style="font-size:15px;"> He wanted to touch her. Her face. Her hair. Her breasts.
Determinedly he forced his brain from where it was heading. Concentrated on taking deep breaths. He needed to get some rest but it was impossible. The damned chair.
What if he slipped out of the room? She was deep, deep asleep. Yes, but what if she dreamed of Giglio again? He’d promised she wouldn’t, but thus far, his clever predictions had hardly been infallible.
His back ached. His butt. His legs. He looked at the bed. It was king-size. Chiara was curled on one edge. He could sit at a distance from her—sit, not lie—and at least stretch his legs. He wouldn’t touch her and she’d never know he was there.
Rafe made the switch carefully, waiting to make sure she didn’t awaken before he leaned back against the pillows. Yes. That was much better. He knew he wouldn’t sleep even though he was exhausted. He yawned. Yawned again until his jaws creaked. Maybe he’d just shut his eyes for a couple of minutes….
The sun, streaming in through the terrace doors, jolted him awake.
Chiara lay fast asleep in his arms, her hand over his heart, her breath soft and warm against his throat.
Rafe’s body clenched like a fist. He knew the perfect way to wake her. He’d kiss her hair, her eyelids, her mouth. Slowly her lashes would lift. Her beautiful eyes would meet his.
“Chiara,” he’d whisper, and instead of jerking back, she’d say his name, lift her hand to his face, and he’d turn his head, press his mouth to her palm, then to the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat, then to her breasts, breasts that he was now damned sure had never known a man’s caress—
Rafe swallowed a groan of frustration. Then he dropped the lightest of kisses on his sleeping wife’s hair, left her bed and headed to his bathroom for the longest cold shower of his life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SLOWLY, cautiously, Chiara opened her eyes.
Had she been dreaming, or had Raffaele been in bed with her, holding her in his arms?
It must have been a dream. A man wouldn’t get into a woman’s bed only to hold her close. Not even a man like Raffaele, who—she had to admit—seemed to have some decent instincts. Even he would not have slept with her curled against him without… without trying to do something sexual.
And yet the dream had seemed real.
His arms, comforting and strong around her. His body, warm and solid against hers. His heart, beating beneath her palm. And then, just before she awakened, the soft brush of his lips.
A dream, of course. And, at least, not a dream that had sent her into a panic.
Despite the things about him that were good—his gallantry in marrying her, his gentleness last night—he still represented everything she despised.
But she no longer despised him.
What if he’d actually slept with her in his arms? If she’d awakened, wrapped in his heat? If she had looked up at him, clasped the back of his head, brought his lips to hers.
Chiara shoved aside the bedcovers and rose quickly to her feet. There was a cashmere afghan at the foot of the bed. She wrapped herself in it and padded, barefoot, over a rich Oriental carpet to the doors that opened onto a small terrace.
The morning air was crisp, the colors of the trees across the street, brilliant. Was that Central Park? It had to be. It surprised her. She knew of the park, of course, but she had not expected such an oasis of tranquillity.
Pedestrians hurried along the sidewalk: kids dressed for school, men and women in business suits, sleepy-looking people in jeans and sweats being tugged along by dogs hurrying to reach the next lamppost. Cars, taxis and buses crowded the road.
The street was busy. Still, it was surprisingly quiet up here.
She hadn’t expected that, either.
The truth was, she hadn’t expected most of what had happened since yesterday. She certainly hadn’t expected what little she’d discovered about Raffaele Orsini.
She had, almost certainly, misjudged his reasons for marrying her. She felt a little guilty about that. Not a lot. After all, they had misjudged each other. But everything pointed to the fact that he had not gone to Sicily to do his father’s bidding.
That he had taken her as his wife only to save her from being given to Giglio.
But, as he had said, he was no Sir Galahad. He was a hoodlum, like her father. Like his father. It was in his blood, even though he looked more like a man who’d stepped out of one of the glossy magazines that had been Miss Ellis’s one weakness….
Or like the David. Michelangelo’s marble masterpiece. She had never actually seen the statue, of course, but one of her tutors had taught her about art, had shown her a photo of the David in a book.
Chiara swallowed dryly.
Did Raffaele look like that statue? Was his naked body that perfect? Was all of him so… so flagrantly, blatantly, beautifully male?
Beautifully male?
Blindly she turned and hurried back into the bedroom.
What did it matter? He could look like one of God’s angels and it wouldn’t change the fact that he was what he was. That he did things, made his money—lots of money, from what she’d seen of his life so far—doing things she didn’t want to think about.
That he had decent instincts was interesting, even surprising, but it didn’t change the facts.
Still, would it not be a good thing to make it clear she was grateful to him for what he had done? She remembered little of what they’d said to each other when he’d come into her room last night. She was pretty sure she’d said thank you, but showing her gratitude would be polite.
How?
She could find ways to make herself useful.
Yes. Of course. She could be useful. He had no wife. Well, he had her but she was not really his wife. The point was, there was no woman here to do things. Clean. Cook. She could do those things. She could start immediately. She could make breakfast. Make coffee.
Coffee! Men liked awakening to the scent of it. When her father came down in the morning, he always said the smell of good, fresh espresso was the perfect way to start a day.
Chiara tore a dress and underwear from her suitcase, rushed into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Rafe always began the day with a shower.
He began this one with two, both icy enough to make his teeth chatter.
The frigid water did the job of quieting his still-jumpy hormones, but nothing could stanch the headache that had settled in just behind his eyes.
He downed two ibuprofen but the trolls inside his skull only laughed and drummed harder.
The
