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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 headache matched his rapidly deteriorating mood. Was he crazy? He had to be, otherwise why was he taking this Boy Scout routine so far? Bad enough he’d married Chiara. What in hell had possessed him to sleep with her? To really sleep with her—no euphemism involved.
Waking up in bed with a woman you couldn’t have plastered against you and a hard-on you didn’t want in your sweats was not a good idea, especially if you were stuck with the woman and unable to do anything about the hard-on.
Uh-uh. Definitely not a way to begin the day.
And when, exactly, had he turned so accepting of the mess he was in?
Rafe glared as he stepped out of the shower stall and toweled off.
Not just a Boy Scout. At the rate he was going, he was pushing for the Order of the Arrow with oak leaf clusters. And for what reason? He’d done his good deed for her. Now, he’d do a good deed for himself.
Divorce court, next stop.
Absolutely, it was time to phone his lawyer. First, though, he needed to get his head working right. A couple of aspirin, to help move the ibuprofen along. Then coffee. Lots of coffee. Strong and black. That would do it.
When a man put, what, eight, nine thousand miles on his internal clock in twenty-four hours and got married to a woman he didn’t want, that man definitely needed something to bring him down. Mileage and a marriage. It sounded like one of those self-help books, but what it was, was the reason he wasn’t thinking straight.
Why else would he have suddenly felt such compassion, okay, such tenderness for the babe who’d screwed up his life?
Wanting to make it with her? That was understandable. He was male. She was female and under those crazy outfits she wore, she wasn’t bad-looking… Yeah, but there was no way in the world he’d follow through on those most basic of male instincts.
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.”
She gave a little hiccup and raised her face to his. Hell, he thought, his throat tightening, didn’t they teach women how to sob delicately in Weeping 101 anymore? Because there was nothing delicate about Chiara’s red eyes and runny nose. She was a veritable mess, as sorry a mess as the room and their marriage.
And yet she looked even more beautiful.
How could that be? Everything she had on was ugly. She wore no makeup. She’d wept her way into ruddy-faced disaster.
“Raffaele.” Her voice broke. More tears overflowed and trickled down her cheeks. “I am so sorry. For everything. For ruining your life, ruining your kitchen—”
“Hush,” he said, and then he did the only logical thing.
He cupped her face, brought his lips to hers and kissed her.
His head told him it was a mistake. You didn’t kiss a woman you intended to get rid of. You certainly didn’t kiss a woman who’d made it clear she was afraid of any kind of physical intimacy.
Except… except, she wasn’t struggling. Wasn’t gasping with fear or anger. No, he thought in wonder, no.
She was melting in his arms.
It happened so fast that it stunned him.
One second he was holding a weeping woman whose spine might have been fashioned of steel. The next, she was on her toes, leaning into him. Her arms were tight around his neck. Her heart was racing against his.
It was what should have happened early this morning, he thought.
And then he stopped thinking.
Her hands speared into his hair. She moaned, dragged his face down to hers. He whispered her name, slanted his mouth hungrily over hers, cupped her backside and lifted her up and into his straining erection. Her breath caught. He thought he’d frightened her but she moved against him, moved again, a tentative thrust of her lower body and it came as close as anything could to undoing him.
“Raffaele,” she whispered.
The word trembled on her lips, wafted over his.
“Chiara. My beautiful Chiara.”
His hands rose. Cupped her breasts. She cried out, said his name, made the sweet little sounds a woman makes when she wants a man.
He swept aside whatever remained on the granite counter, clasped her waist and lifted her onto it. Not like this, logic said, not here, not for her first time!
To hell with logic.
He wanted her, now. Needed her, now. He was dizzy with it, crazed with it, with wanting to kiss her, touch her, bury himself inside her.
Somehow he forced himself to slow down. He kissed her eyelids, her temples, her mouth. Sweet. Soft. Warm. Her lips clung to his. He felt the first delicate whisper of her tongue against his, and desire, hot and fierce, shot through him like an arrow.
“Raffaele? Raffaele. I want—I want—”
