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soon.”

“And?”

“And I do not wish her to find us like this.”

More rustling. Was he getting out of bed? Please, no. Let him stay where he is. At least, let him

put on some clothes.

“Not a problem, sweetheart. Mrs. O’Hara doesn’t come in today. Even if she did, she never

comes into my bedroom. Well, into a bedroom with a closed door.”

“Certainly not. I am sure she is under strict orders not to disturb you and whatever woman you

have brought home for the—”

“Is that what’s troubling you?”

“No. It is not. Why would it trouble me?” Why, indeed? Why had she even said such a foolish—

He came up behind her, dropped his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Are you trying to count all

the women who’ve spent the night with me?”

“No,” she said again. “I already told you that.”

Slowly he turned her toward him. Her heartbeat quickened. Yes, he was naked. Beautifully

naked, his shoulders and arms taut with muscle, a whorl of dark hair over his hard-planed chest,

a flat abdomen leading down to his sex.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” he said quietly. “There’ve been women here.”

Why did the admission hurt? “Really, Raffaele, you owe me no explanation.”

“Maybe not. But it’s important to me that you understand. I’ve never spent a night like this one,

sweetheart. And I’ve never awakened wishing the night had not yet ended.”

She didn’t answer. She wouldn’t even meet his eyes. Something was wrong, but Rafe had no

idea what that something was.

“Chiara.”

He put his hand under his wife’s chin and lifted her face to his. Yes. She was troubled. So was

he. Something had changed inside him, during the long night. It had to do with their making love

but there was more to it than that. He wished to hell he knew what it was, but whatever had

changed, whatever he felt, was just out of reach.

He only knew that he was happy.

Incredibly happy.

He said Chiara’s name again, bent his head and kissed her. At first she didn’t respond. Then she

sighed and kissed him back.

He smiled. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he said softly.

Her smile was tremulous. “Good morning, Raffaele.”

His eyes moved over her face. As always, it was bare of makeup and it hit him that he couldn’t

recall seeing a woman without makeup, even after a long night in bed. Falco joked about it. The

5:00 a.m. face, he called it, because it was always freshly painted on by the time a man opened

his eyes. Women were programmed, Falco said, to wake at dawn so they’d have time to scrub off

last night’s war paint and put on today’s.

Chiara had put nothing on her face. She hadn’t fixed her hair, either, as women always did. It

went with the 5:00 a.m. face—the perfect straight fall or the artfully tumbled curls.

Not his wife. Her hair was a dark nimbus of silk.

Rafe’s gut clenched. It was tough to decide what he wanted most right now. To carry her back to

bed and make love to her, or simply to hold her close in his arms.

And there it was again, that sad expression in her lovely eyes. Did she regret their long,

wonderful night?

“Sweetheart?” He hesitated. “Are you sorry we made love?”

He’d expected a quick answer, a smile and a no, and maybe a touch of her lips against his. But

the seconds slipped past, and just when he thought he was going to go crazy, she shook her head

and melted against him.

“The thing is,” she said, in a small voice, “the thing is, I do not understand any of this.”

His sense of relief was enormous. He pulled back, just far enough so he could see her face, and

flashed a wicked, sexy grin.

“Which part don’t you understand, baby? I’ll be happy to help.”

“I am serious, Raffaele. I mean, we hardly know each other. Our marriage is not…” She couldn’t

say it, and wasn’t that silly? “Our marriage is not a normal one. We are only together because

you were my Sir Galahad.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I doubt if Galahad’s armor was as tarnished as mine.”

“And that is another thing.” Her voice was low. “Your…your occupation.”

His eyebrows rose. “Well, I’ll admit, lots of people don’t think much of guys in my business

right now, but—”

“You have been so good to me. So gentle.” Her eyes searched his. “So how could you be one of

them?”

“One of who?”

“You know. You are part of…of—What is it called here? My father’s organization. Your

father’s. How could you be you and be part of that, as well?”

