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He’d hardly closed the phone when it rang. He glanced at the face plate, saw with relief that it

was her.

“Marilyn. Thanks for getting back to me so fast. No, I’m okay. I’m just in a messy situation, is

all. See—” She interrupted. He blinked. “You’re where?”

She was in Istanbul. Five thousand miles away. Something about the first vacation she and her

husband had taken in years, blah-blah-blah, but Rafe didn’t give a damn. All that registered was

that she’d be gone another week.

“A week?” He shook his head as he navigated a particularly crowded stretch of Sixth Avenue.

“Impossible. I have a problem. A personal problem. And—Marilyn?”

The call broke up, then died. Rafe cursed, hit redial. Marilyn picked up and said they had a bad

connection.

“Yeah. I know. Listen, this problem I have—”

She interrupted again, told him to get in touch with her partner. He’d handle things. Rafe shook

his head, as if she could see him. Sayers’s partner was ninety if he was a day, a starchy old guy

who wore a vest, carried a pocket watch and took ten years to shuffle across a room.

Explain to him how he’d come to have a wife who wasn’t a wife? Ask him to expedite things so

they could get divorced quickly because if they spent another day together, he was liable to strip

his wife-who-wasn’t-a-wife out of her ugly black clothes and bare all her soft, sweet flesh to his

eyes and hands and mouth?

“No good,” he growled. “I need you, not your partner.”

It was useless. Sayers was sorry but—The line went dead. Rafe snarled and closed the phone

with a vengeful snap.

Okay. What now? Easy. Get Chiara out from under his roof. A week’s wait was nothing, once

he’d done that. Out of sight, out of mind.

He’d find her a place to live. It was an excellent idea, one that would bolster the fact that the

marriage wasn’t a marriage at all. And how hard could it be to find someplace to stash her? The

city was loaded with real estate agents. He just needed one who’d move his request to the top of

the list.

Of course!

Rafe flipped the phone open, checked his contact list again, hit a button.

“Chilton Realtors.”

“Elaine Chilton, please.”

It was the perfect solution. Why deal with an agent he didn’t know when he had one at his

fingertips? He’d met the Chilton woman somewhere. A party, a dinner. It didn’t matter. She’d

tugged his phone from his hand after he’d taken a call, smiled prettily and programmed in her

number.

“In case you ever need me,” she’d purred.

He hadn’t. He’d been involved with Ingrid at the time but he sure as hell needed her now.

“Hello?”

“Elaine? It’s Rafe Orsini.”

“Well, well, well,” she said in a throaty whisper, “how are you, Mr. Orsini?”

He said he was fine and then he cut to the chase, said he was interested in seeing her.

“It’s urgent,” he said.

She gave a sexy little laugh. “How nice!”

Rafe felt a second’s unease. Were they talking about the same thing?

“Where are you?” she asked.

He told her.

“Perfect. I have a rental a couple of blocks away.”

“What’s it like?”

Another little laugh. “I’m sure you’ll think it’s perfect.” She gave him the address, told him to

meet her there in twenty minutes.

Rafe disconnected, his concerns gone. Perfect? Absolutely. He checked his watch, turned down

Fifty-seventh Street…

Half an hour later, he was striding towards his condo, furious at fate, at life, at his own stupidity.

Elaine Chilton had been waiting for him, all right…on a pale pink sofa in a red silk teddy and

black stilettos, and okay, maybe he hadn’t handled things exactly right. Maybe you didn’t look at

a half-naked woman and say, “Oh sorry! See, what I meant was, I’m interested in finding an

apartment for this woman who’s living with me.”

Definitely a poor choice of words, he thought as he marched into his own apartment building,

glowered at the hapless doorman and stepped into his elevator.

He probably deserved the names the Chilton babe had called him, if not the slap. At least he’d

stopped himself from saying, “Okay, now that that’s out of the way, what about the rental?”

The car shot upward. Next step was to call a hotel. The Waldorf. The St. Regis. Not as homey as

a furnished apartment but who cared? What counted was that Chiara would be there, he would be

here. And as soon as Sayers was in her office, things would start to be okay.

