Sandra Marton - The Scandalous Orsinis

Today that time had come.

She had the jewels hidden in the bottom of the small suitcase she’d packed. The American could have them all if he would grant her her freedom.

Still, she had to phrase her argument properly, not dent his macho ego.

Her throat, her mouth had gone dry. Unconsciously she swept the tip of her tongue lightly over her lips.

“And,” she continued, “this isn’t what I want. What either of us wants.”

He said nothing, and she touched the tip of her tongue to her lips again. Rafe watched her do it, and a fist seemed to close slowly in his belly.

Did she know what she doing? Was the gesture innocent or deliberate? Her tongue was pink. It was a kitten’s tongue. It had touched his, however briefly; he could remember the silken feel of it.

She was still talking, but he had no idea what she was saying. His eyes lifted; he studied her face. It was bright with animation. She had, as he’d noticed before, some fairly good features.

Good? The truth was she was beautiful.

Those big violet eyes were fringed by long, thick lashes. The straight little nose was perfectly balanced above a lush, dusty-rose mouth. Her cheekbones weren’t just razor sharp, they were carved.

Why did she dress as she did? Why did she hold herself so stiffly? Why did she confine what he now remembered was a silky mane of thick curls in such an unbecoming style? Was it all illusion? Was it part of the scam?

“Why do you wear your hair like that?”

He hadn’t meant to ask the question. Obviously, she hadn’t expected it. She’d still been talking about something or other. Now she fell silent in midsentence and stared at him as if he’d asked her to explain how to solve a quadratic equation. Then she gave a nervous little laugh.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your hair. Why do you pull it back?”

To keep her father’s men from looking at her the way this man was looking at her now, but she knew better than to tell him that. It wasn’t the same thing, anyway. When Giglio and the others looked at her, she felt her skin crawl. But her skin wasn’t crawling now. It was… it was… it was tingling.

Chiara’s hand flew to her hair. “It’s… it’s neater this—”

“Let it loose.”

The American’s voice was rough. His eyes were blue flames. She could see a muscle knotting and unknotting in his cheek.

Suddenly it seemed hard to breathe. “I don’t… I don’t see any reason to—”

“The reason is that I’m telling you to do it,” Rafe said, and a shocked little voice inside him whispered, What in hell are you doing?

It was a good question.

He was not a man who believed in ordering women around. He’d explain that, explain that he’d only been joking…

“Let your hair loose, Chiara,” he said, and waited.

The seconds crept by. Then, slowly, she put her hands to her hair. The neat bun came undone. Her hair—thick, lustrous, curling—fell down her back.

The fist in his belly tightened again.

“That’s better.”

She nodded. Cleared her throat. Knotted her hands in her lap.

“As I was saying—”

“It’s warm in here.”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t find it—”

“You don’t need that coat.”

She looked down at herself, then at him. “I’m… I’m comfortable.”

“Don’t be silly.” He reached toward her, caught the coat’s lapels in his hands. “Take it off.”

Chiara felt her heart leap. She was alone with this stranger. Completely alone, in a way she had never been alone with a man before. Enzo, yes. Her father. San Giuseppe’s old, halfdemented priest. But this was different.

This man was young. He was strong. He was her husband.

That gave him rights. Privileges. She knew about those things, oh God, she knew.

“The coat.” His voice was harsh. “Take it off.”

Heart pounding, she unbuttoned her coat and shrugged it from her shoulders.

“Listen to me,” she said, and hated the way her voice shook. “Signor Orsini. I do not want to be your wife any more than you want to be my husband.”

“And?”

“And we are trapped. You had no choice but to marry me and—”

His eyes narrowed again. She had already learned enough about him to know that was not a good sign. “Is that what you think?”

“Your father wanted it.” He said nothing and she hurried on. “And my father wanted it. So—”

“So, I did it to please them both?”

“Yes. No. Perhaps not.” She was losing ground; she could sense it. The thing to do was speak more quickly, make him see that she understood why he’d done what he’d done and that he could gain by undoing it. American gangsters could be bought. She had watched enough films to know a great deal about America, and this was one of the things she knew.

“Perhaps my father made promises to you. Perhaps he said he would reward you.”

He sat back. Folded his arms again. Watched her, waited, said nothing, everything about him motionless, his body, his face, nothing moving but that damnable muscle in his cheek.

“Did he offer you a reward, signor? I can make a better offer.”

The corners of his lips curved. “Can you,” he said, very softly.

“As soon as we get to America, we will end the marriage. It is an easy thing to do in your country, yes?”

He shrugged. “And you walk away. From me. From your charming father. From that miserable little town. Everybody lives happily ever after. Right?”

He understood! The relief was enormous. “Yes,” she said, with a quick smile. “And you get—”

“Oh, I know what I get, baby. But I’d get that, anyway.”

Chiara shook her head. “I don’t under—”

“That black thing you’re wearing.”

Confused, she looked down at herself again, then at him.

“The black thing? You mean, my dress?”

“What’s under it?”

She blinked. “Under…?”

“Give me a break, okay? You’re not deaf. Stop repeating what I say and answer the question. What’s under that dress?”

Color heated her face. “My… my undergarments.”

He grinned. She almost made the old-fashioned word sound real. “Silk? Lace? Bra? Panties?” His smile tilted. “Or is it a thong?”

Chiara shot to her feet. “You’re disgusting!”

“You know, it took me a while but I finally figured it out. This get-up. The clothes, the hair, the ‘Don’t touch me’ all but painted on your forehead—it was all for me, wasn’t it?”

She swung away. His hands fell hard on her shoulders and he spun her to him. He wasn’t smiling anymore; his face was hard, his eyes cold.

“The real Chiara Cordiano is the one I kissed in that car.”

“You are pazzo! Crazy! Let go of me. Let go of—”

Rafe bent his head and kissed her. It was a stamp of masculine power and intent, and when she tried to twist away from him, he caught her face between his hands and kissed her even harder, forcing her lips apart, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, taking, demanding, furious with her for the lies, furious with himself for falling for them.

Furious, because he was stupid enough to want to reclaim that one sweet moment when he’d kissed her and she’d responded.

Except, she hadn’t.

That, too, had been a lie just like everything else, including the way she was weeping now, big, perfect tears streaming down her face as he drew back.

If he hadn’t known better, he’d have bought into the act.

“Come on, baby,” he said with vicious cruelty, “what’s the point in prolonging this? Get out of that ridiculous dress. Do what you undoubtedly do best.” His mouth twisted. “Do it really well and I might just give you that divorce you’re after.”