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him…

Somebody bumped into them. Rafe blinked, clasped Chiara’s hand and set off at brisk pace.

La Grenouille.

That was the name of the restaurant he took her to.

Chiara knew it meant frog, though why anyone would name a place so elegant after so humble a

creature was beyond her.

She also understood what Raffaele did not.

She was as out of place here as, well, as a frog.

Everyone was looking at her. Okay. Maybe not everyone, but they might as well have been. The

diners were as upscale as the restaurant, the women all fashionably dressed, their faces and hair

testament to time spent in the city’s finest salons.

What must they think of her in her ugly black dress, ugly black shoes, ugly black coat? Not that

it mattered. Her Raffaele was an amazing man, but he would never get a table here. It was too

crowded. And then there was the way she looked…

But they did get a table. Immediately. A banquette, and she knew, instinctively, it was a coveted

spot. Waiters appeared. Busboys. Menus, wine lists…

She told Raffaele to order for her.

It was enough to watch him select a wine, a meal, to watch him smile when she bit into her

salmon and offered a sigh of approval.

And it was more than enough to watch the women watching him, their covetous glances turning

to disbelief when they turned their attention to her.

Yes, she thought, her chin lifting, oh, yes, I am with this man. This beautiful man who is

generous and kind and caring.

Was that why the waitstaff deferred to him? Or was it because of something darker? Was her

Raffaele’s power similar to that of her father?

Chiara’s meal, until now so perfect, suddenly seemed inedible.

“Chiara?”

She looked up. Raffaele was watching her. He looked troubled.

“Sweetheart, if you don’t like what I ordered for you—”

“No. No, it is fine. I am…I am tired, I think. All that walking…”

He was on his feet in a second, helping her from her chair, dropping a stack of bills on the table.

The captain hurried toward them. Was everything all right?

No, Chiara thought, everything was not all right. She was married to a man who was everything

she despised…except, she was not really married to him and she did not really despise him.

What she felt for him was—It was—

A tremor went through her. Raffaele curved his arm around her.

“I’ll get a taxi,” he said softly, “and we’ll go home.”

She nodded. Except, it wasn’t her home, it was his. This was all temporary. And that was good,

was it not? Of course it was. She had no place in Raffaele Orsini’s life. She didn’t want a place

in it. She didn’t, didn’t, didn’t…

Oh, God.

She did.

When they reached his place, he wanted to call his doctor.

Chiara refused. She was still pale but at least she had stopped trembling.

“I am tired, Raffaele, that is all. A night’s sleep and I’ll be fine.”

She went to her room. He went out to his. It was still early. He thought about phoning Falco. Or

Nicolo. Thought about opening his BlackBerry and phoning a woman. The one he’d met the

night he’d ended things with Ingrid…

Instead, he undressed, put on a pair of sweats and turned on the TV. Watched an old football

game on ESPN. An even older movie on HBO. Clicked through the zillion channels that had

absolutely nothing worth viewing and finally tossed the damned remote aside in disgust.

Taking Chiara out today had been a stupid idea.

She wasn’t his guest any more than she was his wife. She was an encumbrance. A beautiful

encumbrance, but that didn’t change a thing. The sooner he called Sayers’s law partner, the

better. He’d get a couple of hours’ sleep and do it first thing in the morning.

But he couldn’t sleep. Just as well because somewhere around dawn he got an idea. A really

good one.

He had that place on Nantucket. Why not put it to good use? Phone the couple who looked after

it when he wasn’t there, tell them to prepare for a guest, arrange for the helicopter service he

occasionally used to fly Chiara to the island.

Brilliant, he thought as he showered and dressed, then went down the hall to her room and

knocked on the door. She would be there. He would be here. No more nonsense, no more

temptation—

The door swung open. Rafe stared at his wife. She was wearing another ugly outfit, her face was,

as always, bare of makeup, her hair was loose and wild, still damp from the shower.

“Raffaele,” she said shakily, “I am so sorry I spoiled our evening…”

Rafe groaned, hauled her into his arms and kissed her, and when she rose on her toes and kissed

him back, he knew there wasn’t a way in the world he was going to send her anywhere.

“Baby,” he said gruffly, “you don’t owe me an apology.”

“Yes. I do. I thought—I suddenly thought that all this made no sense. You. Me. Our marriage…”

Who you are.

The words ran through her mind but she didn’t speak them. For now, it was enough to know who

her Raffaele seemed to be.

A man in whose arms she felt safe and wanted.

For as long as it lasted, she would not think of anything more than that.

They had breakfast.

She cooked. Bacon. Eggs. Toast. He ate it all, every bite, and never once thought about the

grapefruits languishing in the refrigerator. But he made the coffee, teasing her about it until she

laughed and said he had to buy an espresso pot and she would show him how to make real

coffee.

Then they went out to see the city. Because, Rafe decided, what was the sense in asking Sayers’s

partner to start the ball rolling? Surely, waiting another few days wouldn’t be a problem.

They rode the subway. Up to the Bronx, out to the end of the line in Brooklyn. It was a warm

day. They strolled the boardwalk at Coney Island. The rides were closed, but Rafe told Chiara

what the big amusement park was like when it was open, what it had been like years ago when

he and his brothers had played hooky a couple of times and spent the day here.

“Hooky?”

“Yeah. You know. Cut school.”

She didn’t understand that, either, so he explained. It made her laugh.

“A couple of times, huh?”

He grinned and said, well, yeah, just a couple of times. The other times, they’d gone to other

places.

He told her about Dante. And Nicolo. And Falco. She said, wistfully, that it must have been nice,

growing up with brothers. He said there were times they were a pain in the—in the behind but

that mostly they were great guys.

Around noon he suggested they head back to Manhattan to have lunch.