The elevator door slid open. Rafe stepped out—and found Chiara, waiting for him as Elaine

Chilton had been waiting.

Not quite.

No silk teddy. No stiletto heels. No pink sofa. Chiara was seated in his foyer in an Eames chair,

back straight, knees all but locked, hands folded in her lap, dressed in yet another of those

incredibly ugly black outfits.

Then, why did seeing her go through him like a surge of electricity?

“Raffaele.” She rose to her feet, hands still tightly clasped. “I am sorry.”

Her voice was small but her eyes were steady on his. She was that combination of vulnerability

and defiance that got to him every time.

“I seem to say that to you a great deal but…” She licked her lips. He could no more have kept

from following the quick swipe of her pink tongue than he could have kept from breathing. “But

I overreacted. You were simply trying to save me from embarrassment in front of your

housekeeper. I should have understood that.”

Rafe forced his gaze from her mouth. Not a good plan. He looked into her eyes, instead, and saw

that they glittered with unshed tears.

“No,” he said, “it’s my fault. I’ve handled this all wrong. I know what you want and I—” Why

was his voice so rough? He cleared his throat. “I’ve been in touch with my attorney.”

Chiara shook her head. Her hair was still loose. He’d set it free hours ago, when he’d kissed her.

The wildness of her curls was in direct contrast to her black dress and sensible shoes.

“Please, let me finish. This is difficult for me but I must say it.” She drew a deep breath.

“The…the kissing, Raffaele. It was inexcusable.”

“Yes.” He swiped his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry about that, Chiara. I shouldn’t have—”

“My response, I mean. It was wrong. I have no explanation to offer. I can only say I regret it

and—”

“Don’t,” he said quickly, his voice even rougher. “Don’t regret it, sweetheart. Please.”

“But I…” Color flooded her face. “I should not have kissed you back.”

“Chiara. That was a good thing. A healthy thing. Responding to a man’s kisses. To my kisses.”

“But I do not…I have never…”

Her voice faded. She looked away from him. She’d known this would be difficult, admitting that

what happened whenever he touched her was as much her fault as his, but what she hadn’t

expected was that seeing him would make her feel light-headed. Almost dizzy. Afraid to keep

meeting his gaze because looking into his beautiful blue eyes made her want to…want to…

She felt a light touch on her hair. His hand, stroking the curls back from her temples. His fingers,

threading into the strands. A moan rose in her throat. What was happening? She wanted to sigh

his name, lift her face to his…

“No,” she said quickly, “no, it must not happen again. Those things I did—”

“You kissed me,” he said in a low voice. “And I kissed you. Kissing isn’t wrong, sweetheart.”

Somehow, his hand was cupping her chin. Somehow, her face was lifting to his.

And then his mouth was on hers.

He was kissing her, kissing her gently, and she was kissing him back. She caught his sweater in

her hands, knotted the soft cotton in her fists and rose to him.

His arms swept around her. He gathered her against him and she framed his face with her hands,

her lips soft and warm against his. She was making little sounds, moans of pleasure and desire,

and he knew she was his for the taking.

He had only to lift her into his arms, carry her up the stairs to his bed. What he wanted, what he

had wanted from the first time he’d kissed her, would become reality.

He would make love to her.

Take her innocence.

Take it, and be no better than bastards like her father and Giglio, men who would exploit this

beautiful, brave woman instead of honoring and protecting her.

He kissed her one last time. Then he rested his forehead against hers.

“Chiara.” His voice sounded rusty; he cleared his throat. “Sweetheart. I have a great idea.

Let’s…let’s start over.”

“Start over?”

“Yes. You. Me. The situation we’re in…We don’t have to be enemies, Chiara. We can be

friends.”

She looked baffled. Why wouldn’t she? It was probably the last thing she’d expected him to say.

Hell, it was the last thing he’d expected to say. But it was right, and he knew it.

He would be her friend, not her lover, even if it killed him.

