The Italian's Token Wife

‘Come this way,’ said Olivia in her bright, smiling voice. With a dull, numb feeling of resignation, Magda followed her.

Rafaello sat at the café looking out over the piazza which had once been a Roman amphitheatre, two thousand years ago. Apart from making one single purchase, he’d cooled his heels for well over two hours now, spending the time moodily striding around the city, wandering in and out of the countless churches, ignoring, as he always did when he wasn’t in a receptive mood, the more than frequent glances he received from tourist and Italian females alike.

It had been impulse—impulse and guilt—that had made him yank that poor scrawny creature out of the villa this morning and throw her into Olivia’s clutches to improve upon nature somehow—anyhow. But maybe he had not done the girl any favours by letting Olivia loose on her. He frowned. Maybe the material Olivia had to work on was hopeless! Maybe he had only set her up for yet another round of humiliation at his hands…

Hadn’t he already humiliated her enough?

He gestured for another cup of coffee and picked up his newspaper again. Perhaps the miseries of the world at large would take his mind off his guilt.

Some forty minutes later his mobile sounded. Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he flicked it on.

‘Pronto—’

‘Rafaello?’ It was Olivia. ‘We’re all done. We’ll meet you at the restaurant. See you there.’

He made his way to the restaurant where he’d reserved a table for lunch. Inside, he spotted Olivia immediately, by the crowded bar area. She saw him and gave a wave. He headed towards her, wondering what she’d done with Magda. Misgiving filled him again—perhaps Olivia had found it so impossible to make the girl presentable and had left her behind in the salon while she conveyed the bad tidings to him.

As he approached, a woman seated with her back to him at the bar caught his eye. There were a good many females in the place, but this one definitely caught his attention. His eyes flickered over her. She was sitting very straight, and very still. She was wearing a sleeveless shift in dark cinnamon raw silk. She was very slender, with a long, elegant back. Her hair, a delicate, unusual shade of light brown, skilfully coloured, he realised, with soft amber highlights, rested in a sleek wave over her shoulders, lightly flicked at the ends. Interesting, he found himself thinking. Something different. Intriguing. He wanted her to turn, so he could see if she looked as good from the front as the back.

Then, remembering this was hardly the occasion to be assessing the charms of other women, he dragged his eyes back to Olivia. She was watching him approach, his gaze clearly taken by the woman at the bar. He reached her and greeted her with the customary kiss on either cheek.

‘Well—how did it go?’ he asked in Italian. Mentally he prepared himself for the worst. He glanced around, but there was still no sign of Magda.

‘See for yourself,’ replied Olivia in a curious voice. If he hadn’t known better he’d have said that she was trying not to burst out laughing. He glanced around, still not seeing the poor dab of a girl he’d thrust at Olivia that morning. Resolutely he ignored the intriguing woman with her back to him—he must not eye her up. She would just have to be one that got away, that was all.

‘Magda—’ said Olivia, and Rafaello saw her lips twitching as she watched him not looking at the woman seated at the bar. Clearly it amused her that he wanted to study another woman when his only concern should be what Olivia had managed to do with the one he’d handed over to her more than three hours ago.

Even so, as he glanced around for Magda, he couldn’t help noticing from the corner of his eye that the woman at the bar had chosen that very moment to swivel slowly on her seat. He couldn’t resist it. He turned to look at her.

For a moment he just stared, disbelieving. There was something wrong with his eyes—there had to be. The woman at the bar had Magda’s face.

But it wasn’t Magda’s face—it was the face of a stunning female that was drawing more eyes than his.

‘Dio mio,’ he breathed. ‘Non posso crederici!’

Olivia gave a crow of delight, but Rafaello ignored her. He was still staring, still disbelieving. It was Magda, but it wasn’t Magda. Her unprepossessing features had all been subtly rearranged, it seemed, and the effect was extraordinary. It wasn’t just the make-up that Olivia had applied—skilful though that was—it was more. Her skin was not sallow and blemished, it was flawless. There was no pale pastiness but a beautiful, translucent glow about her. Her eyes were deeper, larger—quite beautiful. Her narrow face was delicate, framed by that fall of gleaming, polished hair, her cheekbones were sculpted, drawing attention to those beautiful eyes. And her mouth…