Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin. Sandra Marton

night and rimmed by a border of pale violet.

      “What…what happened?”

      Nice. Trite, but nice.

      “You passed out.” He smiled coldly. “And right on cue.”

      Did defiance flash in those extraordinary eyes? He couldn’t be sure; she leaned forward, laid cool, pale fingers over his tanned ones as she put her mouth to the glass.

      Her throat worked as she swallowed. A couple of sips and then she looked up at him. Her lips glistened; her eyes were wide. The tip of her tongue swept over her lips and he could imagine those lips parted, that tongue tip extended, those eyes locked, hot and deep, on his—

      A shot of raw lust rolled through him. He turned away quickly, put the glass on a table and stepped back.

      “Now that you’re among the living again, how about telling your old man the truth?”

      “The truth about…” Her puzzled gaze went from her father to Rafe. “Oh!” she whispered, and her face turned scarlet.

      Rafe’s eyes narrowed. Her reactions couldn’t be real. Not the Victorian swoon, not her behavior at the memory of what had happened in the car. He’d kissed her, for God’s sake. That was it. He’d lifted her into his lap and kissed her and, okay, she’d ended up biting him, but only after she’d responded, after he’d gotten hard as stone and she’d felt it and…

      And he’d behaved like an idiot.

      He was not a man who did things like that to women. A little playing around during sex was one thing; he’d had lovers who liked a hint of domination, but having a woman whisper “more” even as she pretended something else was not the same as what had happened with Chiara Cordiano.

      What in hell had gotten into him? He’d been furious, but anger had nothing to do with sex…did it?

      It was a subject to consider at another time. Right now he might just have a problem on his hands. This culture had its roots in times long gone. Its rules, its mores, were stringent.

      Back home, a kiss, even a stolen one, was just a kiss. Here it could be construed as something else.

      “Don Cordiano,” he said carefully, “I kissed your daughter. I’m sorry if I offended her.”

      “And I am to accept your apology?”

      The don’s tone was arrogant. It made Rafe bristle.

      “I’m not asking you to accept it,” he said sharply, and turned to Chiara. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. If I frightened you, I’m sorry.”

      “Perhaps you would care to explain how you managed to meet with my daughter before you met with me.”

      Perhaps he would, Rafe thought, but he’d be damned if he’d stand here and admit he’d almost been bested by a slip of a girl and an old man. Besides, that part of the story belonged to Cordiano’s daughter, he thought grimly, and looked at her again. But she locked her hands together in her lap, bent her head and studied them as if she had no part in this conversation.