The Italian's Token Wife
‘Come into the kitchen,’ said the man, ‘and I will explain.’
Magda sat, completely frozen, on one of the high stools set against the kitchen bar. Benji miraculously slept on, snug in his baby chair on the floor.
‘Say…say that again?’ she asked faintly.
‘I will pay you the sum of one hundred thousand pounds,’ the man spelt out in clipped, accented tones, ‘for you to be married to me—quite legally—for six months, at the end of which period we shall file for divorce by mutual consent. You will need to accompany me to Italy for…legal reasons. Then you will return here, and your living expenses will be paid by me. On our divorce you will receive one hundred thousand pounds, no more. Do you understand?’
No, thought Magda. I don’t understand. All I understand is that you’re nuts.
But it seemed unwise to point this out to the man sitting on the other side of the bar from her. She was acutely, utterly uncomfortable being here. And not just because the man was making such an absurd proposition to her.
It was also because he was, quite simply, the most devastating male she had ever seen—inside or outside the covers of a glossy magazine. He had lean, slim looks, very Italian, but with an edge about him that kept his heart-stoppingly handsome face from looking soft. He had beauty, all right, but it was male beauty, honed and planed, and the long eyelashes swept past obsidian eyes that had an incredibly dangerous appeal to them.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
The question caught her on the hop, interrupting her rapt, if surreptitious gazing at him, and all she could do was open her mouth and then close it again.
A tight, humourless smile twisted at his mouth, changing the angles of his face. Something detonated deep inside Magda, but she had no time to pay any attention to it. He was speaking again.
‘I would be the first to concede the situation is…bizarre. But, nevertheless—’ he spread his hands above the bar, and Magda noticed how beautiful they were, long and slender, with a steely strength to them despite their immaculate manicure ‘—I do, as it happens, require a wife at very short notice, for a very particular purpose. Perhaps I should point out,’ he went on, in a voice that made her feel ashamed of her own lack of physical appeal in the presence of a man with such a super-abundance of it, ‘that the marriage will be in name only. Tell me, do you have a passport?’
Magda shook her head. A look of irritation crossed the man’s face, then he moved his right hand dismissively. ‘No matter. These things can be arranged in time. Now, what about your child’s father? Is he still on the scene?’
Magda tried to think what on earth to say, but failed miserably.
‘I thought not.’ The expression of unconcealed disdain for her child’s fatherless state silenced her even more than her inability to provide an answer under such circumstances. ‘But that is all to the good,’ he swept on. ‘He will not interfere.’
A dark glance swept over her, as if he were making some kind of final internal decision. ‘So, altogether, I can see no obstacles to what I propose—you are clearly extremely suitable.’
Panic struck Magda. He was sweeping ahead, dragging her along as if she were nothing more than a tin can rattling on a piece of string behind a racing car. She had to stop all this right now. It was too absurd for words.
‘Please,’ she cut in, ‘I’m not suitable at all, really. And I’m sorry, but I have to go now. I have other apartments to clean and I’m running late—’
She didn’t, this was the last one, but there was no need to let him know that.
His voice came silkily.
‘If you accept my proposition you will never clean another apartment in your life. For a woman of your background you will live in comfortable circumstances—if you are financially prudent—for several years simply on what I shall pay you for six months of your life.’
Emotions warred inside Magda. Uppermost was umbrage at the way he had said so disdainfully ‘a woman of your background’, as though she came from a different species of humanity. But beneath that, forcing its way to the surface, was something more powerful.
Temptation.
Comfortable circumstances…
The phrase jumped out at her. What on earth had the man said—something about a hundred thousand pounds? It couldn’t be true. The thought of so much money was beyond her. With a hundred thousand pounds she could move out of London, buy a flat, even a little house, stop having to depend on state income support, stop work, look after Benji properly…plan for the future.