The Italian's Token Wife

And Magda knew why. She knew Maria thought that something real was happening here. That this strange, temporary marriage was becoming real.

But it wasn’t. She knew that. Knew that deep, deep in her bones, in her heart, in her mind, in her soul. As he stepped towards her, the shuttered light in the bedroom making his body bronze, she knew that Rafaello was merely intrigued by her, that he was still caught up in the unexpected pleasure of having turned her into, if not a swan, then at least a graceful songbird—a little street sparrow he had touched with gold and taught to fly.

And she was flying now. Lifting on wings of passion as he stroked her sun-warmed skin and murmured soft Italian words to her, bent to taste the sweetness of her mouth and carry her to his bed as together they began to soar towards the all-consuming sun and burn within its fiery heart.

Afterwards he held her close, his arm around her, and she rested her head upon his chest. His fingers played idly with her hair. They said nothing, but in the silence Magda found a peace she had never known before.

He took her out for dinner that evening, after Benji was asleep and Maria had been entrusted with the baby monitor—not that she didn’t cast it a jaundiced look, Magda noted with a smile—and they dined in a formidably elegant restaurant with a wonderful view over the valley beyond. Magda sat there feeling like a princess in her blue silk gown with diamonds around her neck.

But it was Rafaello who made her feel like a princess, not the designer gown or the priceless diamonds—Rafaello. The man she loved. But because she knew that princesses only lived in fairytales, not real life, she knew that although she was not the ugly duckling any more, she was still Cinderella—and the hands of the clock were edging towards midnight.

She did not know when it would strike. Did not know how long Rafaello would continue to be intrigued by her, diverted by his own unexpected magic trick of turning a drab, downtrodden char into a woman worthy of his attention—worthy of his bed. She knew he would never be harsh to her, never discard her cruelly, but she knew, with a deep, terrible certainty, that one day the phone would ring, or an e-mail would arrive, or his father would return, or he would simply remember that his real life had nothing to do with the woman he had hired to marry him so that he could get control of the company his father had threatened to sell under his nose.

And when it happened she would pack her bags, and pick up Benji, and take one last, long look at the man who held her heart in his hands—a gift he had never asked for, would never even know he possessed—and go back to her real life, taking with her nothing but memories, every one of them a priceless, precious jewel to treasure all her days.

‘What is it?’

His voice was low, penetrating her thoughts.

She made herself smile, lifting her wine glass. ‘Nothing. I was pitying people back in Britain. I saw an English newspaper headline that said it was the wettest June for years.’

Rafaello gave an answering smile. ‘Don’t think about wet English summers—only glorious Tuscan ones!’

She set down her glass. ‘I’ll remember this summer all my life—thank you, Rafaello. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.’ She met his eyes, pouring into her expression all her gratitude to him for granting her this magical fairytale to live in for a little while.

Something flickered in his eyes. She could not tell what it was. He gave a little bow of his head, an oddly formal gesture.

‘It was my pleasure, cara. And still is…’ He reached across the table and took her hand in his, lifted it to his mouth. His kiss was soft—his eyes softer.

Magda felt her heart still, and just for a moment completely cease to beat. Then, as she gazed wordlessly at him, it happened again. His expression was veiled and he set her hand free.

‘Tomorrow,’ he announced, ‘I show you Firenze.’

A weight pressed against Magda’s heart as she continued with her meal.

Florence was magnificent. The Italian Renaissance made visible in stone and marble, oil and fresco, so rich with treasures of art and architecture that it left Magda reeling.

And yet it oppressed her. Or something did. As she gazed at the glories of the Uffizi she found herself longing again for that magical day in Lucca, when Rafaello had waved his magic wand over her and she had appeared to him for the first, most wondrous time in all her life, pleasing as a woman…

She did her best to hide her inner oppression. Not just because she knew she had no right to make him feel uncomfortable about her in any way—he had never asked her to fall in love with him, never wanted her to—but because it would simply waste one of these most precious golden days with him.