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her.

She wasn’t a femme fatale; she was inexperienced. After all, how many lovers could a woman

have in a town the size of San Giuseppe? Cesare had described her as a virgin, but obviously that

was impossible. There were no virgins in today’s world, not even tucked away in remote towns

in the Sicilian hills.

No, things had not gone well a little while ago, but whether his wife wanted to admit it or not,

she had responded to him when he’d kissed her before. She’d let him hold her in his arms. All he

had to do was take those stupid scissors from her, gather her close, kiss her, slip his hand under

that T-shirt…

Was he insane? For one thing, this woman was not his wife. Well, she was, but not for long. For

another, sleeping with her would only complicate things.

Besides, if he touched her, she’d come apart in terror.

Her reaction to him hadn’t been an act. It hadn’t been because he hadn’t used any finesse. She’d

been out of her mind with fear. Real, honest fear. Something awful had happened to her.

Something had hurt her so much that she hid inside those godawful black dresses.

Who had done this to her? A man, surely. Giglio? One of the other brutes her father employed?

Hot rage swept through him. He told himself he’d feel this about the violation of any woman,

that it had nothing to do with Chiara in particular.

The hell it didn’t.

She was his. Temporarily, until he could figure out what to do with her, her but for now she

belonged to him. And he was a man who would always protect what was his.

“Chiara.”

She looked at him.

“Who hurt you?”

She stared at him. The color drained from her face. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Yeah, you do. Why did you scream when I touched you?”

“What you mean is, why didn’t I melt with delight.”

The words dripped venom, but she wasn’t going to put him off that easily. Rafe folded his arms

over his chest. “It’s a simple question. What made you so frightened of men?”

“What you mean is, why am I unwilling to let men have their way with me?”

“How about not telling me what I mean and just answering the question? What are you afraid

of?”

“If we play a round of Twenty Questions, do I win a divorce?”

He was in front of her in two strides. Her hand shot up, the little scissors glinting. Rafe didn’t

bother playing games. He caught her wrist, took the scissors from her and tossed them on the

sofa.

“One question,” he said brusquely, “and I want an answer. Why are you afraid of sex?”

“I am not afraid. Besides, what I am or am not is none of your business.”

The woman was impossible! “It’s every bit my business,” he said sharply. “You’re my wife.”

She laughed. Hell, he couldn’t blame her. Sure, a small-town official owned by her father had

mumbled some words at them, but the truth was, she was no more his wife than he was her

husband.

Except, he was. He had a piece of gilt-edged paper tucked inside his passport case that proved it.

“Was it because you thought I was going to—” he felt his face heat “—to force you?” He cupped

her elbows. “Because I wasn’t. I got rough, yeah, and I shouldn’t have, but I would never have

taken you against your will.” Her eyes called him a liar; he couldn’t much blame her for that,

either. “It’s the truth. I’m no saint, but I’d never force a woman to make love with me.”

“Love,” she said, with a little snort of disdain.

“That’s what men and women do. They make love.” His hands tightened on her. “I’d never sleep

with a woman who didn’t want me.”

No, Chiara thought, no, he wouldn’t have to.

A woman would go to him willingly. Raffaele Orsini was all the things women supposedly

wanted in a man. He was strong, good-looking and so masculine there were moments he made

her feel dizzy.

So, if a woman liked sex, she would like him. And there were women who liked sex. She was

not a fool. She understood that, even though she would never want to be one of those women.

No matter what he claimed, sex was for the man. A woman had to go along with it, if she

married. The nudity. The intimacy. The slap of flesh against flesh, the smell of sweat, the

terrible, painful, humiliating invasion of your body…

Her mother had explained it all so that she would be prepared if—when—it came time for her to

take a husband. “I would not wish my daughter to go to her wedding night without knowing what

awaits her,” Mama had said.

A shudder went through her. The American saw it. Big, brave, macho creature that he was, he

reacted instantly.

“Chiara.”

She shook her head, stepped back, but he put his arms around her and drew her against him. She

let him do it; the sooner she convinced him she was fine, the sooner he’d let her go.

She could feel the heat coming from him. Feel the hardness of his male body. Smell his male

scent. Fear clogged her throat. He seemed to know it and he began whispering to her as he had a

few minutes ago. She had to admit he had calmed her then, but she’d been in a state of shock. It

was his warmth that had steadied her.

She told herself that a blanket would have had the same effect.

Still, she felt herself responding to his soothing touch, to his voice. She sighed, shut her eyes, felt one of his hands thread into her hair, cup her head, lift her face to his…

Chiara jerked back. “Do not touch me!”

Rafe lifted his hands from her with exaggerated care. She was looking at him as if he was a serial

killer. Undoubtedly, the lady had a problem. But it wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t his problem.

The minute they reached New York, he’d phone his lawyer and tell her to get started on

whatever had to be done to end this sham of a marriage.

The sooner he was out of this mess, the better.

CHIARA’S first glimpse of New York City almost took her breath away.

Lights, what seemed like millions of them, lay winking beneath the plane like sparkling

diamonds on black velvet. As the jet dropped lower, she could see that the lights were moving.

They were lights from automobiles racing along endless intersecting highways.

Where were all these people going in the middle of the night? It was the middle of the night,

American time. East Coast time. She would have to remember that. This was not like Italy,

where the hour was the same if you were in Rome or Florence or Palermo.

Not that she’d ever been to Rome or Florence. Not that she’d ever been anywhere.

It should have been exciting, the realization that she was about to land on another continent, in a

city she’d read of and dreamed about. But it wasn’t.

It was terrifying.

