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could take a step that would free them both, might be a challenge. She had a small fortune to

offer him in exchange for a divorce. Her mother had left her all her jewelry. Her mother had

never worn any of it. Vanity, she’d said, was a sin. But Mama had not been completely

unworldly. She’d hidden her jewels, told Chiara where to find them in case, someday, she should

need what they might buy.

Today that time had come.

She had the jewels hidden in the bottom of the small suitcase she’d packed. The American could

have them all if he would grant her her freedom.

Still, she had to phrase her argument properly, not dent his macho ego.

Her throat, her mouth had gone dry. Unconsciously she swept the tip of her tongue lightly over

her lips.

“And,” she continued, “this isn’t what I want. What either of us wants.”

He said nothing, and she touched the tip of her tongue to her lips again. Rafe watched her do it,

and a fist seemed to close slowly in his belly.

Did she know what she doing? Was the gesture innocent or deliberate? Her tongue was pink. It

was a kitten’s tongue. It had touched his, however briefly; he could remember the silken feel of

it.

She was still talking, but he had no idea what she was saying. His eyes lifted; he studied her face.

It was bright with animation. She had, as he’d noticed before, some fairly good features.

Good? The truth was she was beautiful.

Those big violet eyes were fringed by long, thick lashes. The straight little nose was perfectly

balanced above a lush, dusty-rose mouth. Her cheekbones weren’t just razor sharp, they were

carved.

Why did she dress as she did? Why did she hold herself so stiffly? Why did she confine what he

now remembered was a silky mane of thick curls in such an unbecoming style? Was it all

illusion? Was it part of the scam?

“Why do you wear your hair like that?”

He hadn’t meant to ask the question. Obviously, she hadn’t expected it. She’d still been talking

about something or other. Now she fell silent in midsentence and stared at him as if he’d asked

her to explain how to solve a quadratic equation. Then she gave a nervous little laugh.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your hair. Why do you pull it back?”

To keep her father’s men from looking at her the way this man was looking at her now, but she

knew better than to tell him that. It wasn’t the same thing, anyway. When Giglio and the others

looked at her, she felt her skin crawl. But her skin wasn’t crawling now. It was…it was…it was

tingling.

Chiara’s hand flew to her hair. “It’s…it’s neater this—”

“Let it loose.”

The American’s voice was rough. His eyes were blue flames. She could see a muscle knotting

and unknotting in his cheek.

Suddenly it seemed hard to breathe. “I don’t…1 don’t see any reason to—”

“The reason is that I’m telling you to do it,” Rafe said, and a shocked little voice inside him

whispered, What in hell are you doing?

It was a good question.

He was not a man who believed in ordering women around. He’d explain that, explain that he’d

only been joking…

“Let your hair loose, Chiara,” he said, and waited.

The seconds crept by. Then, slowly, she put her hands to her hair. The neat bun came undone.

Her hair—thick, lustrous, curling—fell down her back.

The fist in his belly tightened again.

“That’s better.”

She nodded. Cleared her throat. Knotted her hands in her lap.

“As I was saying—”

“It’s warm in here.”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t find it—”

“You don’t need that coat.”

She looked down at herself, then at him. “I’m…I’m comfortable.”

“Don’t be silly.” He reached toward her, caught the coat’s lapels in his hands. “Take it off.”

Chiara felt her heart leap. She was alone with this stranger. Completely alone, in a way she had

never been alone with a man before. Enzo, yes. Her father. San Giuseppe’s old, half-demented

priest. But this was different.

This man was young. He was strong. He was her husband.

That gave him rights. Privileges. She knew about those things, oh God, she knew…

“The coat.” His voice was harsh. “Take it off.”

Heart pounding, she unbuttoned her coat and shrugged it from her shoulders.

“Listen to me,” she said, and hated the way her voice shook. “Signor Orsini. I do not want to be

your wife any more than you want to be my husband.”

