The Italian's Token Wife

He’d ended the night working his way through a bottle of grappa and damning the whole world.

A punishing shower brought him back to a semblance of half-life. It was nearly noon, a glance at his watch told him. Noon on his thirtieth birthday. He didn’t feel like celebrating. He crossed to the window of his bedroom and stared out balefully. Below, the vista of the gardens brought him no comfort. He tried to focus on important things. He must go to Rome and call a board meeting to confirm him as the new chairman, then start implementing the strategy for global expansion into the USA and Australia for Viscenti AG that he’d been planning for so long.

A movement to the side of his field of vision caught his eye. The girl and her little boy were rounding the side of the house. She was going very slowly, holding his hand as he toddled unsteadily along the gravelled path. Dio, he’d all but forgotten about her. He watched her stoop swiftly to catch the child as he stumbled momentarily and then set him back on course.

What the hell was he going to do about her? She’d served her purpose—provided him with the wife he required to confront his father. He didn’t need her any more, but he could not risk giving rise to public speculation that his was a fraudulent marriage by sending her back to England straight away. He gave a shrug and turned away. He would tell Maria to keep her out of his hair and she could enjoy a free holiday at the villa while he was in Rome.

He was just about to turn away when another figure came into view, stalking out from the house.

Lucia.

She was clearly on course to the girl, and in a raging temper.

Out in the gardens, Magda came to a halt. That woman, whoever she was, who had been as furious at Rafaello’s announcement as his father had been, was heading purposefully towards her. Magda waited apprehensively. The woman’s high heels scrunched noisily on the path.

She came to a stop in front of her. Yesterday Magda had been in too much shock to take in anything about the woman. Now she could see she was an immaculately coiffed, flashing-eyed brunette, wearing a tight-fitting designer outfit.

Her eyes were narrowed with blazing hostility. Magda’s hand tightened over Benji, who was crouching down to inspect the gravel.

Whatever the woman was going to say to her remained unsaid. More crunching footsteps sounded, heavier and rapid, and Rafaello appeared around the corner of the house. He was wearing, this summer morning, a lightweight suit in pale grey, and he looked, as Magda stared helplessly, completely breathtaking.

He launched into rapid Italian directed at Lucia.

‘You should leave, Lucia. There is nothing for you here—there never was. You should have known I would never marry you.’

Lucia’s eyes flashed angrily. Her face contorted. ‘So you married this putana instead of me! Look at her. She’s like some scrawny chicken.’

The contempt in the woman’s eyes as she raked Magda’s face made Rafaello’s jaw tighten.

‘Basta.’ He cast a rapid glance at the girl. She was looking ashen suddenly, and for a moment Rafaello hoped she didn’t have the wit to realise what Lucia had called her. But doubtless she could hear the hostility in his cousin’s voice, whatever language she spoke. He took a sharp breath.

‘I think, Lucia, it would be best if you returned to your apartment in Firenze. You have done my father no favours in making him think of you as a prospective daughter-in-law.’

An ugly look flashed in the woman’s dark eyes. ‘And you think you have done him a favour bringing him home that…that girl?’ she spat angrily. ‘I hope you are proud of what you have done, Rafaello.’

She turned on her stilettos and stalked off. Slowly, Magda let out her breath, unaware till now that she’d been holding it. Benji was clinging to her hand, huddled close, clearly frightened by the anger all around him.

‘It’s all right, muffin,’ she whispered comfortingly into his hair, as she scooped him up into her arms.

But it wasn’t all right. It was all wrong. Everything here in this beautiful place was as wrong as it could be. Her throat tightened.

‘You should have told me.’

Where the words came from she did not know. Where the courage to say them came from she certainly didn’t know. But she had said them, and now she was looking at the man she had thought she was marrying simply for a matter of legal detail in reasons of business.

But this was surely nothing to do with Viscenti AG—it couldn’t be! The anger and fury that had erupted since she had stepped out on to the terrace yesterday could not possibly be about something as impersonal as business.

This was family. Ugly, emotional, volatile, bitter family.