“I would like that,” she said softly. “To start over with you, Raffaele.”

Then she smiled, and he wondered how it was possible for everything good in the world to be

captured in a woman’s smile.

HE KNEW he had to get the two of them out of his apartment.

He was a man, not a martyr. All his good intentions could easily come undone if this sweet,

intimate moment stretched on. So he flashed a quick smile, let go of her and stepped back.

“I,” he said briskly, “am hungry enough to eat a bear.”

She laughed. “I think it would be difficult to find a bear on Fifth Avenue.”

“Oh, I don’t know. This is a pretty amazing city.”

Chiara nodded. “I have read that it is.”

She had read about New York. Read about it, but not seen it. He’d been so wrapped up in his

own selfish misery he hadn’t given a thought to what might make things easier for her.

She’d just given him the answer.

He could show her his town. And in the process keep her at a safe distance. A win-win situation,

he thought, and decided not to waste time. He took her hand, hurried her to the elevator. When

she asked where they were going, he grinned and said they were in pursuit of that bear.

Of course, none of the restaurants he had in mind had bear on the menu, but he had a long list of

favorite places. They’d all be jammed this time of day, but that wasn’t a problem. He’d never

needed a reservation to get a great table. It was one of the benefits of being Rafe Orsini.

When they reached the lobby and he asked the doorman to flag a taxi, Chiara held back.

Rafe looked at her. “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Not true. Something was troubling her; she was biting gently on her bottom lip, the way she

always did when she was upset, and if he kept watching her do it he was going to scoop her into

his arms and ravish her, right here. The hot image made him sound brusque.

“Chiara, look, if you don’t want to do this—”

“Oh, no, Raffaele.” She put her hand lightly on his arm. “I just wondered…could we take the

subway?”

“The what?”

“The subway. I have read about it. It is in the ground. Well, most of it is in the ground. It whisks

people through the city, from one borough to another, from Bronx all the way to the end of the

Brooklyn. Sì?”

She sounded like a tour guide. He wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss her.

“Sì,” Rafe said, smiling. “But it’s the Bronx, and just plain Brooklyn.

“Ah. I see. But it is probably foolish…”

Foolish? That his wife would prefer to ride the subway instead of a taxi? Rafe smiled and took

her hand.

“It’s a great idea,” he said. “I should have thought of it.”

He warned her it was a few blocks’ walk to the nearest subway station. She smiled and told him

she loved to walk. He had never known a woman who said that and meant it, but his Chiara did.

She craned her neck at the skyscrapers, gaped at the shop windows, almost skipped along the

crowded sidewalks.

“Oh,” she said, eyes shining, “I have never seen anything like this!”

No, he thought, watching her. Neither had he.

Rockefeller Center, when they finally reached it, rated a huge gasp.

“The statue of Prometheus!”

Well, hell, was that the name of the big gilded guy? Rafe hadn’t known that. Chiara told him all

about it. The legend. The sculptor. How the statue had come to be placed here. He listened, but

mostly he just heard his wife’s voice. Soft. Silvery. Happy.

That was the word.

She was happy.

So was he.

He had never been so happy in his life, he thought in amazement, and while she was still

bubbling about Prometheus, he swung her into his arms and kissed her, right there in Rockefeller

Center surrounded by thousands of people. Nobody seemed to notice. This was, after all, New

York. But when he finally took his lips from hers and she opened her eyes and he saw how they

were glowing, he thought he might be more than happy, that he was—that he was—

“Hungry,” he said, the word coming out quick and sharp, as if he were a man just realizing he’d

stepped back from the edge of a cliff. “Why don’t we, ah, why don’t we get something to eat?”

His head was spinning. He couldn’t think straight. What was nearby? Where could he take her

that she would enjoy? Because that was what this was all about, wasn’t it? Showing his wife—

this temporary wife—his city? She was his guest. She’d never been to New York before; for all

he knew, after their divorce, she might choose to return to Italy.

No. Damn it, no. She wouldn’t do that. Go all the way across the ocean. Go so far away from