The Italian's Token Wife

She cringed inwardly with memory. Oh, why hadn’t she left the pool ten minutes earlier instead of being caught by Rafaello? If embarrassment was fatal she’d have been dead on the spot! For the millionth time his image burned into her retinas—six feet of honed, smooth, tanned muscle, total physical male perfection…

Thank God she hadn’t blushed. That would have been the ultimate mortification—letting him see that she couldn’t take her eyes from him. As it was she had simply had the familiar mortification—if more intense this time—of having him look at her as if she were covered in slime.

She sat back on her heels, letting Benji scoop up a handful of foam and plaster it to the tiles beside the bath with a gurgling laugh. She pushed back a strand of unruly hair that had got loose, and as she twisted her head slightly she caught sight of herself in the wall-length mirror inset opposite the bath.

Oh, God, she looked so awful. Her T-shirt was totally shapeless and faded. Not that anything could have flattered her, she knew. Her face was unremarkable, her hair dull and mousy, besides being stringy and overlong. She tried to remember the last time she’d had it cut and failed—long hair was cheaper than short hair.

She was a mess, repellent to any man—let alone a man so blessed with gorgeousness as Rafaello di Viscenti. The memory of him staring disparagingly at her, his long-lashed eyes sweeping condemningly over her every unpleasing feature, made her feel ashamed.

She knew such a feeling was illogical. It was not her fault she was plain, nor Rafaello’s that he was male beauty incarnate. Nor, she added punishingly, was it his fault that any woman who caught his eye would have to be a stunning beauty for him to appreciate her.

A dab of flying foam caught her on the chin, distracting her. Benji chuckled wickedly. Magda’s frown lightened, and deliberately she put aside all painful thoughts. Benji could not care less what she looked like—all he wanted was her love. And that—she smiled down lovingly at him, and paddled more foam in his direction—he had for ever and ever.

Afterwards—bathroom tidied and Benji changed into a clean nappy and his second-hand pyjamas—she sat him in the middle of the bed, propped up against the pillows with his scruffy but adored little teddy bear, and settled down to read his favourite bedtime picture book. He was tired tonight, and would soon be asleep, she could see. When he was she would sneak down to the kitchen and beg a sandwich for her own supper—with guests in the house she did not want to be a nuisance to Maria and Giuseppe. And she would feel much safer tucked up away in her bedroom, out of sight of any of Rafaello’s family—and especially Rafaello.

It would be what he wanted, too, she knew.

Rafaello had not expected to enjoy his aunt’s lecture, and he did not. But at least she could see his side of things as well—unlike his father—even though she told him roundly that the pair of them deserved everything they handed out to each other.

‘You are impossible, the pair of you!’ she finished. Then, taking another breath, she said, ‘Very well, now that I have made that plain to you, you had best go and fetch this bride of yours.’

Rafaello stalled in the act of lifting his beer glass to his mouth. He’d been nursing it all the way through the lecture and he was now in need of its reviving contents. He stared at his aunt.

‘Well, there is no point hiding her any longer. I might as well see for myself,’ his aunt told him.

‘She is in her room,’ Rafaello said stiffly.

‘Well, go and fetch her. She can’t stay up there all night.’

Rafaello set down his glass with a distinct click. ‘She is looking after her child,’ he said remotely.

His aunt waved her hand in an Italian fashion. ‘One of the maids can sit with the infant. You had better go and see if she is ready to come down to dine yet. You know your father cannot abide tardiness.’

Rafaello’s jaw tightened. ‘You do not quite understand, Tia—’ he began, but his aunt cut him short.

‘What I understand, Rafaello,’ she said, and there was a definite snap in her voice, ‘is that you deserted the poor girl the moment you brought her here. Haring off to Rome, if you please, simply because you are obsessed with that wretched company. But I tell you this: however pressing your business affairs—however eager you are to take over from Enrico—you do not abandon your bride in your own home. It is insupportable. And I do not care how much of a marriage of convenience it is to you, or how much of a misalliance. There are decencies to be observed and this is one of them. Whoever the girl is, however utterly unsuitable she is to be Signora di Viscenti, you have married her and that is that. She is your wife.’