The Italian's Token Wife
If that had been his intent it had been unwise, thought Magda, of him to have suggested that, since they were both in the bathroom at the same time, they might therefore shower together…
It had been a long, long shower…
And now, after a luscious picnic in the most remote spot Rafaello could find, she realised with a sigh of pleasure just what he had in mind.
To make love in the open air, beneath a bower of green leaves, the soft, warm breeze sighing in the grass, was to be Adam and Eve, she thought, in the garden of paradise. As her needless fears of discovery melted in the irresistible solvent of desire she gave herself to him in the dappled sunlight, gave herself utterly and entirely, all her being, all her heart and soul.
She loved him, she knew. Knew that it could not be otherwise, that she was helpless against its power. And whilst the bliss and glory of it filled her, far below, in the deep recesses of her being, she knew it was not for her.
Today and tomorrow she could have—whatever time was to be allotted to her to have and to hold this most beautiful of men, this most cherished of beings by her side, in her arms. She did not know why he had chosen to change towards her, had no answer for it beyond, perhaps, curiosity, whim, an impulse he had decided to indulge. But she knew, however, that it would not last—could not last—that it was some kind of dream out of time, a brief, impermanent visitation of bliss that would flame like marsh fire before extinguishing itself.
But she did not care. As she lay beneath him, her eyes staring up at the mesh of chestnut leaves above them, his sated body heavy on her, folded closely to her in her clasping arms, she knew that she did not care that it would not last—could not last—that the end would come, and that she would wake one morning to his final kiss, his last embrace.
She felt his weight lift from her as he levered himself up from her a little, shifting his weight onto one elbow. Her eyes flickered to his and she gazed at him, helpless with her love for him.
She hoped he did not see it. Hoped it did not show.
Idly he plucked a long blade of grass and trailed it along the side of her cheek. The slight tickling sensation after all she had just felt made her smile.
‘Why do you smile?’ he asked softly, smiling back at her as he spoke.
‘Because I am happy,’ she told him simply.
His smile deepened.
‘So am I, cara mia, so am I.’ He kissed her gently. ‘Very happy.’
For a long, close moment they just looked at each other. Looked deep into each other’s eyes. After all they had just shared—the absolute union of their bodies, the journey they had taken together to the country of passion and desire, then the flow back to this, a gentler, less tempestuous union , but still a union —Magda knew with a deep, abiding certainty that was far closer than all that had gone before. As she gazed into his eyes, and he into hers, she felt a living bond flow between them…a wondrous, living bond…
And then, as a tiny, unknown bud of emotion began to unfurl deep within her—an emotion she dared not acknowledge, dared not give a name to—she saw his eyes veil. Withdrawing from her.
The moment was gone, and so was the emotion.
It had been hope, and it had just slipped away.
They took Benji with them on their next picnic, the following day, and although Rafaello had to forgo the pleasures of love in the open air in exchange for the pleasure of seeing Magda and her son enjoying themselves, he more than made up for it on their return to the villa, as the sun was lowering over the Tyrrhenian Sea.
With almost indecent haste he handed Benji over to Maria, who had come bustling out of her domain at their arrival, slipped his hand over Magda’s and simply said, ‘Vene,’ heading with her to the staircase.
Quite unable to meet Maria’s eye, merely able to pat Benji’s head and tell him to be a good boy—’He is always good, signora,’ Maria assured her, with approval in her voice—Magda let herself be led upstairs.
She had the feeling that Maria’s approval was not just for Benji’s behaviour, but for theirs. Ever since Rafaello had transformed her from an ugly duckling the housekeeper had radiated approval upon them both. Rafaello she fussed over like a boy on his birthday, and presented him with enough food at mealtimes to fatten him for Christmas—not that it ever made the slightest difference to his greyhound leanness, Magda thought, her eyes lingering on his smooth, hard torso as he slipped his shirt from his shoulders with clear intent. And as for her, Maria simply beamed at her whenever she looked at her, saying nothing—but her eyes were eloquent.