The Italian's Token Wife

It took a long while for the tears to stop. In the early months, when she had still been raw from Kaz’s death, with Benji still so tiny, so bereaved, they had come often, in the loneliness of the night, but it had been a long, long time since she had cried—and never with anyone to comfort her.

At last there were no more tears. Rafaello slipped his arm around her shoulder and led her into his room. ‘Sit,’ he said, and there was a gentleness in his voice she’d never heard before. He lowered her down to an armchair beside the empty fireplace and hunkered down beside her. He took her hands.

‘Forgive me for my anger at you—I spoke in ignorance.’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘As I have done before about you.’ He paused a moment. ‘I have only one thing to say—that Benji is a fortunate child to have such devotion from you.’

‘He is my son.’ It was a cry from her heart.

Rafaello pressed her hands. ‘He is your son,’ he confirmed. ‘And your love for him shines like a beacon in the dark. You have taken him into your heart, and he is there for ever now.’

He raised her hands to his lips. Something was singing inside him—something that sounded a sweet, clear note. He stood up, taking her with him, still holding her hands.

And then, in the dim light, he kissed her.

It was a light kiss, as soft as silk, but when he kissed her again, holding her hands against his chest so that she could feel the warmth of his body through the palms of her hand and the fine material of his shirt, his embrace deepened.

‘I desire you very much,’ he told her softly. ‘Will you stay with me tonight?’

Her eyes were deep and dark.

‘Rafaello—I…there is something you should know—’

He smiled. ‘You have more secrets?’ he chided. ‘Tell me all!’

She felt herself colour slightly. ‘A moment ago you thought me promiscuous and you were angry—’

He shook his head. ‘My anger was at the thought of your irresponsibility in conceiving a child who could not name his father. But,’ he acknowledged, ‘as for promiscuity itself—well, I have known many women—perhaps I should not have, but…’ he met her eyes with a rueful look ‘…it came easily to me. Do not think me too conceited, but a man with money is always attractive.’

‘Especially if he looks like you,’ Magda found herself answering with her own little tug of a smile.

‘If I agree you will definitely think me conceited,’ he answered, with a faint, wry smile. ‘But, whatever the cause, I am therefore hardly in a position to criticise you if you are as experienced as I am.’

‘Yes, but the thing is,’ she replied, embarrassed, dipping her head so she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye, however dim the light was, ‘I’m not experienced at all.’

Her words fell into a pool of silence. Then, wordlessly, he put her away from him, letting slip her hands.

‘That’s why I said about Kaz not being Benji’s father when you said I should not hold back for Kaz’s sake,’ she went on, feeling mortified now. ‘I knew—I knew you would obviously assume that I had at least sufficient experience to have become pregnant, but in fact I…I don’t have any experience. None. Never.’

Her voice trailed off and she wished, oh, just wished, she could disappear down a crack in the floor.

‘You are a virgin?’ There was something odd in his voice. She didn’t know what it was, she just wanted that crack to widen, so she could slip away through it, boring, unexciting, inexperienced reject that she was. She should have remembered that Cinderella returned to her rags at midnight. Of no interest whatsoever to a sophisticated, worldly, experienced man like Rafaello di Viscenti.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said miserably.

‘You are sorry?’ There was that odd note in his voice again. She stared down at the floor, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her skirts.

Then, suddenly, he had stepped towards her again, and his long, cool fingers were sliding either side of her jaw, tilting her face up towards him.

‘Don’t you know,’ he said softly, ‘that there is only one thing to be done with a virgin?’

She gazed at him, her breath catching. He was just so perfect—his dark, beautiful eyes, his silky black hair, his sculpted, sensual mouth…

‘Seduce her…’ he breathed. ‘Take her body…’ His fingers slipped into the softness of her hair, teasing the delicate border between her cheek and the graceful fall of hair, touching, oh, so lightly, the lobes of her ears. ‘Take her body touch by touch, by touch…’ His fingers drifted along the line of her jaw, the length of her throat, with such feathering lightness she thought she must die of it. ‘Kiss…by kiss…by kiss.’ Each word was murmured against her eyes, fluttering shut, the corner of her mouth. ‘Until you have taken her with you on that most perfect journey of all…’