The Italian's Token Wife

Weak in the heart over!

But Rafaello di Viscenti was as remote from her as if he were a portrait by Titian hanging on a palazzo wall.

Her lips pressed together and she stared out, eyes wide and painful, into the Tuscan night, where the wind winnowed softly in the cypress trees and the scent of flowers exhaled like the sweet breath of the sleeping earth.

Slowly, she got to her feet and went to bed.

CHAPTER FOUR

RAFAELLO gunned his sports car and overtook a hopelessly slow tourist hire-car travelling along the Pisa-Firenze autostrada well below the maximum speed limit. He should be in a good mood. Viscenti AG was his completely, all confining paternal strings cut. But he was not. He did not want another encounter with his father—still less with the girl he had made his bride.

She made him feel uncomfortable.

There was no reason for it, he told himself impatiently, gunning the engine again. He was setting her up financially for life. She had nothing to complain of.

Except being dumped in a strange place with not a word of the language and having everyone yelling their heads off all around her…

His mouth tightened, and he changed gears more roughly than the superb engine warranted.

And you walking out on her and leaving her to it.

He overtook another car and cruised back into his lane. Well, of course he’d not hung around pointlessly at the villa! How could he have? The whole purpose of this total farce was to call his father’s bluff so he could get Lucia off his case and not lose his life’s work at Viscenti AG. He wasn’t there to nursemaid one of life’s waifs and strays just because he’d happened to marry her the day before. She knew what she was doing when she signed the papers.

No, she didn’t…

The irritating voice in his head nagged at him again, making him blast his horn at a car hogging the outside lane.

Just like she told you—she didn’t know she was going to detonate an explosion of family fury. She walked into it and hadn’t a clue.

Yes, well, he thought grimly, there was still no reason for him to feel bad about it. She was just some not-too-bright London girl who’d probably got pregnant on purpose to live on social security—she couldn’t have understood a word of what was being yelled about yesterday. And today she’d had the run of a millionaire’s villa—a free holiday in the sun. His father wouldn’t go near her, he knew—he would simply lock himself in the library and fume—Lucia had been sent off-pitch, and he’d made sure that Giuseppe and Maria would keep an eye on the girl and her kid.

Ruthlessly he quashed any riposte to this final analysis of the situation and put his foot down hard on the accelerator. The powerful car shot forward and Rafaello felt a rush of familiar exhilaration.

Speed always put his troubles far behind him.

They caught up with him again, though, when he drew to a halt in front of the garage at the rear of the villa some half an hour later. A familiar car met his eyes. Wonderful, he thought grimly. Reinforcements had been summoned.

He should not have been surprised. His father always turned to his sister when he wanted to complain about his son. Well, Tia Elizavetta could say what she liked on this one—and she would too; she had a sharp tongue in her head—but it was too late for recriminations. He had outmanoeuvred his father and that was that.

Giuseppe intercepted him the moment he stepped inside the hallway. He was looking poker-faced and Rafaello knew he was not pleased—the moment the man opened his mouth he knew who he wasn’t pleased with.

It was ‘Signor’ this and ‘Signor’ that, uttered in such stiff accents that Rafaello got the message loud and clear. He was in the doghouse with both Giuseppe and the formidable Maria.

‘My aunt and uncle are here, I see,’ he said, doing his best to ignore the glacial attitude of this man who knew him better than his own father.

‘Si, signor. They arrived an hour ago. They are with your father.’

There was a wealth of meaning in his words. Rafaello nodded. ‘Well, I might as well get it over and done with,’ he remarked. ‘Are they in the library?’

Giuseppe indicated that they were.

‘Right,’ said Rafaello, and started to head towards the double doors leading through to the library.

A reproving cough came from behind him. He halted, and turned his head questioningly.

‘Signora di Viscenti is in the gardens with her little boy,’ Giuseppe informed him, his face studiedly expressionless. ‘Perhaps you would like to greet her before seeing your aunt and uncle?’

Rafaello stilled. ‘Later,’ was all he said, and headed into the library. Behind him, Giuseppe’s disapproval was tangible.