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him off? Did none of that count for anything?

Yes, but she’d been through a lot today. So had he, but it wasn’t the same. He hadn’t been

threatened with wedded bliss as the wife of her father’s capo.

If even that had been real. If it hadn’t all been an act, meant to make him agree to a marriage a

pair of aging dons on both sides of the Atlantic seemed to want.

For the moment he’d go with believing his wife hadn’t been in on the deal—and why in hell

think of her as his wife? She was nothing but a temporary impediment in his life. Maybe she’d

calm down once she understood that. Hell, she had to. He couldn’t spend the rest of the flight

hanging on to her as she struggled to get away.

Rafe took a long breath.

“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry I frightened you. I never—I mean, I had no idea…The thing is, I got

angry. And…” And what? None of that excused what he’d done. Truth time, he thought, and

drew another breath. “Here’s the deal, okay? I thought you had been stringing me along. And—”

“Hah!”

“Hah?”

“Why would I string you along,” she panted, “when I would like to string you up?”

How could he want to laugh at a time like this? He couldn’t, not without enraging his wildcat

even more. Instead he cleared his throat.

“I thought you were part of the plan. You know, to convince me to marry you.” Her face

registered incredulity, but they were getting somewhere: she had stopped struggling, at least for

the moment. “Okay,” he said carefully, “I’m going to let go of you. Then I’m going to stand up.”

His eyes drifted down; he’d all but forgotten her dress was torn in half, showing all that

schoolgirl lingerie.

Showing the small but somehow lush breasts, the narrow waist, the flaring hips…

Rafe forced his gaze back to her face. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“I’ll stand up, and then I’ll get your suitcase so you can change clothes. Okay?”

Chiara glared at him. “I was not part of any plan,” she said with icy precision.

“You want something to wear or not?”

He could see her weighing the offer. At last she nodded.

“Good. Fine.” Slowly he took his hands from her. She scrambled back as he rose to his feet. She

looked like hell, not just the torn dress, but her face was devoid of color, her eyes huge and dark.

And he was the cause.

He, the idiot who’d said yes to marriage to save her, had done this.

“Be right back,” he said briskly, striding from the lounge as if shredding a woman’s clothes and

scaring the life half out of her were just everyday occurrences.

He didn’t see her suitcase. Just as well. It was probably overflowing with black dresses and he’d

seen enough of them to last a lifetime. He grabbed his carry-on bag, headed back to the lounge…

And paused.

Chiara was exactly where he’d left her, clutching the torn dress together at her breasts. The only

difference was in her posture. She sat with her head down, her hair tumbling around her face.

The fight had gone out of her; she looked small and vulnerable. Mostly she looked defeated, just

as she had in her father’s house.

It killed him to see it.

She was shaking. With fear? No, Rafe thought, not this time. He dropped the carry-on bag and

hurried to her. She was hovering on the brink of shock. Adrenaline spiked, then dropped, and this

was the price you paid.

“Chiara,” he said, when he reached her.

She looked up. He could hear her teeth chattering. He cursed softly, went down on his knees and

gathered her into his arms.

She balked. He’d expected it and at the first jerk of her muscles, he drew her even closer against

him, whispering her name, stroking one big hand gently up and down her back. Gradually he felt

her body begin to still.

“That’s it,” he said softly, his mouth against her temple, his hand still soothing her, and at last

she gave a shuddering sigh and leaned into him.

Rafe closed his eyes.

Her face was against his throat. Her lips were slightly parted. He could feel the delicate whisper

of her breath, the warmth of it on his skin.

His arms tightened around her. He drew her from the sofa onto her knees. He felt her hands

against his chest, one palm flat against his heart.

She was so small. So delicate. He could feel the fragility of her bones and he thought of the time

a migrating songbird had flown into one of the windows that lined the terrace of his penthouse. It

had been a windy day; when he heard the soft thud of something hitting the glass, he’d thought it

must be a chair cushion, but when he went outside, he found the bird, smaller than seemed

possible, lying on the marble floor, eyes glazed, heart beating so frantically that he could see the

rise and fall of its feathered breast.

