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
him off? Did none of that count for anything?
Yes, but she’d been through a lot today. So had he, but it wasn’t the same. He hadn’t been
threatened with wedded bliss as the wife of her father’s capo.
If even that had been real. If it hadn’t all been an act, meant to make him agree to a marriage a
pair of aging dons on both sides of the Atlantic seemed to want.
For the moment he’d go with believing his wife hadn’t been in on the deal—and why in hell
think of her as his wife? She was nothing but a temporary impediment in his life. Maybe she’d
calm down once she understood that. Hell, she had to. He couldn’t spend the rest