father was speaking again.
‘And to what, may I ask—’ his father’s voice sounded biting ‘—do we owe this unexpected honour?’
Rafaello’s dark eyes glinted. ‘Why, Papà, tomorrow is my thirtieth birthday. Surely you knew I would come?’
Enrico di Viscenti’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did I?’ he countered.
His son smiled. ‘And here I am—as dutiful as ever. Come,’ he went on, ‘join me on the terrace—I believe a little…celebration…is in order.’
He was aware of Lucia’s piercing scrutiny and sudden, riveted attention, and his gaze moved from his father to meet her assessing gaze. He smiled blandly, his eyes glinting just as his father’s had done.
‘Lucia—you will join us, of course.’
His voice was urbane, but it signalled volumes. He watched as a slow expression of satisfaction, swiftly veiled, passed over her handsome features.
‘Good,’ said Rafaello, and smiled again. But beneath the smile a hard, tight band seemed to be lashing itself around his heart.
CHAPTER THREE
‘WELL?’ demanded Enrico, taking his seat at the ornate ironwork table at the shady end of the terrace outside the formal drawing room of the villa. ‘Can it be that you have come to your senses at last?’ His voice was sharp, and the gaze he rested on his son even sharper.
The hard, tight rope around Rafaello’s chest lashed the knot around his chest tighter.
‘Did you doubt that I would, Papà?’ he replied, his voice level.
His father made a sound in his throat between a growl and a rasp. ‘I know you are more obstinate and self-willed than any father deserves. It was always the way with you!’
‘Well,’ said Rafaello, with a temporising air, ‘for once I am being the model son—’
If there was a bite in his voice, no one heard it. He went on, ‘But first I would like, Papà, to confirm that if I do what you want, and marry by my thirtieth birthday, you will give me undisputed control of the company. Is that right?’ Rafaello addressed his father directly, keeping his voice brisk and businesslike.
‘Hah!’ exclaimed his father. ‘You know perfectly well it is so.’
‘And you give me your word on that?’
‘Of course.’ He sounded affronted that he had even been asked.
Rafaello smiled inexpressively. ‘In which case, Papà,’ he went smoothly on, his voice bland, ‘you may wish me happy—and keep to your side of the agreement.’
His father stilled, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, unable to speak for the moment. Not so Lucia. With a breathless little laugh, she spoke.
‘Rafaello, you are the most abominable man.’ Her voice was full of flirtatious exasperation. ‘Proposing to me in such a fashion.’ She gave her tinkling laugh again. ‘But I shall punish you for your lack of gallantry, be sure of that.’ She turned to her prospective father-in-law. ‘Tell me, Enrico,’ she said with coy feminine teasing, ‘how shall I punish this boorish son of yours for depriving me of my rightful wooing?’
She gave another little laugh, coquettish now, and let her gaze slip back to her husband-to-be.
There was a curious look on his face. Half-shuttered, half-revealing. He held up a hand.
‘Before we go any further, I think it is time for champagne, no?’
On cue, Giuseppe appeared, bearing the requisite beverage, and as he placed the tray on the table between them Rafaello murmured something to him. The man nodded, and retired. Rafaello busied himself opening the bottle and liberally filling up the glasses and spreading them around.
Lucia gave a click of irritation. ‘Giuseppe has brought one glass too many,’ she said acidly. ‘It is high time he took his pension!’
Rafaello presented her with her foaming narrow glass. ‘When you are mistress here, you may tell him so,’ he said lightly.
A small but distinct smirk of satisfaction—and anticipation—curled at her scarlet mouth. Rafaello watched it, his face still quite unreadable.
His father picked up his glass and got to his feet. ‘A toast.’ Satisfaction rang in his voice. He was well pleased with his son’s decision to finally see reason, as was his niece. ‘A toast to the new Signora di Viscenti—’
Rafaello lifted his glass. ‘How kind,’ he murmured. There was a slight sound in the doorway to the drawing room and he tilted his head towards it. ‘And how very timely.’
The girl stood there, Giuseppe just behind her. Fierce gratification surged through Rafaello. The girl made exactly the picture he had intended. As the others at the table turned to stare at her she stood there, atrociously dressed, her hair drawn back off her plain face with an elastic band, and—best of all—an open-mouthed baby on her hip. Her expression was completely blank.
Rafaello got to his feet and drew her forward. She was as stiff and unyielding as a board, and almost stumbled. He took her hand, making sure the wedding ring was visible.
‘Allow me to present,’ he said, in a voice that was as bland as milk, ‘my wife, Signora di Viscenti.’
For a moment, as Magda stood completely immobile, wanting the earth to swallow her, there was complete silence. Then, a second later, there was uproar.
It was the old man’s voice that was the loudest. It was like a lion roaring. She could understand not a word, but the rage in it was like a hurricane pouring over her. At her side Rafaello di Viscenti, the man to whom she had been legally joined in matrimony, gripped her left hand in a vice.
Her breath was frozen in her chest. The old man—who just had to be Rafaello di Viscenti’s father, for the arrogance of his head and the similarity of the features argued nothing else—was still roaring. The butler-type was looking as if he’d been hit over the head by a heavy object—and the woman sitting next to the older Signor di Viscenti was simply looking totally and completely incredulous.
For one long, timeless instant there was nothing except the roaring Italian rage of the old man, and then, in absolute terror, Benji started to howl.
Magda jerked her hand free and used it to cradle her son up against her breast, turning away, back into the lavishly elegant drawing room.
What on earth was going on? A new voice had interrupted the roaring—Rafaello’s. His voice was sharper, far more biting, but just as angry. Desperately Magda got as far away as she could, clutching the sobbing Benji to her while she tried to calm him—an impossible task, given the human racket going on out on the terrace.
Suddenly her sleeve was seized. There was an overpowering smell of heavy perfume, and a voice was hissing something at her in Italian. The venom in the words, incomprehensible though they were, made Magda flinch.
‘Please—’ she said jerkily. ‘I…I don’t understand.’