Helpless, clueless, he’d carefully scooped the tiny creature into his palm. Minutes had crept by

and just when he was about to give up hope, the bird made a soft peep, scrambled upright,

blinked, spread its wings and took to the sky.

Chiara stirred like that now. Her eyes swept over his face.

“Okay?” he said softly.

She swallowed. “Yes.”

He felt the same rush of pleasure as the day the tiny bird had survived its brush with death. Still,

he went on holding her in his arms. He didn’t want to let her go. She might go into shock again,

might need him to comfort her…

“Please let go of me, Signor Orsini.”

So much for needing his comfort.

Rafe got to his feet and retrieved the carry-on bag. She was seated on the sofa again, a portrait of

composure except for the gaping dress. He cleared his throat, dropped the bag on the floor and

jerked his chin at it.

“Nothing in there will really fit you, of course,” he said briskly.

“I have my own things. In my suitcase.”

“Yeah, well, I grabbed the first bag I saw. Anyway, there’s some stuff that might work. Jeans,

sweats, a couple of T-shirts…” He was babbling. She could figure things out for herself, once he

gave her some privacy. “I’ll, ah, I’ll wait outside. Let me know when you’re done and then…and

then, we’ll talk. Okay?”

Chiara nodded. Her face gave nothing away, but all things considered, he figured he was doing

pretty well. He nodded back, stepped from the room, shut the door, folded his arms…

And waited.

He waited for what seemed a very long time. Just when he’d finally decided she was going to

pretend he didn’t exist, the door swung open.

His throat constricted.

She was wearing one of his T-shirts over a pair of his workout shorts. The shirt hung to her

knees; the shorts fell to midcalf. Her feet were bare. Her hair was a soft cloud of dark chocolate

silk: he figured she must have found his brush and used it.

She should have looked comical. At least foolish.

She didn’t.

She looked beautiful.

It made him smile. Big mistake. Her chin rose and he knew she was about to give him hell.

“Thank you for the clothes, signor.”

“It’s Rafe.”

“Thank you, Signor Orsini,” she repeated, and took a deep breath. It made the thin cotton T-shirt

fabric lift in a way that drew his gaze to her breasts. “And for this,” she said, in a voice that

stopped him thinking about the shirt and what was under it. Looking up, he saw the unmistakable

glint of steel in her hand. “Touch me again, and I will kill you!”

Well, hell. His brush wasn’t the only thing she’d found. She’d found his nail scissors, too.

“Chiara,” he said calmly, “put that down.”

“Not until we reach New York and you set me free.”

“You are free.” His mouth twisted. “I married you. I didn’t buy you.”

“I told you. I want an annulment. A divorce. Whatever is legally necessary.”

He could feel his temper rising. She was hardly in the position to make demands.

“I have money.”

His eyebrows rose. “What?”

“I have my mother’s jewels. I told you about them. Obviously, you were not listening.” Her eyes

met his. “They are very valuable. I will give them to you in exchange for my freedom.”

The woman had a wonderful opinion of him. It annoyed him and he told himself to stay calm.

“Do you think this is a bazaar? That you can haggle with me to get what you want?”

Her face colored. “No. I did not mean—” She took a deep breath. “I see what you are trying to

do, signor. You think, if you direct this conversation elsewhere, you will dissuade me.”

He lifted one dark eyebrow. “Dissuade?”

“Si. It means—”

“I know what it means. Someone taught you some fancy English in that hole-in-the wall town of

yours.”

“San Giuseppe is not ‘my’ town,” she said coldly. “And yes, Miss Ellis taught me, as you say,

some fancy English.”

“One of your father’s girlfriends?”

