Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin. Sandra Marton

almost said, but he reminded himself that none of this was the girl’s fault. If anything, he felt a stab of pity for her. He’d already figured that she was homely. Maybe it was worse than that. For all he knew, she had warts the size of watermelons.

      She was also a woman defeated. Everything about her said so.

      She moved slowly. Her head was bowed, showing dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her hands were folded before her, resting at her waistline, assuming she had one. It was impossible to tell because her dress was shapeless, as black and ugly as her shoes. Lace-ups, he thought with incredulity, the kind he’d seen little old ladies wearing back home on Mulberry Street.

      He 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.