“And?”

“And we are trapped. You had no choice but to marry me and—”

His eyes narrowed again. She had already learned enough about him to know that was not a good

sign.

“Is that what you think?”

“Your father wanted it.” He said nothing and she hurried on. “And my father wanted it. So—”

“So, I did it to please them both?”

“Yes. No. Perhaps not.” She was losing ground; she could sense it. The thing to do was speak

more quickly, make him see that she understood why he’d done what he’d done and that he

could gain by undoing it. American gangsters could be bought. She had watched enough films to

know a great deal about America, and this was one of the things she knew.

“Perhaps my father made promises to you. Perhaps he said he would reward you.”

He sat back. Folded his arms again. Watched her, waited, said nothing, everything about him

motionless, his body, his face, nothing moving but that damnable muscle in his cheek.

“Did he offer you a reward, signor? I can make a better offer.”

The corners of his lips curved. “Can you,” he said, very softly.

“As soon as we get to America, we will end the marriage. It is an easy thing to do in your

country, yes?”

He shrugged. “And you walk away. From me. From your charming father. From that miserable

little town. Everybody lives happily ever after. Right?”

He understood! The relief was enormous. “Yes,” she said, with a quick smile. “And you get—”

“Oh, I know what I get, baby. But I’d get that, anyway.”

Chiara shook her head. “I don’t under—”

“That black thing you’re wearing.”

Confused, she looked down at herself again, then at him. “The black thing? You mean, my

dress?”

“What’s under it?”

She blinked. “Under…?”

“Give me a break, okay? You’re not deaf. Stop repeating what I say and answer the question.

What’s under that dress?”

Color heated her face. “My…my undergarments.”

He grinned. She almost made the old-fashioned word sound real. “Silk? Lace? Bra? Panties?”

His smile tilted. “Or is it a thong?”

Chiara shot to her feet. “You’re disgusting!”

“You know, it took me a while but I finally figured it out. This get-up. The clothes, the hair, the

‘Don’t touch me’ all but painted on your forehead—it was all for me, wasn’t it?”

She swung away. His hands fell hard on her shoulders and he spun her to him. He wasn’t smiling

anymore; his face was hard, his eyes cold.

“The real Chiara Cordiano is the one I kissed in that car.”

“You are pazzo! Crazy! Let go of me. Let go of—”

Rafe bent his head and kissed her. It was a stamp of masculine power and intent, and when she

tried to twist away from him, he caught her face between his hands and kissed her even harder,

forcing her lips apart, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, taking, demanding, furious with her

for the lies, furious with himself for falling for them.

Furious, because he was stupid enough to want to reclaim that one sweet moment when he’d

kissed her and she’d responded.

Except, she hadn’t.

That, too, had been a lie just like everything else, including the way she was weeping now, big,

perfect tears streaming down her face as he drew back.

If he hadn’t known better, he’d have bought into the act.

“Come on, baby,” he said with vicious cruelty, “what’s the point in prolonging this? Get out of

that ridiculous dress. Do what you undoubtedly do best.” His mouth twisted. “Do it really well

and I might just give you that divorce you’re after.”

“Please,” she sobbed, “please…”

“Damn it,” Rafe growled. He’d had enough. He reached out with one hand, grabbed the collar of

her ugly black dress, tore it open from the neckline to the hem…

And saw white cotton.

Sexless, all but shapeless white cotton. Bra. Panties. The kind of stuff his sisters had worn

beneath their school uniforms when they were kids, stuff he and his brothers used to cackle over

when they saw those innocent, girlish garments drying on the line in the backyard.

He stood, transfixed, uncertain. Was this, too, part of the act?

“Don’t,” Chiara whispered, “I beg you, don’t, don’t, don’t…”

Her knees buckled. Rafe cursed, caught his wife in his arms and knew, without question, he’d

gotten everything wrong.

THE cabin spun. The floor tilted. And all Chiara could think was, No, I am not going to pass out

again!

