he always said the smell of good, fresh espresso was the perfect way to start a day.
Chiara tore a dress and underwear from her suitcase, rushed into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Rafe always began the day with a shower.
He began this one with two, both icy enough to make his teeth chatter.
The frigid water did the job of quieting his still-jumpy hormones, but nothing could stanch the headache that had settled in just behind his eyes.
He downed two ibuprofen but the trolls inside his skull only laughed and drummed harder.
The headache matched his rapidly deteriorating mood. Was he crazy? He had to be, otherwise why was he taking this Boy Scout routine so far? Bad enough he’d married Chiara. What in hell had possessed him to sleep with her? To really sleep with her—no euphemism involved.
Waking up in bed with a woman you couldn’t have plastered against you and a hard-on you didn’t want in your sweats was not a good idea, especially if you were stuck with the woman and unable to do anything about the hard-on.
Uh-uh. Definitely not a way to begin the day.
And when, exactly, had he turned so accepting of the mess he was in?
Rafe glared as he stepped out of the shower stall and toweled off.
Not just a Boy Scout. At the rate he was going, he was pushing for the Order of the Arrow with oak leaf clusters. And for what reason? He’d done his good deed for her. Now, he’d do a good deed for himself.
Divorce court, next stop.
Absolutely, it was time to phone his lawyer. First, though, he needed to get his head working right. A couple of aspirin, to help move the ibuprofen along. Then coffee. Lots of coffee. Strong and black. That would do it.
When a man put, what, eight, nine thousand miles on his internal clock in twenty-four hours and got married to a woman he didn’t want, that man definitely needed something to bring him down. Mileage and a marriage. It sounded like one of those self-help books, but what it was, was the reason he wasn’t thinking straight.
Why else would he have suddenly felt such compassion, okay, such tenderness for the babe who’d screwed up his life?
Wanting to make it with her? That was understandable. He was male. She was female and under those crazy outfits she wore, she wasn’t bad-looking… Yeah, but there was no way in the world he’d follow through on those most basic of male instincts.
He didn’t know much about matrimonial law but what little he did know told him that, as of now, their quickie set of I do’s could be erased in a heartbeat. No sex? No real marriage.
Sleep with the lady and that would change.
Besides, why would he want to sleep with her? She was afraid of sex. What man wanted a scared woman in his bed? Plus, she was a virgin. No question about it anymore.
Imagine. In this day and age, she was a virgin.
Rafe grimaced as he stepped into a pair of faded jeans.
He’d been with a lot of women but never with a virgin. Any man with half a functioning brain knew to avoid that situation, because taking a woman’s virginity was a trap. It left you with the kind of responsibility he most assuredly did not need and did not want.
He zipped his fly, pulled on a gray cotton sweater. He didn’t bother shaving. No point pretending he’d go to his office today. Nothing on his desk was as important as dissolving a relationship that wasn’t a relationship.
He checked the time. It was barely seven. A reasonable hour at which to phone Marilyn Sayers, but first he’d have that coffee. Let the headache tablets do their thing. He wanted to sound cool and controlled when he told Sayers about his incredible situation. She would have questions, but all she really needed to know was where and when the marriage had taken place and that he wanted out, ASAP.
Marriage? He snorted. Ridiculous. He wouldn’t dignify what had happened in San Giuseppe by calling it that. There’d been some kind of ceremony, that was all.
It sure as hell hadn’t been a—
Crash!
Rafe spun toward the door. What was that? It sounded as if a two-car collision had just taken place in his apart—There it was again, a metallic crash loud enough to make the trolls inside his skull pick up the tempo. By the time the third crash echoed through the penthouse, he was halfway down the stairs, racing down the hall.
He skidded to a stop in the entrance to his kitchen. What the hell…?
It looked as if Bloomingdale’s housewares department had decided to hold a sale right here, in his pristine—his once pristine—kitchen. The white granite countertops, the black stone floor… they were covered with pots and skillets. Big ones. Small ones. Stainless steel. Ironware. Ceramic. The place was ankle-deep in cookware, more than he’d imagined he owned, because the stuff had all been the decorator’s idea, not his.
Why would a man need a million things to cook in when he didn’t cook?
In the center of it all was Chiara, dressed like an undertaker in a calf-length black something and clunky black shoes, her hair scraped back in that damned bun. Chiara, who had decided to take over his kitchen. Chiara, who was, without question, about to utter those famous eight words.
“What are you doing?” he said sharply.
She spun toward him. “Raffaele!”
“I asked you a question. What are you doing?”
She hesitated, looking around her, then at him. “I suppose you had no idea I could cook.”
Okay. It was a variation but the theme was the same. Man, had he ever misjudged her!
She gave him a hesitant smile. “I was making coffee.”
Rafe folded his arms over his chest. “Come on, baby.” His voice was like ice. Amazing, considering that he could feel his blood pressure soaring into the stratosphere. “Just coffee? How about breakfast? Eggs. French toast. Waffles. You can make all that stuff, right?”
She swallowed. Nodded. Offered another cautious smile. Rafe could feel his anger growing. She wanted out of this marriage? The hell she did, he thought in escalating fury, and his BP went through the roof.
“I have a housekeeper,” he snarled. “The time comes I want something cooked, I’ll ask her to cook it.”
Chiara’s smile vanished. “Yes. Of course. I told you, I only wished to make coffee. Espresso. But I could not find an espresso pot so—”
“You couldn’t find it because I don’t have one. Or did you assume having an Italian name means I came out of my mother’s womb with an espresso maker tucked in my… hands?”
“No. I mean, yes.” She caught her lip between her teeth. “I did not mean to make you angry.”
“I am not angry,” Rafe said. “Why would I be angry? Just because you’ve decided you don’t want out of this nonsensical marriage—”
“What?”
“Just because you think the I-can-cook thing will change my mind—”
“You are pazzo! Of course I want—what did you call it—out of this marriage!” Her hands slapped on her hips. “And I have no idea what the I-can-cook thing is!”
“A likely story.”
Chiara drew herself up. “I do not have to listen to this idiocy.”
“No. You have to clean up my kitchen.” Rafe glared. “Look at it. You tore it apart, and—”
The sound of something bubbling drew his attention. His gaze swept past her. His French press was on a front burner of the big Viking range. The burner glowed red-hot; the press was