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
