Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin. Sandra Marton

couldn’t see her face but he didn’t need to.

      It would be as plain as the rest of her.

      No wonder her father was trying to give her away. No man in his right mind would want such a pitiful woman in his bed.

      Okay. He’d be polite. He could do that much, he thought, and opened his mouth to say hello.

      Pig Man beat him to it.

      “Buon giorno, signorina,” the capo said.

      Except, he didn’t say it, he slimed it. How else to describe the oiliness in the man’s voice? Maybe Chiara Cordiano thought so, too. Rafe saw a tremor go through her narrow shoulders.

      “Signor Giglio has spoken to you,” the don snapped. “Where are your manners?”

      “Buon giorno,” she said softly.

      Rafe cocked his head. Was there something familiar about her voice?

      “And you have not greeted our guest, Signor Raffaele Orsini.”

      The woman inclined her head. Not easy to do; her chin was damned near already on her chest.

      “Buon giorno,” she whispered.

      “In English, girl.”

      Her hands twisted together. Rafe felt another tug of sympathy. The poor thing was terrified.

      “That’s okay,” he said quickly. “I don’t know much Italian but I can manage a hello. Buon giorno, signorina. Come sta?”

      “Answer him,” Cordiano barked.

      “I am fine, thank you, signor.”

      There was definitely something about her voice…

      “Why are you dressed like this?” her father demanded. “You are not going into a convent. You are going to be married.”

      “Don Cordiano,” Rafe said quickly, “I’ve already told you—”

      “And why do you stand there with your head bowed?” Cordiano grabbed his daughter’s arm, his fingers pressing hard. She winced, and Rafe took a step forward.

      “Don’t,” he said quietly.

      The capo lunged forward but Cordiano held up his hand.

      “No, Giglio. Signor Orsini is correct. He is in charge of things now. It is his right, and his alone, to discipline his fiancée.”

      “She is not my…” Rafe shot the woman a quick glance, then lowered his voice. “I already told you, I am not interested in marrying your daughter.”

      Cordiano’s eyes turned hard. “Is that your final word, Orsini?”

      “What kind of man are you, to put your daughter through something like this?” Rafe said angrily.

      “I asked you a question. Is that your final word?”

      Could a man feel any worse than Rafe felt now? He hated what Cordiano was doing to the girl. Why in hell didn’t she say something? Was she meek, or was she stupid?

      Not my worry, he told himself, and looked at Freddo Cordiano.

      “Yes,” he said gruffly, “it is my final word.”

      Pig Man laughed. The don shrugged. Then he clamped his fingers around his daughter’s delicate-looking wrist.

      “In that case,” he said, “I give my daughter’s hand to my faithful second in command, Antonio Giglio.”

      At last the woman’s head came up. “No,” she whispered. “No,” she said again, and the cry grew, gained strength, until she was shrieking it. “No! No! No!”

      Rafe stared at her. No wonder she’d sounded familiar. Those wide, violet eyes. The small, straight nose. The sculpted cheekbones, the lush, rosy mouth…

      “Wait a minute,” he said, “just wait one damned minute…”

      Chiara swung toward him. The American knew. Not that it mattered. She was trapped. Trapped! She had to do something…

      Desperate, she wrenched her hand out of her father’s.

      “I will tell you the truth, Papa.You cannot give me to Giglio. You see—you see, the American and I have already met.”

      “You’re damned right we have,” Rafe said furiously. “On the road coming here. Your daughter stepped out of the trees and—”

      “I only meant to greet him. As a gesture of—of goodwill.” She swallowed hard; her eyes met Rafe’s and a long-forgotten memory swept through him of being caught in a firefight in some miserable hellhole of a country when a terrified cat, eyes wild with fear, had suddenly, inexplicably run into the middle of it. “But…but he…he took advantage.”

      Rafe strode toward her. “Try telling your old man what really happened!”

      “What really happened,” she said in a shaky whisper, “is that—is that right there, in his car—right there, Papa, Signor Orsini tried to seduce me!”

      Giglio cursed. Don Cordiano roared. Rafe would have said, “You’re crazy, all of you,” but Chiara Cordiano’s dark lashes fluttered and she fainted, straight into his arms.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      IT WAS like being trapped in a nightmare. One minute, Rafe was about to launch into his father’s all-too-florid verbal apology. The next—

      The next, Chiara Cordiano was lying as limp as laundry in his arms.

      Was she faking it? The woman was a class-A actress. First a tough bandit, then a demure Siciliana, when the truth was, she was anything but demure.

      A little while ago, she’d attacked him with the ferocity of a lioness.

      And there’d been that sizzling flash of sexual heat.

      Oh, yeah. The lady was one hell of an actress and this was her best performance yet. Claiming he’d tried to seduce her. He’d kissed her, was all, and one kiss did not a seduction make.

      The don was holding his capo back with a hand on his arm and an assortment of barked commands. Rafe knew that Pig Man wanted to kill him. Good. Let him try. He was more than in the mood to take on the load of lard.

      First, though, the woman in his arms had to open her eyes and admit she’d lied.

      He looked around, strode to a brocade-covered sofa and unceremoniously dumped her on it. “Chiara,” he said sharply. No response. “Chiara,” he said again, and shook her.

      Pig Man snarled an obscenity. Rafe looked up.

      “Get him out of here, Cordiano, or so help me, I’m gonna lay him out.”

      The don snapped out an order, pointed a finger at the door. The capo shrugged off his boss’s hand. Like any well-trained attack dog, he did as he’d been ordered but not without one last threatening look at Rafe.

      “This is not over, American.”

      Rafe showed his teeth in a grin. “Anytime.”

      The door swung shut. Cordiano went to a mahogany cabinet, poured brandy into a chunky crystal glass and held it out. Give it to her yourself, Rafe felt like saying but he took the glass, slipped an arm around Chiara’s shoulders, lifted her up and touched the rim of the glass to her lips.

      “Drink.”

      She gave a soft moan. Thick, dark lashes fluttered and cast shadows against her creamy skin. Wisps of hair had escaped the ugly bun and lay against her cheeks, as delicately curled as the interior of the tiny shells that sometimes washed up on the beach at Rafe’s summer place on Nantucket Island.

      She looked almost