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“This looks nice,” he said, as casually as possible.

She beamed. “I think so, too.”

He nodded and turned to Nella. “My wife will take these things. In fact, she’ll wear them now.

Just add a jacket. Leather, to match the boots.”

Nella nodded and hurried off. Chiara leveled a look at him.

“Raffaele,” she said, the single word filled with warning.

“What?” he said innocently. “New York’s cool this time of year.”

“I have a coat.”

Nella hurried back with a leather jacket. “Just try this on,” he said. “Please.”

Knowledge of the night they’d shared was in his eyes. Chiara’s expression softened. “I will try it

on, but I am not promising anything.”

She slipped into the jacket and turned to the mirror. Rafe watched her reflection in the glass, saw

her lips form a perfect O, heard her little sigh of pleasure. It struck him that there had not been

much pleasure in his wife’s life. The realization made him want to return to Sicily and shake her

father until his teeth rattled.

The saleswoman raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you like the jacket, sir?”

Rafe took a steadying breath. “I like it a lot.” Forcing a smile, he took his Amex Black card from

his wallet and handed it to her. “We’ll take everything,” he said quietly.

Nella’s eyebrows rose another inch. “Everything?”

“Everything,” he said, putting his finger to his lips. “Have it all delivered to my home.

Understand?”

The woman’s smile was wide and gentle. “I most certainly do, Mr. Orsini.”

Good. Excellent. At least someone understood, because he damned well didn’t. He had a wife

who wasn’t really his wife. A wife he didn’t want. A wife forced upon him by the machinations

of her father and his.

And yet, just looking at her filled him with joy. With delight. With…with—

He frowned and barked Chiara’s name. She spun toward him.

He knew what he had to tell her. That it was getting late. That they had things to do. That he had

no idea why he’d said he’d show her how he actually earned his living because what he was

going to do was phone Marilyn Sayers’s office and demand an immediate appointment so they

could get moving with this divorce thing.

“Raffaele? Did you want to tell me something?”

“Yes,” he said gruffly. “I wanted to tell you…to tell you—” A muscle knotted in his jaw. “I

wanted to tell you that you look beautiful.”

Chiara smiled. “It is the jacket. And the sweater. And—”

“The hell it is,” he said, and then she was in his arms and he was kissing her with a hunger that

exceeded anything he’d ever imagined.

HE MADE a call on his cell phone while Chiara stepped into the cab he’d hailed, told the

doorman to expect a delivery from Saks, that the porter was to take everything to his penthouse

and stack it all in the master bedroom.

Then he climbed into the cab, took his wife’s hand and told the cabby to take them to Balthazar,

a Soho bistro where the morning meal was as much a ritual as an art.

He was greeted warmly by name and led to his usual table. It offered a modicum of privacy,

though privacy was in short supply here, but the crowds, the noise, were part of the charm.

The busboy brought their menus. Chiara said thank you, opened hers but didn’t look at it. She

was too busy looking around the busy room.

Rafe didn’t look at his menu, either. He was too busy looking at his wife.

Lord, how beautiful she was! And it wasn’t the new clothes; it was her. She was beautiful and

filled with life. She’d chattered away almost nonstop once they left Saks, excited by the sights,

the architecture, the crowds.

“Such a city,” she’d said with delight. “So filled with people! Where can they all be going in

such a hurry?”

Where am I going? Rafe had thought.

Not just out to breakfast. He was heading somewhere at the speed of light, a place he had never

been before, and if that made no sense, he was stuck with it. The only sure thing was that he was

heading there because of his wife.

He knew it was foolish to think of her that way, but legally that was who she was. His wife. Mrs.

Rafe Orsini. Mrs. Raffaele Orsini, and when had he come to prefer the sound of his actual given

name? He’d never felt comfortable with it, maybe because it had always been a reminder of his

ancestry and all he’d imagined went with it.

