The Scandalous Orsinis: Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

“Tell me,” he said hoarsely, between deep, hot kisses. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

Everything, she thought. Oh Dio, she wanted everything.

Raffaele’s mouth, drinking from hers. The silken intrusion of his tongue. His thumbs tracing the arc of her cheekbones, her throat, her breasts. And, yes, what he was doing now. Undoing the endless row of jet buttons on her dress. Baring her flesh to him. The curve of her breasts, rising above her bra.

He kissed the hollow of her throat. Nipped lightly at the skin. She gasped; her head fell back. She would have fallen back, too—she was boneless—but he caught her shoulders, his strong hands supporting her as he brought her to him and kissed her again and again.

It wasn’t enough. None of it was enough. How could it be enough? She ached for him.

For his possession.

She sobbed his name. His eyes met hers. They were black with desire; the bones of his face stood out in stark relief. She knew what it meant.

For the first time, a frisson of fear slid greasily through her belly.

“Raffaele,” she said breathlessly, “Raffaele…”

He grasped the hem of her dress, bunched it in his big hands and raised it to the tops of her thighs. Stepped between them. Still watching her face, he laid one hand over that place between her legs, that temple of evil her mother had warned against.

She cried out.

“Raffaele,” she said, and he slipped his fingers under the edge of her underpants, and now she felt the wetness in that place, the heat, the throbbing of her pulse.

“Omylord,” a woman’s voice squealed. “Oh, Mr. Orsini! I had no idea—”

Chiara froze. Rafe went still.

“I’ll come back later, sir, shall I? Of course. That’s what I’ll do. I’m so sorry, sir…”

A low moan rose in Chiara’s throat. She shot into motion, a blur of energy as she jumped from the counter, then tried to fight free of Rafe’s arms as they swept around her.

“Easy,” he whispered.

She struggled against him but he refused to let go. She was saying something in Sicilian, saying it again and again in a low, anguished voice.

He thought it might be that she wanted to die, and his heart turned over.

“Chiara.”

She shook her head. Her eyes were screwed tightly shut, like a child’s, as if what she couldn’t see couldn’t hurt her. “Sweetheart. Look at me.”

Another shake of her head. Rafe sighed, brought her face against his shoulder. For all her offer to leave and return later, his housekeeper was still standing in the entrance to the kitchen, her eyes as round as her face, one hand plastered over her heart.

Rafe cleared his throat. “Good morning, Mrs. O’Hara,” he said pleasantly.

The woman bobbed her head. “Morning, Mr. Orsini. I am terribly sorry. I never meant—”

“No, of course you didn’t.”

He looked from his housekeeper to the woman in his arms. There were simple choices here. He could let Chiara go. She’d bolt and run and probably add this to her already distorted ideas of sex.

Or he could hold on to her while he played the scene through. It was, after all, only a minor embarrassment. Someone stumbling across a man and woman about to have sex? There was nothing original about it. Told in the right company, it would prove amusing.

He could feel Chiara trembling against him, her tears soaking his sweater.

Rafe paused. In his twenties, he’d gone bungee jumping. He remembered how it had felt, that gut-wrenching moment when he’d been about to jump off the bridge railing into the there’s-no-turning-back void.

“Mrs. O’Hara,” he said, “Mrs. O’Hara… I’d like to introduce you to my wife.”

CHAPTER NINE

IF YOU were an anthropologist doing field work, you might have put The Bar on a threatened-species list.

No rope at the door to keep out those who might offend the fashionistas. No VIP lists. No hot babes in spandex, no guys with more money than brains, no drinks with names that made a man laugh.

In fact, the place was so low-key that you had to know it existed before you could find it. Wood-paneled, dimly lit, it was located in an unremarkable Soho neighborhood. At least, it had been unremarkable when the Orsini brothers had discovered it years ago.

They’d been just starting out back then, three of them with unused degrees in finance and business in their pockets and one, Falco, with enough university credits for a couple of degrees but not enough concentration in any one area to matter. They’d all turned their backs on the white-collar world. Cesare, sneering, said it was to find themselves.

The truth was, they’d gone off to lose their connection to everything he represented.

Rafe and Nick had ended up in the military, one in the Marines, one in the Army, both fighting wars neither wanted to talk about. Falco was even more tight-lipped about his time in Special Forces. Dante had headed north to Alaska and the dangers of the oil fields on the North Slope. He and Falco were the only ones who’d returned with money in their pockets, Dante from his job, Falco from the high-stakes poker games he loved.

Dante, Nick and Rafe had quickly figured out that they wanted to build a future together. Falco wasn’t sure what he wanted.

They began getting together a couple of nights a week at a place called O’Hearn’s Bar. It was a neighborhood place, located just downstairs from Rafe’s one-room-with-what-passed-for-a-kitchen walkup. The beer was cold, the sandwiches were cheap, and nobody gave a damn who the brothers were.

Gradually the last booth on the left became known as theirs. It was where they met and discussed Life and Women and What To Do with Their Lives.

Eventually they figured out a way to combine their talents, temperaments and education. Rafe and Nick pooled their resources, played what was then a booming stock market, put the money into the new venture. Dante added his impressive oil field savings. Six months later Falco decided to throw in his luck with his brothers and put them over the top with the not-so-small fortune he’d made at poker.

Orsini Brothers was born.

Their corporate baby flourished. So did the neighborhood around O’Hearn’s. Tired old tenements, including the one where Rafe had lived, were gutted and reborn as pricey town houses. A factory building became a high-priced club. Bodegas became boutiques.

The Orsinis could tell that O’Hearn’s days were numbered.

“We’ve got to do something,” Falco had grumbled, so they did. They bought the place, and it became the smallest and least noticed part of the Orsini Brothers’ holdings.

They cleaned it up, but only a little. Had the planked oak floor refinished. Tore out the worn leather stools and banquettes and replaced them with new ones. Everything else—the scarred wood tables, the pressed-tin ceiling, the long zinc counter, the beers on draught, the overstuffed sandwiches and killer grilled-with-onions burgers—stayed the same.

To the brothers’ shock, O’Hearn’s Bar—by now, simply known as The Bar—became what people referred to as a “destination.” Still, only the bartenders knew who owned it, and that was exactly how the Orsinis wanted it.

That way they could avoid the reporters from the Times and the Wall Street Journal as well as the ones from the tabloids. It wasn’t easy to keep your privacy when you’d created a company worth billions—and your old man was still numero uno whenever some damned investigative reporter dredged up the M word.

So, The Bar was the logical place to get together every couple of Friday nights, or maybe after closing on Saturday night if a date had proved especially memorable. It was also where you went if you just wanted to talk.

Like today.