The Italian's Token Wife

Magda shook her head. ‘No—no, of course not. It is very kind of her.’

The cot was already in the bedroom when she went in some moments later with Benji. It was a magnificent affair, well worthy of a di Viscenti, carved and painted, and clearly freshly spring-cleaned by Maria. To her relief, Benji took to it immediately, sitting in it with every sign of complacent possession. Wryly, Magda wondered how fond he’d be of it once it dawned on him that with the wooden side raised and locked into position he would not be able to get out alone. But since it was right up against the high bed she was happy enough for him to try.

It certainly made life easier as she got ready for the evening. Knowing he was safely inside the cot, bathed and ready for sleep, having a last play with his toys, she could go about her ablutions with greater confidence, especially when it came to styling her hair. She had had to wash it after the day at the beach, and was worried she would not be able to recreate the chic style that Olivia’s salon had so effortlessly produced. However, she followed the other woman’s advice, moussing it a little and then gently blow-drying it with the hairdryer she found in her bedside cabinet.

The effect, when combined with the make-up Olivia had sent, which Magda applied to the best of her ability, was much better than she had hoped. As she stared at herself, at the gently waving mane of hair clouding her shoulders, her kohled eyes huge and her lipsticked mouth lush and vivid, she could not believe such a transformation really was possible.

As Benji, hugging his teddy bear, silky hair smoothed soothingly back from his forehead, sank into a deep sleep, Magda extracted a long evening gown from the huge antique wardrobe and slipped it on.

It was black, cut on the bias and clung to her hips, and folding softly over her breasts, held up by tiny shoestring straps. She did not need a bra with it; any slight support she needed was built into the bodice. As the fine-grained material slid over her head and shimmered down her slender body she felt its magic begin to work. She walked to the mirror and stared, transfixed.

Wonderingly she touched her throat.

Is this really me?

It seemed impossible—but the reflection staring back at her could not lie. It showed a slender, graceful woman, exquisitely gowned, with her hair in a soft cloud and wide, luminous eyes.

She could not take her eyes from the reflection, staring in wonder at herself.

A soft knock on the door disturbed her reverie. It was Gina, taking over on babywatch.

‘Signor di Viscenti is downstairs waiting for you, signora,’ the girl said, casting an admiring look at Magda’s appearance.

Magda picked up a black satin handbag with a discreet designer logo, slipped her feet into the strappy high-heeled shoes, and headed downstairs after bidding Gina goodnight.

As she gingerly descended the wide sweeping stairs, taking careful steps in her narrow long skirt and high, high heels, she realised Rafaello was staring up at her.

She stared back. Her breath caught.

If she had thought Rafaello superb in a business suit, casual clothes and beachwear, in a tuxedo he was, quite simply, breathtaking. The black cloth of the evening jacket stretched tautly across his shoulders, sheathing his torso and providing an ebony contrast to the white dress shirt. He was freshly shaven, freshly showered, his hair still slightly damp as it feathered over his brow. His cheekbones seemed higher than ever, thought Magda, dazzled, and the sculpted line of his mouth could have been hewn by Michelangelo himself…

She went on walking down, eyes fixed on him—and, conscious of him as she was, she was also burningly conscious of how his eyes were fixed on her in return.

As she reached the marble floor he came towards her. Before she could register what he was doing he had lifted her hand and raised it to his mouth.

The graze of his mouth on her knuckles made her want to faint. He straightened his head, but kept her hand in his.

‘You look exquisite,’ he breathed, his accent stronger than ever, and all she could do was stare up at him, her hand caught in his, her lips parted, her breath stilled.

‘You require only one adornment—this.’

His words were accompanied by his slipping his left hand inside his tuxedo jacket and drawing out, not a jewellery case this time, but a sliver of white rainbow. As he opened the palm of his hand Magda could not stop herself giving a gasp.

The necklace was a river of diamonds, fantastic, unbelievable, and as she stared, incredulous, Rafaello simply let go her hand, turned her around, and draped the glittering necklace around her throat, brushing aside her hair to fasten it.

‘I can’t wear it!’ she told him anguishedly. ‘I’ll lose it.’