Still, yes was an improvement. She would try not to show her annoyance.
“Signor. We must talk.”
His eyes narrowed to dark blue slits. Chiara was puzzled, but then she realized he was considering what she’d said, as if she’d made a request, when what she’d made was a demand.
She wanted to stamp her foot in fury! What an imbecile! Did he think she was a stray cat he’d taken in? That she would be so grateful she would simply sit quietly and let him do whatever he wished with her life?
She had not signed herself over to this man.
Yes, she’d married him. Heaven knew she had not wanted to do it, but choosing between going to America with a hoodlum and remaining in San Giuseppe with a killer had made her decision easy.
The only surprise was that he’d gone through with the ceremony, such as it was. She’d spent the last few hours trying to come up with a reason; by now, she had several.
Her father had paid him to do it. His father had paid him to do it. Her father had threatened him with what would happen if he didn’t, though she had to admit, that was a slim possibility. Whatever else he was, the American was not a coward.
Perhaps he had finally realized the benefits of marrying the don’s daughter. She had no illusions about her feminine appeal: she was mousy, skinny, nothing at all like the voluptuous females who caught men’s eyes. What she was, was a link to her father, and thus, to power.
Not that the American’s reasons for marrying her mattered.
He’d done it, was what counted, and she’d even felt a rush of gratitude that he had saved her from being given to Giglio—but gratitude only went so far. The bottom line, as they said in all those American movies she watched late at night on TV, was that she had no wish to be married, none to stay married. And from his silence, from the way he looked at her now, she was fairly certain Raffaele Orsini felt the same.
It was time to lay the cards on the table.
She told him exactly that.
“Signor. It is time to lay the cards on the table.”
One dark eyebrow lifted. He seemed amused. “Whose cards?”
Chiara frowned. “What do you mean, whose cards? The cards. Is that not what one lays on the table?”
“Not precisely. They’re either your cards or mine.” That faint hint of amusement—a smirk, was closer to accurate—disappeared from his face. “Sit down.”
“I would rather—”
“Sit,” he barked, jerking his chin toward the leather seat angled toward his.
She bristled. Just as she’d suspected. He thought he owned her. Well, he didn’t, and the sooner he knew that, the better, but there was no sense in getting sidetracked right now.
“Well?”
He had folded his arms across his chest and sat staring at her, his expression unreadable. He’d discarded his suit coat soon after they’d boarded the plane, stripped away his tie, opened the top two buttons of his white shirt and rolled back his sleeves.
The look on his face, the lack of formality in his clothing, his posture… had he done it deliberately to intimidate her? He looked—he looked very masculine. Aggressive. Those wide shoulders, so clearly defined by the fine cotton of his shirt. The strong, tanned column of his throat. The tanned and muscular forearms.
“Let me know when you’re done with the inventory.”
Chiara jerked her head up. His tone was silken, that hint of amusement back on his face. She flushed. Why was he making this so difficult? He had not wanted this marriage any more than she. The only reason she had kept silent the last hours was because she’d assumed he would make the first move.
She knew how it was with men like him. They needed to believe they were in charge, even when they weren’t.
She drew a breath, then let it out. “What you did—asking me to marry you—”
He snorted. “I didn’t ask you anything.”
“No. Not if one wishes to be precise, but—”
“I am being precise.”
“Well, yes. Of course. What I mean is, if you hadn’t proposed—”
“You keep getting that wrong, baby. I didn’t propose.”
“I mean it only as a figure of speech, Signor Orsini.”
“And I mean it as fact. I didn’t ask. I didn’t propose.” His eyes narrowed again. “And yet, surprise, surprise, here we are.”
She nodded, but it was not a surprise at all. Never mind all her speculation. He had been sent to marry her and he had done so. All the rest was meaningless.
“So?”
He was waiting. Fine. She just had to phrase this right.
“Here we are indeed,” she said politely, as if the topic had to do with finding themselves in the same shop instead of in a plane heading for America. “And… and—”
She hesitated. This was the tricky part. Convincing him he had done all he had to do, that now he 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