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 her.
She wasn’t a femme fatale; she was inexperienced. After all, how many lovers could a woman have in a town the size of San Giuseppe? Cesare had described her as a virgin, but obviously that was impossible. There were no virgins in today’s world, not even tucked away in remote towns in the Sicilian hills.
No, things had not gone well a little while ago, but whether his wife wanted to admit it or not, she had responded to him when he’d kissed her before. She’d let him hold her in his arms. All he had to do was take those stupid scissors from her, gather her close, kiss her, slip his hand under that T-shirt.
Was he insane? For one thing, this woman was not his wife. Well, she was, but not for long. For another, sleeping with her would only complicate things.
Besides, if he touched her, she’d come apart in terror. Her reaction to him hadn’t been an act. It hadn’t been because he hadn’t used any finesse. She’d been out of her mind with fear. Real, honest fear. Something awful had happened to her. Something had hurt her so much that she hid inside those godawful black dresses.
Who had done this to her? A man, surely. Giglio? One of the other brutes her father employed?
Hot rage swept through him. He told himself he’d feel this about the violation of any woman, that it had nothing to do with Chiara in particular.
The hell it didn’t.
She was his. Temporarily, until he could figure out what to do with her, her but for now she belonged to him. And he was a man who would always protect what was his.
“Chiara.”
She looked at him. “Who hurt you?”
She stared at him. The color drained from her face. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Yeah, you do. Why did you scream when I touched you?”
“What you mean
