The Italian's Token Wife. Julia James

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      And he was quite plainly furious. With dismay etched on every feature, she just went on kneeling beside the toilet pedestal, cleaning sponge in her hand.

      ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ she managed to croak, knowing she had to sound servile for someone like this, even though it was not her fault that she was where she apparently should not have been. ‘I was told it was all right to clean in here this morning.’

      The man’s mouth tightened.

      ‘There is a baby in the hall,’ he informed her.

      With one part of her brain Magda registered that the man could not be English. Not only was his skin tone too olive-hued, but his voice was definitely accented. Spanish? Italian? Too pale to be Middle-Eastern, he must definitely be Mediterranean, she decided.

      ‘Well?’ The interrogative demand came again.

      Clumsily Magda scrambled to her feet. She could not go on kneeling on the floor indefinitely.

      ‘He’s mine,’ she blurted.

      Something that might have been a flash of irritation showed in the man’s dark eyes.

      ‘So I had assumed. What is it doing there? This is no place for a baby!’

      A child that age should be at home, not being dragged around at this hour of the day? What kind of mother was this girl? Irresponsible, obviously!

      ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said again, swallowing, hoping some more abject servility would soften his annoyance at finding her cleaning when he was in residence. Clearly he was furious his pristine apartment was being cluttered up by something as messy as a baby. She bent to pick up her cleaning box, cast a swift glance around the bathroom to make sure it was decent, and said, as meekly as she could manage, ‘I’ll go now, sir. I’m very sorry for having disturbed you.’

      She made for the door and he stood aside to let her pass. It was uncomfortable passing him so close. He was so immaculately attired, obviously freshly washed and showered, and she had just spent several hours cleaning. She was dirty and sweaty, and she had a horrible feeling she smelt as bad as she felt. She hurried out to Benji, who, blessedly, was still asleep, and made to scoop up his chair.

      ‘Wait!’

      The order was imperative, and Magda halted instinctively, Benji a heavy weight on her arm. Hesitantly she turned round.

      The man was looking at her. Staring at her.

      Magda froze, as if she were a rabbit caught in headlights. Or rather an antelope realising a leopard had just come out of the undergrowth.

      Oh, help, she thought silently. Now what?

      Rafaello let his gaze rest on the girl. She was slightly built, drab in the extreme, with hair the colour of mud and unmemorable features. She also—his nose wrinkled in disdain—smelt of sweat and cleaning fluids. There was a smut of dirt on her cheek. She looked about twenty or so.

      He found himself glancing at her hands. They were covered by yellow rubber gloves. He frowned. His gaze went back to her face. She was looking at him with a look of deepest apprehension.

      ‘You don’t have to bolt like a frightened rabbit,’ he said. Deliberately he made his voice less brusque, though it didn’t seem to alter her expression a jot. She still stood there, poised for flight, baby in one hand, cleaning materials in the other.

      Rafaello took a couple of steps towards her.

      ‘Tell me—are you married?’

      The brusqueness was back in his voice. He didn’t mean it to be, but it was. It was because part of his mind was telling him that he was completely mad, thinking what he was thinking. But he was thinking it all the same…

      A blank look came into the girl’s eyes, as if he had asked her an unintelligible question.

      ‘Well?’ demanded Rafaello. The woman seemed beyond answering him.

      Jerkily, the woman shook her head, her eyes still with that fixed, blank look to them. Rafaello’s gaze focussed on her more intently. So, she wasn’t married—he hadn’t thought so, even without being able to see if she wore a wedding ring. And despite the baby.

      His eyes glanced across to the sleeping infant. He wasn’t any good at telling the ages of babies, but this one looked quite big. Too big for that chair, in fact. It was dark-haired, head lolling forward, totally out for the count.

      But a baby was good—however irresponsible the mother! A baby was very good, he mused consideringly. So was the rest of her. Once again his eyes flickered over her, taking in the full drabness of her appearance, and he thought he could see her wince.

      ‘Boyfriend?’

      Her eyes widened and then went even blanker. With the same jerky movement she shook her head. She also, Rafaello spotted, edged very slightly closer to the front door. He frowned. Why was she being so jumpy?

      ‘I have a business proposition to put to you.’ His voice was clipped as he banked down the anger at his predicament that still roiled within him like an injured tiger.

      A noise came from her that might have been a whimper, but that seemed unlikely since there was no reason for such a sound. Rafaello walked to the door leading into the kitchen and held it open with the flat of his hand.

      ‘In here.’ He gestured.

      The strangled croaking noise came again, and this time the woman definitely shrank back towards the door.

      ‘I have to go!’ Her voice came out high and squawky. ‘I’m very sorry!’

      Rafaello frowned again. Just then a door slammed on the upper floor. The next moment Amanda was descending as fast as her four-inch heels and very tight short skirt would permit. As she saw the tableau below her face lit up with a vicious smile.

      ‘Why, Raf, darling,’ she purred venomously, ‘how galling for you. “The first woman I see”.’ She gave a bad imitation of his Italian accent. ‘And that’s what you get. Bad luck.’

      The man’s accented voice answered the woman. He was purring, too, but it was the purr of a big cat, and it made the hairs stand up on the nape of Magda’s neck.

      ‘Yes, indeed, Amanda, cara, and she is just perfect for me.’

      The look that crossed the other woman’s face was a picture. Fury mingled with disbelief.

      ‘You’re joking. You have to be.’

      For his answer, Rafaello simply lifted one darkly arched eyebrow and gave the woman a mocking look.

      ‘Your taxi will be waiting downstairs, cara. Time to go.’

      For a moment the woman just stood there, fizzing with fury. Then with a tightening of her face she marched to the front door, shoved Magda aside, and flung it open.

      ‘Wait!’ squawked Magda, and tried to rush after her. What possible reason could the apartment owner have for wanting to know if she were married or had a boyfriend? СКАЧАТЬ