’s

words.

“Let’s be clear about something, Cordiano. What happened—that I kissed your daughter—

wasn’t her fault.”

“What you say has no meaning here. Now, get out. Chiara. Stand up.”

Chiara rose slowly to her feet. Her father’s face was a study in fury. She knew he would have

hurt her if she were a man, but some old-world sense of morality had always kept him from

striking her.

Still, he would not let what had happened pass. Raffaele Orsini could insist that the kiss had not

been her fault until the end of eternity. Her father would never agree. A woman was supposed to

defend her honor to her last breath.

She had not.

Someone had to pay for the supposed insult her father had suffered and who else could that

someone be, if not her?

Her father’s eyes fixed on hers. “Giglio!” he barked.

The capo must have been waiting just outside. He stepped quickly into the room.

“Si, Don Cordiano?”

“Did you hear everything?”

The fat man hesitated, then shrugged. “Si. I heard.”

“Then you know that my daughter has lost her honor.”

Rafe raised his eyebrows. “Now, wait a damned minute…”

“All these years, I raised her with care.”

“You didn’t raise me at all,” Chiara said, her voice trembling. “Nannies. Governesses—”

Her father ignored her. “I saw to it that she remained virtuous and saved her chastity for the

marriage bed.”

“Papa. What are you talking about? I have not lost my chastity! It was only a kiss!”

“Today, she chose to throw away her innocence.” The don’s mouth twisted. “Such dishonor to

bring on my home!”

Chiara laughed wildly. Rafe looked at her. Her cheeks were crimson; her eyes were enormous.

Somehow the tight bun had come undone and her hair, thick and lustrous, swung against her

shoulders.

“I’ve brought dishonor to this house?”

The don ignored her. His attention was on his capo.

“Giglio,” he said, “my old friend. What shall I do?”

“Wait a minute,” Rafe said, starting toward the don. Pig Man stepped in his path; he brushed him

aside as if he were no more than a fly. “Listen to me, Cordiano. You’re making this into

something that never happened. I kissed your daughter. I sure as hell didn’t take her virginity!”

“This is not America, Orsini. Our daughters do not flaunt their bodies. They do not let

themselves be touched by strangers. And I am not talking to you. I am talking to you, Giglio, not

to this…this straniero.”

Pig Man said nothing, but his tiny eyes glittered.

“I cannot even blame him for what happened,” Cordiano continued. “Foreigners know nothing of

our ways. It was all my daughter’s fault, Giglio, and now, what am I to do to restore our family’s

honor?”

Holy hell, Rafe thought, this was like something out of a really bad movie. The furious villain.

The terrified virgin. And the pig, licking his thick lips and looking from the woman to the don as

if the answer to the question might appear in neon in the space between them.

“Okay,” Rafe said quickly, “okay, Cordiano, tell me what will stop this nonsense. You want me

to direct my apology to you? Consider it done. What happened was my fault entirely. I regret it. I

didn’t mean to offend your daughter or you. There. Are you satisfied? I hope to hell you are

because this…this farce has gone far enough.”

He might as well have said nothing. Cordiano didn’t even look at him. Instead, he spread his

arms beseechingly at his capo.

Giglio was sweating. And all at once Rafe knew where this nightmare was heading.

“Wait a minute,” he said, but Cordiano put his hand in the small of Chiara’s back and sent her

flying into the meaty arms of his capo.

“She is yours,” he said in tones of disgust. “Just get her out of my sight.”

“No!” Chiara’s cry echoed in the room. “No! Papa, you cannot do this!”

She was right, Rafe thought frantically. Of course Cordiano couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t.

But Cordiano had taken a telephone from his desk. It, at least, was a symbol of modernity, bright

and shiny and bristling with buttons. He pushed one, then spoke. Rafe’s Italian was bad, his

Sicilian worse, but he didn’t need a translator to understand what he was saying.

He was arranging for Chiara and Pig Man to be married.

Chiara, who understood every word, went white. “Papa. Please, please, I beg you—”

Enough, Rafe thought, He tore the phone from Cordiano’s hand and hurled it across the room.

“It’s not going to happen,” he growled.

“You are nobody here, Signor Orsini.”

Rafe’s lips stretched in a cold grin. “That’s where you’re wrong. I am always somebody. It’s

time you understood that. Chiara! Step away from the pig and come to me.”

She didn’t move. Rafe took his eyes from Cordiano long enough to steal a look at her. He cursed

under his breath. That last faint had probably been a fake. This one wouldn’t be. She wasn’t just

pale, she was the color of paper.

“Giglio. Let go of the lady.”

Nothing. Rafe took a breath and dug his hand into his pocket, snagged his BlackBerry and

shoved it forward so it made a telltale bulge. As he’d hoped, the capo’s eyes followed.

“Do it,” he said through his teeth, “and you might have an unfortunate accident.”

That was all it took. The pig’s arms dropped to his sides. Despite everything, or maybe because

of it, Rafe struggled not to laugh. He could almost hear his brothers’ howls when he told them

how he’d faked out a man who was surely a stone-cold killer with his trusty PDA.

“Chiara. Get over here.”

She crossed the room slowly, her eyes never leaving his. When she reached him, he took her

wrist, brought her close to his side. She was shaking like a young tree in a wind storm; her skin

felt clammy under his fingers. He cursed, slid his arm around her waist and tucked her against

him. She came willingly and his anger toward her gave way to compassion. Sure, this whole

damned mess was her fault—he’d kissed her, but if she hadn’t pulled that stupid trick on the

road, it never would have happened—but her father’s reaction, even for an old-line Sicilian, was

way out of line.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

She nodded. Still, he could hear her teeth chattering.

“It’s okay,” he said again. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

She looked up at him, eyes glittering with unshed tears, and shook her head. Her loosened hair

drifted across one side of her face and he fought back the sudden crazy desire to tuck the strands

back behind her ear.

“No,” she said, so softly that he could hardly hear her. “My father will give me to Giglio.”

Rafe felt his muscles tense. Give her away. As if she were Cordiano’s property.