The way his wife said it, “Raffaele” was a benediction. His wife. His beautiful, bright, exciting

wife…

“Oh, Raffaele, this is a wonderful place!”

Chiara was leaning toward him, smiling. He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Do you come here often? It seems a long way from where you live.”

The waiter hovered beside them. Rafe waved him off.

“It is, but my office is just a couple of blocks from here.”

Her smile dimmed. “Your office.”

“Yes. So I’ve gotten into the habit of stopping here for breakfast when I have the chance.”

“You don’t work from home like…like—”

“Like your old man or mine? No. My operation’s too big for that, though there are times I wish I

could.”

“Oh.”

Her “oh” sounded flat. He knew what she was thinking, that his “operation” must be even more

powerful than her father’s. Let her think it. It would only increase her surprise and, he hoped, her

pleasure when she saw the Orsini Brothers building and his handsome office.

“So,” he said briskly, “what would you like for breakfast?”

Chiara looked down at her menu. She could feel the joy in her heart draining away. All this—the

night in her husband’s arms, the shopping trip this morning…

A dream.

She must not forget that again.

No matter what Raffaele made her feel, he was part of a world she hated. He had come to San

Giuseppe to do his father’s bidding because he was a good soldier in the Sicilian sense of the

word.

It was just as well this so-called marriage would end as soon as his attorney returned to the city.

Suddenly the thought of eating made her feel sick. Carefully she put down the menu.

“Actually, Raffaele, I am not very—I am not terribly hungry.”

She tried to pull her hand free of his. He wouldn’t let her. Instead he leaned close.

“Chiara,” he said softly, “the day’s just begun. Don’t sit in judgment on me yet.” He kissed her

palm. “Okay?”

Their eyes met. Her husband looked handsome and earnest and…and, God oh God, she was not

falling in love with him, she was already in love with him. Desperately in love with him, and

suddenly she knew that it didn’t matter if he was a soldier in his father’s organization or not.

Heaven help her, she didn’t care. All that mattered was that she loved him. And she was going to

lose him.

“Chiara? Can you do that? Can you put your trust in me for this?”

She wanted to weep. Or rise from her chair and fling herself into her Raffaele’s arms.

“Sì,” she whispered.

He smiled and said they had to be driving their poor waiter crazy, and would she like him to

order for her? Chiara nodded because she didn’t trust herself to speak.

If she did, she would say words he didn’t want to hear, that she loved him…

That she would always love him, and treasure these days that she had been his wife.

Halfway through the meal, Rafe realized he’d never phoned his PA to tell her he’d be coming in

today.

He’d ignored his schedule all week, but at least he’d phoned her each morning to say he

wouldn’t be in.

He hadn’t even thought of phoning her today.

He’d had other things on his mind this morning, and just remembering those other things made

him want to sweep Chiara into his arms, carry her off and make love to her. Make love with her.

Make her come, and this time, when she cried out his name, he’d tell her—he’d tell her—

The floor seemed to tilt.

Tell her what?

All at once it seemed hard to breathe.

What had happened to all last night’s resolutions? He was too old to let sex, even great sex,

muddle his head. As for what he’d planned, taking Chiara to the Orsini offices…He had to be out

of his mind!

What would he have said to his brothers? How would he have introduced her? Good morning,

how are you guys today and, by the way, this is my wife?

Aside from anything else, what was the point? Why would it matter if she saw him as a

respectable banker or went on believing he was a thug with a good wardrobe? Yes, he was…he

was fond of her. He enjoyed being with her. But the whole arrangement, this supposed marriage,

had the staying power of a dandelion in a windstorm.

Rafe blew out a long, hard breath.

Wow.

All that stuff about not digging yourself further into a hole? He’d come within inches of burying

himself so deep that getting out would have required a bulldozer.

Thank God he’d come to his senses.

