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“He won’t. I won’t let him.”

Her mouth trembled. She said something, so quietly he couldn’t hear it, and he cupped her face,

lifted it to his.

“What did you say?”

She shook her head again.

“Chiara. Tell me what you said.”

She took a long, deep breath, so deep that he could see the lift of her breasts even within the

shapeless black dress.

“I said he will do what he wishes, Signor Orsini, once you have gone.”

Was she right? Was this only a temporary respite from her father’s crazed insistence that the only

way to restore the honor she had not lost was by marrying her off?

The sound of slow applause made him look up. Cordiano, smiling, was clapping his hands

together.

“Bravo, Signor Orsini. Nicely done. I see that your father raised you properly. In fact, you are

very much like him.”

Rafe shot a cold look at the other man. “I assure you, Cordiano, I am nothing like my father.”

“It was meant as a compliment, I assure you. You are quick. Strong. Fearless. As for your earlier

refusal to admit that you wronged my daughter…” The don smiled. “That is behind us.”

Maybe he’d been mistaken. Maybe coming to Chiara’s rescue had been enough to set things

straight. Rafe forced an answering smile.

“I’m happy to hear it.”

“Gossip can spread as swiftly as a sirocco in a town like this. And people do not forget things

that steal one’s honor.”

Back to square one.

Rafe looked down at the woman who stood in the protective curve of his arm. She was calmer,

though he could still feel her trembling. His arm tightened around her. What in hell was he going

to do? Of course she was right; as soon as he drove away, the don would force her into a

marriage, if not with the disgraced Pig Man then with someone else. Some hard-eyed, cold-faced

butcher like the ones he’d seen lounging in the castle’s entry hall.

Chiara Cordiano would become the wife of a thief and a killer. She would lie beneath him in her

marriage bed as he forced her knees apart, grunted and pushed deep inside her….

“All right,” Rafe said, the words loud in the stillness of the room.

Cordiano raised an eyebrow. “All right what, Signor Orsini?”

Rafe took a long, seemingly endless breath.

“All right,” he said roughly. “I’ll marry your daughter.”

THE private jet Rafe had rented flew swiftly through the dark night.

He’d arranged for the rental at the airport in Palermo. The alternative—a six-hour wait for a

commercial flight home—had struck him as impossible.

He had no wish to spend a minute more than necessary on Sicilian soil.

The plane itself was very much like the luxuriously appointed one he and his brothers owned; the

pilot and copilot were highly recommended, the cabin attendant pleasant and efficient. She’d

made sure he was comfortable, that he had a glass of excellent Bordeaux on the table beside him,

that filet mignon would be fine for dinner—not that he was in the mood for dinner—and then

she’d faded from sight.

A night flight on a private jet was generally a great place to relax after a difficult day.

But not this time. A muscle in Rafe’s cheek ticked.

This time, he was not alone.

A woman was seated across the aisle. Nothing terribly unusual in that. Women had traveled with

him before. His PA. His attorney. Clients. His sisters. An occasional mistress, accompanying

him for a weekend in Hawaii or Paris.

This woman was none of those things.

She sat wrapped in a black coat even though the cabin was a steady 72 degrees Fahrenheit. She

sat very still, her shoulders back, spine rigid. Last he’d looked, her hands were knotted in her lap.

She was an ill-dressed, tight-lipped stranger.

And she happened to be his wife.

Rafe felt the muscle in his cheek jump again.

His wife.

The words, the very concept, were impossible to grasp. He, the man who had no interest in

marrying, had married Chiara Cordiano. He’d married a woman he didn’t know, didn’t like,

didn’t want, any more than she wanted him.

Rafe shut his eyes, bit back a groan of despair.

How in hell had he let himself get roped into this? Nobody had ever accused him of fancying

himself a knight in shining armor. Well, no—but he couldn’t have just stood by and let her be

handed over to Pig Man.

Assuming, of course, that would really have happened.

Rafe frowned. But would it?

Her father had wanted his daughter to marry an Orsini. The don had no way of knowing he was

not part of Cesare’s organization; Cesare would never have admitted such a thing to an enemy.

Cordiano surely would have figured the marriage would strengthen ties between the old world

and the new at the same time it settled a debt.

Marrying Chiara to the capo, on the other hand, would have accomplished very little, only

ensuring a loyalty that already existed. Why waste her on an underling?

Rafe cursed under his breath.

He’d been scammed.

His father had wanted him to marry his old enemy’s daughter. Freddo Cordiano had wanted the

same thing. But he’d said he wouldn’t, and Cordiano had staged a scene straight from a fairy

tale. Either the prince married the princess, or the ogre got her.

The only question was, had Chiara known about it?

Rafe folded his arms.

Dutiful Sicilian daughter that she was, what if she’d agreed to do her best to make him think

everything that had happened today was real, starting with that ridiculous stuff on the road? A

pair of burlesque bandits, stopping his car…Yes. That would have been good staging. Both

father and daughter would have known it wouldn’t send him running, that if anything, he’d have

been even more determined to reach San Giuseppe.

Even that kiss in the car. Her initial struggle against him, followed by that one sweet sigh of

surrender, the softening of her lips, the rich, hot taste of her…

He’d been had.

Aside from him, the only other person who hadn’t been in on the con was Giglio. Chiara and her

old man had used the capo as neatly as they’d used him.

Rafe narrowed his eyes.

Final proof? The 1–2-3 wedding ceremony. Cordiano had obviously pulled a bunch of high-

powered strings. There’d been no posting of wedding banns, no formalities beyond signing a

couple of papers in front of a mayor who’d all but knelt at the don’s feet. A handful of mumbled

words and, wham, it was done.

Cordiano had beamed. “You may kiss the bride,” he’d said.

Except, of course, Rafe hadn’t.

Chiara had looked up at him. He’d looked down at her. Her eyes had held no expression; her lips

had been turned in. “Do not touch me” had been her message, and he’d come within a heartbeat

of saying, “Trust me, baby, you don’t have a thing to worry about.”

That kiss in the car, that one moment of heat…Easy to explain. The encounter on the road had

left him pumping adrenaline. Danger, sex…One complemented the other. A man could fool

himself into thinking anything when he was in that kind of state.

Rafe sat up straight.

Okay. He understood it all. Not that it mattered. He’d married the woman. Now he had to

unmarry her. Next stop, an annulment. Divorce. Whatever it took.

Problem solved.

Not that he would just abandon his blushing bride. Yes, she’d trapped him, but he wasn’t

blameless. He, the man who prided himself on logical thinking, had not thought logically. The

price for digging yourself out of a hole, even when someone else had handed you the shovel, was

never cheap.

He would do the honorable thing. Arrange a financial settlement. Considering all the effort

Chiara had gone to, hauling him in, she was entitled to it. Then she could return to Sicily and he

could forget all about—

“Signor Orsini.”

He looked up. Chiara stood next to him. He tried not to shake his head at the sight. When they

were kids, his sister Anna had gone through a Goth period that had, thankfully, lasted only about

a minute. She’d dressed in black from head to toe. She’d even dyed her long, blond hair black.

“You look like something the cat dragged in,” he’d told her, with all the aplomb of an older

brother.

But a cat would not have bothered dragging Chiara in. Or out. She looked too pathetic. Well,

except for the hair. Even skinned back in that damned bun again, it had the gloss of a raven’s

wing.

Was looking like this part of the act?

“Yes?”

Yes?

Chiara forced herself not to show any reaction. Three hours of silence, and the best Raffaele

Orsini could come up with was yes, said in a way that almost hung it with icicles?

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