Sandra Marton - The Scandalous Orsinis - Raffaele - Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

He didn’t know much about matrimonial law but what little he did know told him that, as of now, their quickie set of I do’s could be erased in a heartbeat. No sex? No real marriage.

Sleep with the lady and that would change.

Besides, why would he want to sleep with her? She was afraid of sex. What man wanted a scared woman in his bed? Plus, she was a virgin. No question about it anymore.

Imagine. In this day and age, she was a virgin.

Rafe grimaced as he stepped into a pair of faded jeans.

He’d been with a lot of women but never with a virgin. Any man with half a functioning brain knew to avoid that situation, because taking a woman’s virginity was a trap. It left you with the kind of responsibility he most assuredly did not need and did not want.

He zipped his fly, pulled on a gray cotton sweater. He didn’t bother shaving. No point pretending he’d go to his office today. Nothing on his desk was as important as dissolving a relationship that wasn’t a relationship.

He checked the time. It was barely seven. A reasonable hour at which to phone Marilyn Sayers, but first he’d have that coffee. Let the headache tablets do their thing. He wanted to sound cool and controlled when he told Sayers about his incredible situation. She would have questions, but all she really needed to know was where and when the marriage had taken place and that he wanted out, ASAP.

Marriage? He snorted. Ridiculous. He wouldn’t dignify what had happened in San Giuseppe by calling it that. There’d been some kind of ceremony, that was all.

It sure as hell hadn’t been a—

Crash!

Rafe spun toward the door. What was that? It sounded as if a two-car collision had just taken place in his apart—There it was again, a metallic crash loud enough to make the trolls inside his skull pick up the tempo. By the time the third crash echoed through the penthouse, he was halfway down the stairs, racing down the hall.

He skidded to a stop in the entrance to his kitchen. What the hell…?

It looked as if Bloomingdale’s housewares department had decided to hold a sale right here, in his pristine—his once pristine—kitchen. The white granite countertops, the black stone floor… they were covered with pots and skillets. Big ones. Small ones. Stainless steel. Ironware. Ceramic. The place was ankle-deep in cookware, more than he’d imagined he owned, because the stuff had all been the decorator’s idea, not his.

Why would a man need a million things to cook in when he didn’t cook?

In the center of it all was Chiara, dressed like an undertaker in a calf-length black something and clunky black shoes, her hair scraped back in that damned bun. Chiara, who had decided to take over his kitchen. Chiara, who was, without question, about to utter those famous eight words.

“What are you doing?” he said sharply.

She spun toward him. “Raffaele!”

“I asked you a question. What are you doing?”

She hesitated, looking around her, then at him. “I suppose you had no idea I could cook.”

Okay. It was a variation but the theme was the same. Man, had he ever misjudged her!

She gave him a hesitant smile. “I was making coffee.”

Rafe folded his arms over his chest. “Come on, baby.” His voice was like ice. Amazing, considering that he could feel his blood pressure soaring into the stratosphere. “Just coffee? How about breakfast? Eggs. French toast. Waffles. You can make all that stuff, right?”

She swallowed. Nodded. Offered another cautious smile. Rafe could feel his anger growing. She wanted out of this marriage? The hell she did, he thought in escalating fury, and his BP went through the roof.

“I have a housekeeper,” he snarled. “The time comes I want something cooked, I’ll ask her to cook it.”

Chiara’s smile vanished. “Yes. Of course. I told you, I only wished to make coffee. Espresso. But I could not find an espresso pot so—”

“You couldn’t find it because I don’t have one. Or did you assume having an Italian name means I came out of my mother’s womb with an espresso maker tucked in my… hands?”

“No. I mean, yes.” She caught her lip between her teeth. “I did not mean to make you angry.”

“I am not angry,” Rafe said. “Why would I be angry? Just because you’ve decided you don’t want out of this nonsensical marriage—”

“What?”

“Just because you think the I-can-cook thing will change my mind—”

“You are pazzo! Of course I want—what did you call it—out of this marriage!” Her hands slapped on her hips. “And I have no idea what the I-can-cook thing is!”

“A likely story.”

Chiara drew herself up. “I do not have to listen to this idiocy.”

“No. You have to clean up my kitchen.” Rafe glared. “Look at it. You tore it apart, and—”

The sound of something bubbling drew his attention. His gaze swept past her. His French press was on a front burner of the big Viking range. The burner glowed red-hot; the press was filled with water.

With boiling water.

He cursed, sprinted across the room, grabbed the French press and yelped when his fingers closed around the hot glass. The predictable thing happened. It slipped from his hands, smashed against the floor, and spewed hot water over his bare toes.

“Oh, Dio mio! ”

Chiara threw out her hands. One connected with a cast-iron skillet. The predictable thing happened again. The skillet tumbled from the counter and landed on Rafe’s still-naked, now scalded toes.

“Figlio di puttana!”

“Raffaele!” Chiara said, sounding shocked.

Rafe ignored her, hopped to the fridge and hit a button. Ice cubes tumbled into his hand. He squeezed his fingers around some, let the others dump on his toes.

Damn it all, his life had turned into a reality show. And it was all this woman’s fault. No. It was his. Why had he brought her home with him? Okay, maybe he’d had to marry her. So what? He could have left her in Palermo. He could have dumped her at a Manhattan hotel. He could have done a hundred things that wouldn’t have put her under his roof.

Chiara said his name again and he swung toward her.

“Are you… are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said coldly.

She gestured at his hand, then at his foot. “I am sorry, Raffaele.”

Her voice quavered. She was on the verge of tears. Who gave a damn?

“I only meant to do a good thing. To show you that I appreciate all you have done for me.”

“The only way you could do that would be to erase yesterday, and that’s not about to happen.”

The tears appeared, filling her eyes until they glittered like diamonds. So what? Women were good at producing instant tears. It didn’t change a thing.

“Stop that,” he growled.

She turned her back and cried harder.

It made him feel bad but, hell, she probably wanted him to feel bad. She was clever. Somewhere between the ceremony in San Giuseppe and their arrival here, he’d managed to forget that. Well, he wouldn’t forget it again. This was the woman who’d waylaid him on the road. Who’d kissed him as if she wanted to suck out his tonsils right before she went into her Petrified Virgin routine. Forget what he’d thought last night, that she was as much a victim as he was.

Still, he sure as hell didn’t want her crying over a couple of stupid accidents.

“Okay,” he said, “that’s enough. It’s only a kitchen.”

“I burned your fingers.”

“You didn’t burn them, I did.” He turned her toward him, held up his hand, flexed his fingers. “See? They’re fine. That ice did the trick.”

“I broke your toes.”

“Toe. Just one. The big one.” He looked down; so did she. He flexed his toes, forced himself not to wince. The damned thing probably was broken but he’d sooner have walked on nails that admit it. “See? It’s fine. Ice can do wonders.”