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More rapid Italian followed, and Magda was sure she was not imagining the strong disapproval in the man’s reaction—nor the shocked expression when he took in not just her, but Benji, too. Rafaello, she could tell, was simply terse and uncommunicative—and definitely not pleased by something the man had said to him.
Then they were indoors and Rafaello was turning to her.
‘You and the child must be tired. I am sure you would like to rest a while. Come.’ His voice was impersonal.
They proceeded up a grand staircase, and Magda could not help staring bug-eyed around her. The inside of the house was as beautiful as the outside, with white plain plaster walls hung with tapestries and oil paintings, and a marble staircase edged with scrolling wrought-iron banisters. Everything looked incredibly antique and expensive, a world away from the modern luxury apartments she cleaned.
Disbelief welled through her again—she was going to live here for the next few weeks? This was definitely a fairytale!
Rafaello took her into a large room leading off the broad upper landing. Again she just gazed around, wide-eyed. A vast carved wooden bed dominated the room, which was filled with huge pieces of furniture but, such was the size of the room, there was no sense of being cramped at all. A fabulous Persian carpet spread out beneath her feet, and heavy drapes cascaded to the floor either side of the pair of shuttered windows. A huge stone fireplace faced the bed.
‘The en suite bathroom is through that door,’ Rafaello informed her in the same terse, blank tone. ‘Do you have all that you need for yourself and the child? Giuseppe will obtain anything you ask him for.’
She managed to nod, feeling incredibly awkward. The butler-type—Giuseppe, she presumed—had followed them up, and now came in, carrying her suitcase from the limo. Its shabbiness looked as out of place here as she did.
‘Good,’ said Rafaello. He glanced at his watch. ‘Refresh yourself, and the child. Would you like some coffee?’
She nodded. ‘Th-thank you,’ she stammered faintly.
‘Good,’ he said again. ‘Giuseppe will show you downstairs in a while, when you are rested. Oh…’ He paused, and his eyes flicked over her again, unreadably. ‘There is no need for you to change.’
Then he was gone, and Giuseppe with him.
Alone, Magda gazed around again. It was obvious that she was simply being stashed away until required, but she could hardly complain about her storage conditions. The room was exquisite. Her only worry was that everything in it was far too precious for her and Benji.
Benji, however, was eager to be mobile. She put him down and he promptly tottered off, eagerly exploring this new environment. She watched him head for the huge bed. She would not have to ask for a cot—the bed was easily big enough for her and Benji.
And her husband?
She pushed the thought away. Rafaello di Viscenti was her husband by nothing more than a legal sleight-of-hand. Where he slept had nothing to do with her.
Rafaello walked back down the staircase, his expression tight. He did not look forward to the imminent confrontation, but it was both inevitable and essential. He had to teach his father, once and for all, that he was not a puppet with strings to be pulled.
For his father Viscenti AG, founded over a hundred years ago to restore the ailing fortunes of a landed family, was simply a business, yielding a more than comfortable living for the di Viscentis.
Rafaello knew better. The world had shifted—globalisation was the name of the game. The only game. Viscenti AG had to move into the twenty-first century, and the only way to do that was to become major league on a global stage. The euro was seeing to that, if nothing else—Europe was wide open, and the blast of competition blew with a chillier wind than ever. Cosy family businesses just wouldn’t survive.
Up till now Rafaello had had to fight for his strategy of taking Viscenti AG global every inch of the way with his father. He might be chief executive, but his father was chairman, and owned the majority shareholding. He had looked with grudging disapproval upon all Rafaello’s endless labours in opening up the European market to the company, and, even though turnover and profits were soaring, Rafaello knew his father wished Viscenti AG had stayed the native enterprise it always had been.
But Rafaello had worked his backside off for the company he had so dramatically expanded, and he was not, not about to see his efforts wasted—or the family company sold off to strangers.
To prevent that he would do anything—whatever it took.
As he had proved that morning.
He strode across the marble-floored hallway and into the book-lined library he used as an office. Crossing to the window that overlooked the ornamental pool with its trickling fountain, Rafaello pushed back the sides of his suit jacket and splayed his fingers along his hips, looking out moodily. Typical of his father not to be here when he wanted him to be. Giuseppe had informed him, when he’d arrived, that both his father and cousin had gone out for lunch and were not expected back until late afternoon. He’d then promptly gone on to try and discover who the young female with the baby was.