Once in a lifetime was enough. What she needed to do now was fight, not faint.

The American had scooped her into his arms.

“Stay with me,” he was saying. “Come on, baby, stay with me!”

He wanted her conscious when he forced himself on her. That chilling realization was enough to

chase the gray fog from her brain. Chiara summoned up all her strength and began beating her

fists against his shoulders. One blow connected with his chin, and he captured her flailing hands

in one of his and held them tightly against his chest.

“Hey,” he said, “take it easy!”

Take it easy? Take it easy? Maybe the women in his world gave in, but she would fight to what

might well be her last breath because this man was strong. Very strong. No matter what she did,

she could not get free.

“Chiara! Listen to me. I’m trying to help you.”

“Liar! Liar, liar, li—”

“Damn it, are you crazy?”

No, Rafe thought, answering the question himself. Not crazy. She was blind with panic and he

couldn’t much blame her. What in hell had he done, all but tearing off her clothes like that? For

all she knew, what came next would be—

Hell.

He kept one hand clamped around her wrists, used the other to try and pull the edges of the dress

together. It was impossible, especially with her fighting him all the way.

Not exactly the way a man hoped to start his honeymoon. A joke, of course, because this was

never going to be a honeymoon but still…

Her head jerked back.

She had some dangerous moves. He had to remember that. The way she could get her knee up,

for instance, aiming with precision. Getting in close, putting her off balance, would be his only

protection. He swept his arms around her, lifted her off her feet and brought her hard against

him.

“Chiara! Stop fighting me!”

The lady was a hellcat personified.

And she was soft. Very soft. Her breasts were flush against his chest. Her belly was against his

groin. She was still struggling, moving against him, rubbing against him…

Desperate, Rafe sent a searching glance around him. He needed a place to put her down. Crews

on private jets were trained to be discreet but if the attendant chose this minute to see if her

passengers wanted something, explaining what was going on might be, at the least,

embarrassing.

The Orsini plane had a private bedroom and bathroom in the rear of the cabin. Well, there was a

door in the back of this one. He had no idea what was behind it. For all he knew, it might be

locked but it was worth—

Chiara’s sharp little teeth grazed his throat. Okay. Enough was enough. One bite a day was all

she was going to get. Grunting, he upended her, tossed her over his shoulder and strode down the

aisle while his crazy wife panted, raged, pounded the hell out of his back. Please, he thought

grimly when he reached the door, grasped the knob…

Rafe breathed a sigh of relief.

The door opened. And beyond it was some kind of room. Not a bedroom. A lounge. Maybe an

office. He rolled his eyes. Who cared what it was? There was a desk. A chair. A small lavatory

visible beyond a partly opened sliding door. And, best of all, a small leather sofa just made for

accommodating an out-of-control female, he thought, and shouldered the door shut.

He went straight for the sofa. Dumped Chiara on it and stood up.

Bad idea.

She was on her feet and trying to fly past him in a heartbeat. He grabbed her, wrestled her down

onto the sofa again, squatted in front of her and clamped his hands around her forearms.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I am not going to hurt you.”

Chiara bared her teeth. An attack-trained rottweiler might have given him a friendlier response.

Rafe shook his head in frustration. He had a mess on his hands and only himself to blame. He’d

scared the life out of his bride. A joke to call her that, but that was what she was, at least for the time being.

His fault, sure, but how was he to know she’d go off like a roomful of high explosives if he

touched her?

You didn’t just touch her, that sly voice inside him whispered. True. He’d gone at her as if he

were out of control, but whose fault was that, if not hers?

A woman couldn’t play hot and cold. That kiss this morning. That one moment of incredible

surrender. Was he supposed to forget it had happened?

Had it been real? Had it been a ploy to get him on her side? Who in hell knew? And what about

the insults she’d heaped on him, her easy assumption that he was a villain, that she could buy