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

“You kissed me,” he said in a low voice. “And I kissed you. Kissing isn’t wrong, sweetheart.”

Somehow, his hand was cupping her chin. Somehow, her face was lifting to his.

And then his mouth was on hers.

He was kissing her, kissing her gently, and she was kissing him back. She caught his sweater in her hands, knotted the soft cotton in her fists and rose to him.

His arms swept around her. He gathered her against him and she framed his face with her hands, her lips soft and warm against his. She was making little sounds, moans of pleasure and desire, and he knew she was his for the taking.

He had only to lift her into his arms, carry her up the stairs to his bed. What he wanted, what he had wanted from the first time he’d kissed her, would become reality.

He would make love to her.

Take her innocence.

Take it, and be no better than bastards like her father and Giglio, men who would exploit this beautiful, brave woman instead of honoring and protecting her.

He kissed her one last time. Then he rested his forehead against hers.

“Chiara.” His voice sounded rusty; he cleared his throat.

“Sweetheart. I have a great idea. Let’s… let’s start over.”

“Start over?”

“Yes. You. Me. The situation we’re in… We don’t have to be enemies, Chiara. We can be friends.”

She looked baffled. Why wouldn’t she? It was probably the last thing she’d expected him to say. Hell, it was the last thing he’d expected to say. But it was right, and he knew it.

He would be her friend, not her lover, even if it killed him.

“I would like that,” she said softly. “To start over with you, Raffaele.”

Then she smiled, and he wondered how it was possible for everything good in the world to be captured in a woman’s smile.

HE KNEW he had to get the two of them out of his apartment.

He was a man, not a martyr. All his good intentions could easily come undone if this sweet, intimate moment stretched on. So he flashed a quick smile, let go of her and stepped back.

“I,” he said briskly, “am hungry enough to eat a bear.”

She laughed. “I think it would be difficult to find a bear on Fifth Avenue.”

“Oh, I don’t know. This is a pretty amazing city.”

Chiara nodded. “I have read that it is.”

She had read about New York. Read about it, but not seen it. He’d been so wrapped up in his own selfish misery he hadn’t given a thought to what might make things easier for her.

She’d just given him the answer.

He could show her his town. And in the process keep her at a safe distance. A win-win situation, he thought, and decided not to waste time. He took her hand, hurried her to the elevator. When she asked where they were going, he grinned and said they were in pursuit of that bear.

Of course, none of the restaurants he had in mind had bear on the menu, but he had a long list of favorite places. They’d all be jammed this time of day, but that wasn’t a problem. He’d never needed a reservation to get a great table. It was one of the benefits of being Rafe Orsini.

When they reached the lobby and he asked the doorman to flag a taxi, Chiara held back.

Rafe looked at her. “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Not true. Something was troubling her; she was biting gently on her bottom lip, the way she always did when she was upset, and if he kept watching her do it he was going to scoop her into his arms and ravish her, right here. The hot image made him sound brusque.

“Chiara, look, if you don’t want to do this—”

“Oh, no, Raffaele.” She put her hand lightly on his arm. “I just wondered… could we take the subway?”

“The what?”

“The subway. I have read about it. It is in the ground. Well, most of it is in the ground. It whisks people through the city, from one borough to another, from Bronx all the way to the end of the Brooklyn. Sì? ”

She sounded like a tour guide. He wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss her.

“Sì,” Rafe said, smiling. “But it’s the Bronx, and just plain Brooklyn.

“Ah. I see. But it is probably foolish…”

Foolish? That his wife would prefer to ride the subway instead of a taxi? Rafe smiled and took her hand.

“It’s a great idea,” he said. “I should have thought of it.”

He warned her it was a few blocks’ walk to the nearest subway station. She smiled and told him she loved to walk. He had never known a woman who said that and meant it, but his Chiara did. She craned her neck at the skyscrapers, gaped at the shop windows, almost skipped along the crowded sidewalks.

“Oh,” she said, eyes shining, “I have never seen anything like this!”

No, he thought, watching her. Neither had he. Rockefeller Center, when they finally reached it, rated a huge gasp.

“The statue of Prometheus!”

Well, hell, was that the name of the big gilded guy? Rafe hadn’t known that. Chiara told him all about it. The legend. The sculptor. How the statue had come to be placed here. He listened, but mostly he just heard his wife’s voice. Soft. Silvery. Happy.

That was the word.

She was happy.

So was he.

He had never been so happy in his life, he thought in amazement, and while she was still bubbling about Prometheus, he swung her into his arms and kissed her, right there in Rockefeller Center surrounded by thousands of people. Nobody seemed to notice. This was, after all, New York. But when he finally took his lips from hers and she opened her eyes and he saw how they were glowing, he thought he might be more than happy, that he was—that he was—

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