She wasn’t here by choice, she was here as the unwilling bride of a stranger. She knew nothing

about her husband. No, she thought, swallowing hard as the plane descended, that was not true.

She did know something about him. She knew that he was a man who bore her father’s stamp of

approval.

That could only mean he was a hoodlum, just like her father.

Except—except, he wasn’t really like her father. He could be cold and hard, but sometimes there

was a tenderness to him, too. And he was beautiful. She knew it was a strange word to use to

describe a man but none other suited him. His height. His body. His face, Dio, his face, those

hard, masculine angles and planes, that firm mouth…

Firm. Warm. And soft, so soft against hers…

The plane touched down, bumping delicately against the runway. The captain made a pleasant

announcement, welcoming them to New York. Chiara, fumbling with her seat belt, rose quickly

to her feet. The plane was still moving along the taxiway as she started blindly up the aisle.

A strong hand closed lightly on her elbow.

“I’m happy to see you’re in such a hurry to reach your new home,” her husband said.

She could hear the derision in his voice, feel the possessiveness of his grasp. Her heart thumped.

God only knew what lay ahead.

Whatever it was, she would face it with courage. If life had taught her anything, it was that you

must never show weakness to your oppressor.

Finally the plane came to a stop. The door shushed open. Chiara stepped out into the North

American night.

She’d heard all about security procedures, but they evidently didn’t apply to powerful American

gangsters. Her husband led her into a small building. He presented their passports to a man who

hardly glanced at them. Minutes later they made their way out to a waiting automobile. A

uniformed driver stood beside it.

Her steps faltered and her husband’s hand tightened on her elbow.

“Keep moving,” he said coldly.

As if she had a choice.

What had the poet said in the Divine Comedy? Something about abandoning hope, all those who

entered here.

One last, free breath and Chiara stepped into the back of the limousine.

The big car moved swiftly through the night.

So far, so good, Rafe thought—assuming you discounted the fact that his wife was sitting beside

him like a prisoner being driven to her execution.

At least there hadn’t been a reception committee waiting, something he’d half expected. He’d

figured Cordiano would have phoned his father. Cesare would have told the family….

What fun that would have been.

The old man gloating. His mother going from being upset that there hadn’t been a big wedding to

planning a party that would rival anything Manhattan had ever seen. His sisters teasing him

unmercifully. And his brothers…

Lord, his brothers! Better not even to go there.

But the reception committee hadn’t materialized. Clearly, Cordiano had not contacted Cesare.

Rafe had no idea why, and frankly he didn’t much care. What mattered was that he had some

breathing room. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he’d call his lawyer, start the procedure that

would return his life to normal. No matter what he’d told Chiara, he wanted a divorce every bit

as much as she did.

The drama on the plane, all that stuff about not giving her a divorce? Meaningless. He’d been

ticked off, that was all, and he’d made a threat he had no intention of keeping.

He wanted out.

Traffic was light, this time of night. The big car moved smoothly along the highway, sped along

Fifth Avenue and drew to a stop before his building. The doorman greeted them politely; if he

found the sight of a woman wrapped in a coat like the kind old ladies wore in bad foreign films

unusual, he was too well trained to let it show.

“Do you need help with your bags, Mr. Orsini?”

I need help with my life, Rafe thought, but he tossed him a polite “No, thanks” and headed for

his private elevator, his carry-on hanging from his shoulder, Chiara’s old-fashioned leather

suitcase clutched in one hand, the other wrapped around her elbow. It would have made things

easier to let go, but he knew better.

The last thing he needed tonight was to end up running down Fifth Avenue after her.

They rode the elevator in silence. Nothing new there. They’d made the trip from the airport the

same way. The door slid open when they reached his penthouse. Rafe stepped from the car.

Chiara didn’t. He rolled his eyes and quickstepped her into the foyer. The elevator door shut;

Rafe sent it to the lobby level and let go of his wife’s arm.

“Okay,” he said briskly, “we’re home.”

He winced. What a stupid remark, but what else was there to say? He dropped their bags,

shrugged off his jacket, checked the little stack of mail on the table near the entryway, checked

his voice mail, gave Chiara time to say something, do something, but when he turned around she

was standing precisely where he’d left her, except she’d backed up so that her shoulders were

pressed against the silk-covered wall.

She looked exhausted and terrified, lost in the awful black coat. Defiance, or an attempt at it,

glittered in her wide eyes, but the overall effect was—there was no other word for it—pathetic.

Despite himself, he felt a surge of pity along with the gnawing realization that there was no point

in being angry with her. Never mind his accusations. The truth was unavoidable. Neither of them

had wanted this marriage.

She was as trapped as he. More so, maybe. He, at least, was on his own turf. She, however, was

in a place she didn’t know, a country she didn’t know…

Hell, he thought, and cleared his throat. “Chiara?” She looked at him. “Why don’t you, ah, why

don’t you take off your coat?”

She didn’t answer. Okay. He’d try again.

“Would you, ah, would you like something to eat?”

Nothing. His jaw tightened. She wasn’t going to help him one bit.

“Look,” he said, “I know this isn’t what either of us wanted—”

“It is what you wanted,” she said coldly.

“Me? Hell, no. Why would you think—”

“You won’t agree to a divorce.”

“Yeah. Right.” Rafe ran his hand through his hair. “Look, about that—”

“The one thing I promise you, signor, is that I will never be a real wife to you!”

“Damn it, if you’d just listen—”

“You can force me to remain your property.” Her chin rose. “You can force me to do a lot of

things, but I will never let you forget that I do them unwillingly.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “Are we back to talking about sex?”

The rush of color to her cheeks was answer enough. Why did her vow make him so angry? He

had no intention of taking her to bed. Why would he when he could scroll through his