Chiara cast a longing look at Nathan’s hot dog stand.

“I do not suppose,” she said, “I do not imagine you would prefer to have—”

“Hot dogs?” Rafe laughed, picked her up, swung in a circle with her while she tried to keep a

serious face as she demanded he put her down. “A kiss, and I will,” he said, and letting her go

after that one modest peck on the lips was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

They went into Nathan’s. He ordered his hot dog with mustard. She ordered hers with sauerkraut.

And onions. And relish.

“May I have French fries, too, please, Raffaele?”

He wanted to tell her she could have anything she wanted, that she already had—that she already

had—

“Fries,” he told the kid behind the counter, and told himself to stop thinking, because wherever

his head was taking him made absolutely no sense at all.

He’d heard people say that seeing the city with someone who’d never seen it before was eye

opening.

Seeing it with his Chiara was more than that. It was wonderful. It was amazing. It was incredible.

It was agony.

The days flew by, and he knew they were living on borrowed time. No matter how many places

he showed her, how many little parks and mews they explored, no matter how many chestnut

vendors his wife charmed by telling them their chestnuts were perfectly roasted, this was all

going to end, and soon.

A good thing, of course. He had his life to lead. That he hadn’t gone to the office in days, that he

had no desire to go to it, well, that was not good.

Neither was taking so many cold showers.

What choice did he have? A man walked a beautiful woman to the door of her room every night,

kissed her, told himself the kiss would be on the cheek or on the forehead and, instead, ended up

capturing her lips with his, ended up with her arms wound tightly around his neck and her sweet,

lush body pressed to his…

A man had that happening to him, the only way to save his ass was to stumble down the hall and

step into a long, icy shower. Well, if that was the price he had to pay for hours of laughter and

companionship—companionship with a woman!—he’d pay it.

The truth was, he loved everything they did. Going to the museums. Walking in the park. Even

riding the upper deck of a sightseeing bus. He’d felt like a jerk at first. Then his Chiara had

turned her shining, excited face to his and he’d gone from feeling stupid to feeling like a lucky

man.

The one thing they hadn’t done, the one thing he longed to do, was buy his wife new clothes to

replace those awful things she kept pulling out of her seemingly bottomless suitcase.

But he wasn’t a fool. His Chiara was proud. If he so much as suggested buying her new stuff, he

knew he might hurt her. And he’d sooner have slit his throat than do that. Besides, she was

beautiful to him just as she was and anytime he caught some idiot looking at her and smirking,

Rafe turned the smirk to panic with one cold glance.

So, the days were perfect. But there was, inevitably, that time each evening he left Chiara at her

bedroom door.

He was a healthy, heterosexual male with healthy appetites. He’d wanted a lot of women in his

life…but he had never wanted one the way he wanted her. His body ached for her. Well, why

wouldn’t it?

The problem was, his heart ached, too.

Crazy, he knew, because sex and desire had nothing to do with the heart.

That was what he was busy telling himself at the end of yet another long day. They’d had fun but

without warning, over dinner at a little place in Chinatown, somewhere between the steamed

dumplings and the Szechuan beef, Rafe looked at his wife and that aching heart of his suddenly

hardened.

What kind of game was she playing?

This was her fault. All of it. That they were married. That they were in this mess. That he was

going crazy, torn between wanting to drag her into his bed and believing he had to treat her as if

she were made of glass.

And she knew it. Women always knew these things.

What did it all mean? Was it an act? The country mouse bit. The give-me-the-simple-life thing.

The hot kisses that she had to know ended for him in the kind of anguish he hadn’t experienced

since he was sixteen.

Was it an act?

What else could it be? he thought coldly. And while she was in the middle of saying something

about something—who gave a damn what—he tossed his chopsticks on his plate and got to his

feet.

Chiara looked up. “Raffaele?”

“It’s late,” he said gruffly. “And I’m going back to work tomorrow.” He hadn’t known that until

he said it, but, by God, it was one damned fine idea. He yanked out his wallet, tossed some bills

on the table. “Let’s go.”

She was staring at him. He didn’t blink, not even when her eyes began to glitter. Not tears, he

told himself. A trick of the light. Or maybe a trick of hers.

“Let’s go,” he repeated, and she put down her chopsticks and stood up.

By the time they got a taxi, she was crying. Silently, but she was crying. Was she upset because

he’d pulled aside the curtain and taken a good look at what was behind it?

Frankly, he didn’t care. This was it. No more. Sayers would be back tomorrow. Perfect timing.

He’d phone her, set the divorce in motion, and that would be that.

They rode the taxi in silence, took the elevator to his place the same way. Was she still crying?

He couldn’t tell. Her head was turned away; her dark hair hid her face. Good. He’d looked at that

face once too often.

When they stepped into the foyer of his penthouse, she swung toward him.

“Raffaele.” Her voice trembled. Resolutely he folded his arms over his chest. “Raffaele. What

did I do?”

“Nothing,” he said calmly. “I’m the one. I should have dealt with reality sooner. We’re nothing

to each other, Chiara, just two people forced into something neither of them wanted by two old

men. Well, it’s time to stop the charade.”

She winced. He felt his throat constrict but, damn it, somebody had to say it.

She looked away. A long moment passed. Then she turned her face to his. Her expression

startled him. She was calm. Composed. She looked…she looked relieved.

“Thank you for speaking the truth.” There was no tremor in her voice now. No tears in those

violet eyes. “And you are right. There is no sense in continuing this…this charade. I would be

grateful if you phoned your attorney tomorrow.”

He nodded. She went up the stairs. He watched until she vanished from sight, heard her door

open, heard it close…

And knew he had just lost the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Chiara,” he said, and then he shouted her name and ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time,

racing down the hall, throwing open the door to her bedroom. “Sweetheart. Chiara, I didn’t mean