He’d hail a cab, have it drive by the office, point the place out to Chiara. She could reach

whatever conclusion she liked about him and his choice of occupations. Then he’d kiss her

because, yeah, the sex was great. But that didn’t mean he had to explain himself to her. So he’d

kiss her, step out of the cab, go to work, let the cabbie take her back uptown. Once he was in his

office, he’d phone Sayers’s office. If she was back, fine. If not, who gave a damn if her partner

creaked when he walked? Hell, a divorce was just a divorce. Any attorney could handle it.

What a relief, that he could suddenly see things with such clarity. He’d been in a fog the past few

days, but the fog had lifted, the sun was out—

“More coffee?” the waiter said.

“No,” Rafe replied. Chiara looked at him in surprise. Had he sounded a little brusque? Maybe,

but suddenly he was a man in a hurry. How could he have let things get so far out of hand? “I

just realized,” he told her, “that I have a couple of appointments later this morning.”

She nodded. Her face lost a little of its animation but she put her napkin beside her plate and rose

to her feet before he could even get to his.

“Or course,” she said politely. “You must work today.”

“Yes, that’s right. So, we’ll just drive by my place—”

“It is not necessary, Raffaele.”

“No. We’ll drive by. Then, uh, then you can go back to the apartment while I—”

His voice trailed away as he peeled off a bunch of bills and dropped them on the table, too much

in a rush, now that he’d come to his senses, to waste time waiting for the check.

A taxi pulled to the curb as they stepped into the street. As soon as its passengers got out, Rafe

reached for the door and motioned Chiara in. He got in after her, gave the driver the address and

sat back. He’d held her hand all the way downtown. Now he sat with his arms folded, saying

nothing.

Chiara was silent, too. He glanced at her once. She was pale. It made him feel lousy. The cab

pulled to the curb. Rafe looked out the window at the familiar building. It had a cast-iron facade,

typical of many of the old buildings in the area, adorned with graceful arches and friezes. He and

his brothers had put hundreds of thousands of dollars into restoring it; it had been named a New

York City landmark and featured in half a dozen architectural magazines after the work was

completed. He was proud of it—they all were—and he realized now he’d been hoping Chiara

would like it, hell, that she’d find it charming, but what did that matter? What did her likes, her

dislikes, her thoughts about him have to do with anything?

She was not part of his life.

He didn’t want her as part of his life.

He wanted out of this mess. This marriage. This ridiculous situation…

“Damn it all,” he growled, and when Chiara looked at him, her eyes blurry with tears, Rafe

pulled her into his arms.

He kissed her hard. Kissed her deep. She kissed him back the same way, her hands clutching at

his shoulders, her tears salty on his lips.

The cabby cleared his throat. “Uh, you want to get out, mister? Or you want to keep going?”

Laughter bubbled from Chiara’s lips. Rafe grinned and leaned his forehead against hers.

“See this building?” he said softly.

She looked out and nodded. “It is a beautiful building, Raffaele.”

“Yeah, well, it’s mine.” His voice was gruff with the pride that comes of knowing you’ve forged

a place in the world and that you did it on your own. “Ours. My brothers and me. Dante, Falco

and Nicolo. We’re in business together. See that brass plaque above the door? Orsini Brothers.

We’re private bankers. Financial advisors. Brokers. Not one of us followed in our father’s

footsteps. You understand?” He cupped her face in his hands. “You didn’t marry a saint, Chiara,

but you didn’t marry a crook, either. You married—you married me.”

Her smile lit her entire face.

“I am glad,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Me, too.”

Rafe drew her close in his arms, gave the driver his Fifth Avenue address, and took his wife

home.

A private elevator was a fine thing.

It meant a man could kiss his wife as soon as the door shut, and by the time the door opened

again, he could have her half-undressed. It meant he could lift her in his arms, carry her into his

living room, tear off his own clothes and the rest of hers and then make love to her on a white

silk sofa with the warmth of the midday sun on them both.

Rafe lingered over Chiara’s every curve. No inch of skin went unkissed. He lavished attention on