She laughed. Miss Ellis had been seventy. Tall, thin, about as approachable as a nun—but the

best teacher in the world, until her father had decided she was filling Chiara’s head with too

much worldly nonsense. It still hurt to remember the day he’d dismissed her.

“One of my tutors,” Chiara said, and lifted her chin. “Thanks to her, you will not be able to

dissuade me in English or in several other languages.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“You are supposed to be warned, Signor Orsini. I am not prepared to take what has been forced

upon me by you and my father standing up.”

Rafe grinned. He couldn’t help it. For all he knew, she spoke a dozen languages but there was a

difference between speaking English like a native and speaking it like a scholar, especially when

the words came from the mouth of a woman who looked like an armed street urchin.

“You find this amusing, signor? I promise, I will defend myself if you approach me again.”

He thought about going straight at her and snatching the scissors away. He wouldn’t get hurt—it

would be like taking candy from a baby—but what the hell, this was just getting interesting.

“So, you want out of our marriage.”

“It is not a marriage, it is an alliance between my father and yours.”

“Whatever,” he said, as if he didn’t know damned well she was probably right. He made a show

of shaking his head. “I guess modern women just don’t believe in keeping their vows anymore.”

Chiara clucked her tongue. “Such nonsense! Neither of us wants this marriage and you know it.”

For some reason her certainty irked him. “And you know this about me because…?”

Her eyes narrowed. The tip of her tongue came out and touched her top lip, then swept back

inside, to be replaced by a delicate show of small—and, he knew—sharp white teeth that sank,

with great delicacy, into her bottom lip.

His gut knotted. His entire body tensed. Ridiculous, but then, the entire day had been ridiculous.

Why should things become normal now?

“I mean,” he said, sounding like the voice of reason, “I’m Italian. What if I don’t believe in

divorce?”

What if the sun went nova? He wasn’t Italian, except by heritage. He was American. That was

how he thought of himself. And while he didn’t believe people should bounce in and out of

matrimony, he did believe in divorce when no other solution made sense.

Like now, when they’d both been forced into a union neither wanted…which was exactly what

she’d said.

Yes, but why make this easy for her?

He’d been suckered into this. Even if she hadn’t been party to the plan, she hadn’t protested it,

either. Now she wanted out. Fine. So did he. But first he wanted some answers. And this

woman—his wife—was the only one who could provide them.

“I’m waiting, baby. Why should I agree to a divorce? After all, I flew across the ocean to marry

you.”

Chiara blinked. “But you told my father—”

“I know what I told him. I said I had no wish to marry you.” Rafe shrugged. “Any good

businessman knows better than to accept the first offer when he’s negotiating a deal.”

“A deal?” She stared at him in disbelief. “You mean—you mean, you intended to go through

with it all the time? You only let my father think he could hand me off to that…that animal?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

First, dissuade. Now, implied. Tricky words, even for native English speakers, which Chiara was

not. What she was, his scissors-wielding bride, was a font of surprises.

“I married you,” he said calmly. “Never mind my reasons. As for you…I didn’t see Daddy

holding a shotgun on you during the ceremony.”

“I do not understand what that means.”

“It means you married me without a word of argument.”

“I would have married a…a donkey if it meant I didn’t have to marry Giglio!”

“You’re no prize package either, baby.”

Color rushed into her cheeks. “You know what I mean. And do not call me ‘baby.’ I am a grown

woman.”

Yes. She was. A beautiful grown woman, but there was much more to her than that.

Her face wasn’t just lovely, it was animated. Her eyes weren’t just a color that reminded him of

violets, they were bright with intelligence. He’d seen enough of her body to know it was

feminine and lush, but it was the proud way she held herself that impressed him, something in

her stance that said she would fight to the end for what she believed.

She was, as she said, a grown woman.

His woman.

His wife.

Rafe felt his body stir. They were alone, still a few hours from landing. He’d scared the hell out

of her by coming at her with all the subtlety of a hormone-crazed bull, but then, he’d misjudged