The Italian's Token Wife

Magda hadn’t known such beauty treatments existed! She’d been wrapped up in weird stuff, neck to toe, had her face slathered and unslathered; her body had been rubbed and polished and waxed and smoothed and creamed. Her hair had been washed and conditioned and coloured and cut and blown and styled. And then Olivia had approached with a treasure chest of make-up and proceeded to paint a face on her that she simply had not believed when she saw it reflected in the mirrors of the changing room where Olivia had selected from a range of beautiful clothes. She had stared, dumbstruck, as Olivia had slipped a cool, silky shift over her head, zipped it swiftly up the back and stood away.

‘What did I tell you?’ Olivia had said softly. ‘That I would make you look favoloso. And I have.’

She had, too, and Magda was still walking on air, feeling like Cinderella must have felt when the fairy godmother had finished with her. She had stammered her thanks incoherently to the other woman, who had laughed, and said, ‘Good—now we show you off to Rafaello and watch his jaw fall to the floor.’

And so it would have—if Rafaello di Viscenti had been capable of so inelegant a reaction. As it was, just seeing that look of stupefaction mingled with that tingle-inducing, shiver-making, blush-urging looking over had swept away all Magda’s fears and misgivings that perhaps Olivia had got it totally, totally wrong…

She tensed. Rafaello was leaning towards her, his shoulder almost touching hers as he reached out a hand to run down her menu.

‘Would you like me to translate?’ he asked.

She wasn’t capable of reciting the alphabet at this moment in time, let alone working out a menu written in Italian.

She swallowed. ‘I…I’ll just have something simple, please,’ she managed to get out in a whispery sort of voice.

His glance flicked to hers and she suddenly saw the golden lights in his dark eyes, swept by those long, impossible lashes, caught the heady scent of his oh-so-masculine aftershave…and his own, even more masculine scent.

She felt faint, breathless.

He drew back. ‘Very well.’ He gave a smile, and the way his mouth indented, altering the planes of his face, made her feel faint again. She had seen him smile before—at his aunt last night, at Olivia this morning—but this time…this time the smile was for her. Faintness drummed at her again. This couldn’t be happening. It was like a dream…

But if it was a dream, it was one that she didn’t wake up from. Rafaello took her elbow, his hand burning on her skin, doing extraordinary things to her insides, which had a whole flock of butterflies soaring away invisibly, and led her through the restaurant out into a tiny cobbled courtyard at the back, decked with flowers and set with shaded tables.

She took her place, terrified she was going to stumble on her unaccustomed high heels, but there was no mishap, and she was sitting there, beneath the awning, with eyes for no one and nothing except Rafaello di Viscenti.

For a while, as he got on with the business of ordering food and wine, she was left in peace simply to drink him in, to tell herself that it could only be a dream, that she was not really sitting here, transformed by a magic wand, with the most beautiful man in the world. Then, ordering done, Rafaello turned back to her.

There was something in his eyes that made all the butterflies swoop upwards in one soaring flight.

‘It is incredibile!’ he said to her, and his eyes flickered over her face, her hair, her torso. ‘I do not know what to say.’ He spread his hands in a very Italian gesture.

Magda shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s the make-up and everything.’ Her voice was strained.

‘Everything?’ Rafaello echoed. ‘Yes, everything. I have been blind—quite blind.’ There was something curious about his voice, and her eyes met his. There was a strange expression in them that made her feel…feel what?

She could not put a name to it.

He was talking again.

‘Blind to everything,’ he said. ‘And now I ask you…’ his voice changed ‘…if you will forgive my blindness and accept a peace offering.’ He slipped a hand inside his jacket pocket.

He extracted a little flat, circular packet, exquisitely wrapped in silvery tissue with a golden ribbon, the fruit of his shopping that morning, and placed it in front of her.

‘Open it,’ he said, in that same curious voice.

Uncertainly, but obediently, she did so. As the ribbon fell away so did the tissue, revealing, unmistakably, a blue velvet jewel case. With the butterflies jostling in her stomach, she lifted the lid.

Inside was a necklace, fine and delicate, made of intricately woven gold in a design that was as skilful as it was beautiful. She stared at it, blinking.