It took a couple of seconds before he figured it out. She still thought he was a hoodlum. He

would have laughed, but he sensed that this wasn’t really funny.

“Okay,” he said briskly, “here’s what we’re gonna do. Shower. Get dressed. Then we’ll go out

for breakfast and after that, I’ll show you what it is I do for a living. What I really do for a living, sweetheart, as opposed to what you think I do.”

“I know what you do, Raffaele. Didn’t I just tell you that?”

“Yes. You did.” He kissed her. Just for good measure, he kissed her again. “And,” he said softly,

“I can see that it really matters to you.”

“Of course it matters,” she said with indignation. “I—You and I—we did things…”

“Amazing things,” he said huskily. “Incredible things.” He gave her a slow, tender kiss. “And

we’ll do them again, sweetheart, but first I’m going to show you who I really am.”

“I keep telling you—”

He silenced her with another kiss. “I know you do,” he said gently. “And now, I’m telling you,

baby. Give me the benefit of the doubt, okay?”

Chiara nodded. “Okay,” she murmured, because maybe she was wrong about him. She had to be

wrong. How could she, of all people, have made love with a man who was as evil as her father?

How could she have lain in his arms?

Most of all, she thought, most of all…

Most of all, how could she be falling in love with him?

Rafe wanted her to shower with him.

She refused.

He knew it would take him less than a minute to change her mind. His wife was the most

responsive woman he’d ever been with. All he had to do was touch her, kiss her. But if they

ended up back in bed, he’d feel even guiltier about how many times he’d made love to her during

the night.

So he made do with a kiss. Well, a few kisses. Her eyelids. Her cheeks. Her delectable mouth

and, finally, her breasts. She put up a little struggle, a couple of You must not, Raffaele whispers,

but she moaned when he tugged away that ratty dress she clutched like a shield and touched his

lips to first one delicate nipple and then the other.

Stopping was sheer hell, but knowing she didn’t want him to stop was a gift that made it

worthwhile.

“Later,” he said softly, and then he spun her toward the door and told her to hurry up and get

ready to go out.

She bristled.

“I do not take orders, Raff—Oh!”

It was the reaction he’d hoped for, the indignant “Oh” when he swatted her lightly on her naked

butt—she was clutching her dress again and she seemed to have forgotten it only covered her

front—and then a shocked gasp when he followed it up with a quick kiss on that same place.

She all but ran for the bathroom. He chuckled. He knew he’d pay for it later.

At least, he hoped he would.

Twenty minutes later he was showered and dressed.

Jeans. A dark blue sweater and a leather jacket, because the day looked bright but he could see

the tops of the trees in the park swaying under the wind. He scooped up his keys and wallet, then

headed downstairs. Chiara wouldn’t be ready, of course. He knew women. She would need

another twenty, thirty minutes. He’d wait for her near the elevator. It was safer than waiting for

her upstairs where all he had to do was go down the hall, turn the doorknob to her room…

But his wife was waiting for him. She’d tamed her hair, damn it, pulling it back into another of

those knots, and she was wearing one of those black dresses.

Something must have shown in his face. She blushed a little, brushed her hand down the length

of the dress.

“I know this is not what New York women wear, but—”

Rafe wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her. It was the kind of opening he’d been

waiting for, and he wasn’t about to let it go by.

“Breakfast can wait,” he said. “First we’ll deal with what New York women wear.”

It was still early. Too early for Saks to be open but why would that stop him? He had a client

who knew a guy who a guy…

By the time they’d reached the lobby, he’d made a couple of calls on his cell. And by the time

they reached Saks, a polite gentleman in an expensive suit was waiting at a side door to let them

in.

Chiara balked. “What are we doing here, Raffaele?”

“I told you,” he said easily, “we’re going to see what it is New York women wear.”

She dug in her heels. “This must be an expensive store.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Her jaw firmed. “I cannot afford it. I have not had time to find a buyer for my mother’s jewels.”

