The Italian's Token Wife

Rafaello had cut him off, refusing to be drawn. The girl’s identity was going to be a surprise for everyone. Oh, yes, certainly a surprise. He gave a grim smile. She was, just as he had anticipated, ideal. She’d stared around open-mouthed as he’d taken her upstairs, as though she’d landed on an alien planet, her child hitched on her hip, her cheap, wrong-sized, unflattering dress hanging on her skinny body, her complexion pasty and her mud-coloured hair scraped back.

His smile tightened. His father would be incandescent with rage—not just at having been outmanoeuvred, but at having the name of di Viscenti so totally insulted by his own son presenting him with such a female for a daughter-in-law.

A momentary frown creased his brow, then it cleared. The girl could have no idea of what made her so ideal for his purposes—and, besides, she was being paid what was for her a vast sum of money, had entered into the arrangement of her own free will. So far she had done exactly what he wanted—which was, predominantly, to do what she was told, ask no questions and keep out of the way until required.

He turned away from the window and sat himself down at his desk. He might as well get some work done while he was waiting. It might distract him from the coming confrontation.

Why did it have to be like this? he wondered, his expression drawn. Why this unnecessary, painful showdown with his father? Why couldn’t he simply talk to him—communicate instead of confront?

He sighed. He’d had more communication in the last fifteen years with Giuseppe and his wife Maria. It had been they who’d seen him through from adolescence to adulthood—Giuseppe, who’d doused his morning-after head before his father saw him; Maria, who’d refused to hand him the keys of his first sports car when he’d been too angry to drive after another explosive head-to-head with his father. And it had been Giuseppe who’d listened to him when he’d expounded his dreams of making Viscenti AG a global name, Maria who’d rung a peal over him for leaving a trail of besotted girls behind him, making him wise up and stick to society women.

He knew his father considered him dissolute—hence his determination to force him into matrimony. His mouth tightened. If there had been any real hope of communication with his father he would not have had to do what he had done this morning. A shadow crossed his eyes. It was his mother’s death in a road accident when he was fifteen that had caused the rift between father and son. They had both grieved—but not together. His father, mourning his adored wife, had withdrawn, cutting off his son. And Rafaello knew, with the hindsight of his thirty years, that the wild behaviour he had plunged into as a teenager—the fast cars, the partying, the girls—had been his cry for attention, for help—for love from a father who had turned away from him just when he needed him more than ever.

And now it was too late. The wall between them that had been laid, brick by brick, in Rafaello’s adolescence was too solid to break through. His father had hardened, and so had he. Now there was only challenge—and strife.

With the latest round just about to start.

The sound of a car approaching along the drive made him look up from his work. He could recognise the note of the pricey little roadster that his cousin Lucia drove. It was always important to her to be seen in the right car, wearing the latest clothes by the best designers, and socialising with the right people. Hence her burning desire for a rich husband.

When he could hear voices out in the hallway he strolled out, forcing himself to appear relaxed.

‘Rafaello?’ His father stopped short.

‘Papà.’ Rafaello strolled forward.

‘When did you get here?’ demanded Enrico di Viscenti, visibly taken aback by his son’s arrival.

‘This afternoon,’ replied his son laconically, and proceeded to cross to where his cousin was standing, stock still.

‘Lucia,’ he said dutifully, and bent to kiss her on either cheek. She smelt of too much perfume, and her face was too made up, but she was a handsome female for all that—as she well knew.

‘Rafaello,’ she murmured. ‘Such a surprise.’ Her voice was neutral, her eyes assessing. Rafaello returned her look blandly.

‘As you see, the prodigal returns,’ he observed laconically. ‘Have you had a pleasant day?’

‘Very,’ returned Lucia. ‘Tio Enrico accompanied me to the launch of an art exhibition in Firenze. A new artist I enjoy.’

A polite smile grazed Rafaello’s mouth. ‘And does he enjoy you, too?’ he murmured.

Lucia’s face stiffened immediately. ‘You offend, Rafaello!’ she snapped.