The Italian's Token Wife. Julia James

You will have a much better chance to make something of yourself without such an encumbrance.’

      Encumbrance. That was the word that had done it. Made her stand up, newborn baby in her arms, and say tightly, ‘Benji stays with me!’

      Encumbrances. She knew all about them.

      She’d been one herself. An encumbrance so great that the woman who had given birth to her had left her to die in an alley.

      Well, no one, no one—neither man nor God—was going to take Benji from her!

      Through the wall the music pounded, far too loud. None of the residents dared complain. The man with the ghetto-blaster was on drugs, everyone knew that, and could turn ugly at the drop of a pin. Eventually he would turn it off, but often not till the early hours. No wonder Benji had broken sleep patterns.

      Knowing there was no way she could get him to sleep, even though it was gone eight in the evening, Magda let him play. He was sitting beside her on the lumpy bed, quite happily posting shapes through the holes in a plastic tower and gurgling with pleasure every time he got it right. It was a good toy, and Magda had been pleased to find it in a charity shop. All Benji’s toys and clothes—and her own clothes and possessions—came from charity shops and jumble sales.

      As she played with him, trying to ignore the pounding music, her mind went round and round, thinking about that extraordinary encounter this morning.

      Had it actually happened? Had a man who looked like every woman’s fantasy Latin millionaire really suggested she marry him for six months and thereby earn a hundred thousand pounds? It was so insane surely it couldn’t have happened.

      The knock on her door made her start. On the bed, Benji looked round interrogatively. The knock came again.

      ‘Miss Jones?’

      The voice was muffled and she could hardly hear it through the racket coming from next door. Was it the landlord? He turned up from time to time to check up on his property, from which he made a substantial living by letting it out to those on state benefits. Cautiously she went to the door. She’d fitted a chain herself, not feeling in the slightest secure with neighbours like hers.

      Bracing her weight against the back of the door, ready to slam it shut, she opened it a crack.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘It’s Rafaello di Viscenti. We spoke this morning. Please be so good as to admit me.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      TOTAL astonishment made her obey. As she opened the door to him Rafaello experienced a momentary qualm. Could he really go through with this? Marry this…this…what was the English word for it…? Skivvy? Even for the reasons he had. Seeing her again brought home just how dire she was. She was wearing a saggy sweatshirt and baggy trousers, her stringy, mud-coloured hair was scraped back, and her face was gaunt, with hollows under her eyes. She was, he could safely say, the most physically repellent female he’d ever set eyes on.

      But that is what makes her so perfect. OK, so she was the antithesis of Amanda, his first choice, but now, instead of a sexy, airhead bimbo he could take home this plain-ass-in, single mother! It would work just as well—if not better.

      Besides—the thought came to him with a stab of discomfort as his quick glance took in the dump she lived in and finally settled on the baby sitting on the bed, staring at him with big, chocolate eyes—she could certainly do with the money more than Amanda could…

      ‘What…what are you doing here? How…how did you find me?’

      The girl was stammering, clearly in a state of shock. Rafaello stepped inside and shut the door behind him. She shrank back, getting between him and the baby.

      Rafaello frowned. Dio, did she think he was going to harm her child?

      ‘There is no need to panic,’ he said in a dry voice. ‘I found you, Miss Jones, through the cleaning agency you work for, that is all. And I have been waiting to speak to you again all day. You have only just been reported back here. Where have you been?’

      He made it sound as if she’d been absent without leave.

      ‘Out,’ said Magda faintly, backing away to the bed so she could snatch up Benji in a moment if she had to. ‘I don’t spend much time here.’

      Her visitor made a derisive noise in his throat. ‘That I can understand. Where is that music coming from?’ he demanded, glaring around.

      ‘The room next door. He likes it loud.’

      ‘It is intolerable!’ announced Rafaello.

      Yes, agreed Magda, but all the same I have to tolerate it, and so does everyone else in the house. She was still in a state of shock, she knew. She had almost persuaded herself that the unbelievable events of the morning had never happened. Now, like something out of a dream, the man was standing in front of her again.

      Rafaello di Viscenti… The name rolled around her brain like a verbal caress. The name suited him absolutely, she realised, perfectly complementing the image he presented of the luxury-class Italian male.

      She blinked, realising she was staring at him gormlessly. He crossed to the table in the room, which served as dining table and general work surface, and placed an elegant leather document case down upon it, from which he proceeded to withdraw a wad of documents.

      ‘I have had the requisite papers drawn up,’ he informed her. ‘Please read them before you sign them.’

      Magda swallowed. ‘Er…I’m not signing anything, Mr Viscenti.’

      ‘Di Viscenti,’ he said. ‘You will be Signora di Viscenti. You must learn the correct form of address.’

      Magda rubbed the suddenly damp palms of her hands surreptitiously on her trousers. ‘Um…Mr di Viscenti, I…er…I…er…don’t think I can help you. Really. It’s all a bit too…er…weird for me…’

      She cast around in her mind desperately, trying to find a tactful way of saying that the whole thing was so flaky she wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole.

      His arched eyebrows rose. ‘Weird?’ he echoed. Then, brusquely, he nodded. ‘Yes, it is weird, Miss Jones. But, as I explained to you this morning, I have no choice—it is a matter of who controls our family business, Viscenti AG, the details of which need not trouble you. But it is sufficient reason for me to require a very temporary marriage, under very controlled circumstances, to meet certain…conditions…that amount to nothing more than an empty legality. It is a mere formal exercise for which, unfortunately, my marriage—even though a temporary one—is necessary.’

      ‘But why to me?’ she burst out. ‘A man like you could pick any woman to marry.’

      Rafaello accepted the ingenuous compliment as nothing more than the obvious. ‘Think of my proposition not as a marriage, but as a job, Miss Jones. A very temporary job.’ His voice became dry. ‘That was something the previous…candidate…found difficult to accept.’ He made a very Italian gesture with his hand. ‘The woman you encountered this morning?’ he prompted.

      ‘You were going to marry her?’

      ‘Yes. Unfortunately she…withdrew at the last moment. Hence,’ he went on with heavy civility, ‘my urgent need for a replacement. I must marry as soon as possible.’

      ‘But why me?’ Magda persisted. It still seemed so totally absurd. However, she had to admit that the knowledge that he had been on the point of entering into this weird marriage he wanted with that underdressed cow who had stormed out of his apartment this morning did make what he was proposing more credible. But it still left his choice of herself as a replacement incredible. After all, surely a man like that would know women like that first one by the score.

      ‘Because there is one essential difference between you…and women like her. Amanda wanted the money I was going to pay her. You…’ He paused and looked at her, and his eyes