Did she actually think he’d let her sell those jewels? She was his wife. For now, anyway. And a

husband supplied his wife’s clothes.

“You can argue with me later,” he said, and he took her hand and led her inside the store.

Her soft ooh’s and aaah’s made him smile as the man in the suit led them through displays of silk

scarves and accessories, past endless counters of perfume and cosmetics until they reached the

elevators. One was waiting, and the three of them stepped inside.

“Where do we get off?” his wife whispered.

A good question. He hadn’t asked; he’d simply told the guy his client had put him in touch with

that he wanted to buy a few things for a lady…

The doors opened. An acre of garments stretched ahead but—Rafe breathed a sigh of relief—a

guide was waiting.

Well, a salesclerk. A saleswoman. An associate. Whatever you called an angel who greeted you

with a smile and gave no sign that her newest customer looked like she’d stepped off the ancient

streets of Sicily.

“Good morning,” she said pleasantly. “My name is Nella. How may I help you?”

Rafe made his first mistake. He asked Chiara what she needed.

Her chin came up. “Nothing!”

He nodded. “And maybe that’s just as well,” he said, eyes wide with innocence. “I mean, even if

you did need, oh, I don’t know…let’s say, some sweaters. Jeans. A jacket. A couple of

dresses…”

“I just said, Raffaele, I do not need—”

“Right. And I said that was good because I don’t think they carry your size here.”

“Raffaele. Perhaps you did not—” Her brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t, do you, Nella?” He looked at the saleswoman. “You don’t have anything, well, um,

anything in a size big enough for my wife?”

Nella’s lips twitched. “Well, Mr. Orsini, I must admit, I’d have to check.”

Chiara was bristling.

“I am a small size,” she said coldly. “A very small size. I am not a stick, which is perhaps the

way you prefer your women, Signor Orsini, but I can assure you—”

“What you are,” Rafe said, pulling her into his arms, “is gorgeous.” He kissed her. And kissed

her. Nella bit back a smile and drifted toward a display of cashmere sweaters. When he finally

ended the kiss, what he wanted more than his next breath was to tell Nella to go away, but he

behaved himself, pointed his wife toward the saleswoman and stepped safely out of the line of

fire.

It was a new experience, sitting on a sofa too small and dainty for a man his size, quietly asking

himself what in hell he was doing.

He had bought things for women before. Necklaces. Bracelets. Flowers and perfume and

chocolate. Okay, correction. He’d had his PA buy them. He had never been part of the selection

process.

A new experience, absolutely.

He felt weird at first, sitting there like some kind of potentate, nodding each time Chiara

appeared. Appeared was too generous a word. Nella sort of prodded her out of the dressing

room. At the start, anyway.

After a while, though, as the parade of cashmere sweaters and jeans, wool trousers and silk

blouses, long dresses and short dresses kept going, there seemed to be less prodding and more,

well, more prancing.

She might never admit it, but his wife was enjoying this game of dress up.

So was he.

She looked spectacular in everything and when Nella began adding shoes and boots with heels

high enough to make him salivate, he wondered why nobody had ever come up with an

evening’s entertainment called Watching a Beautiful Woman Parade before Her Lover.

Parade before her husband.

Well, he wasn’t. Not really. He wasn’t anybody’s husband. He wouldn’t be, not for a very long

time, certainly not at the behest of his old man.

“…the last one, Raffaele.”

Rafe blinked. His wife stood before him. Her hair had come loose of that abominable knot. It

spilled over her shoulders like long waves of dark silk. She wore a cashmere sweater the color of

garnets, tight jeans and black leather boots that could only look better than they already did if

she’d worn them without the sweater and the jeans and, damn it, he was on the verge of

embarrassing himself.

“What?” he said, and cleared his throat.

“I said, this is the last outfit. You must decide which one we should buy.”

He knew there was only one correct answer. He also knew better than to offer it in front of her.

Instead, he rose to his feet.