by Annie West
Molly told herself he was simply a man who didn’t show his feelings in public, and there’d been staff fussing about them all morning. Even the head of the hospital had made an appearance, shaking Signor Agosti’s hand and all but bowing them out of the building.
Besides, Molly was injured. It was natural Pietro would treat her carefully rather than sweep her into his arms and kiss her senseless.
Her cheeks fired at the idea. How would it feel, being scooped up against that hard, lean body?
She’d dreamed of him in the night, of his hand holding hers as she lay in her narrow hospital bed. In her dream that hard, gentle hand had touched her elsewhere, exploring thoroughly, driving her wild with an urgent, carnal hunger. Molly had woken, damp between the legs and hot all over, in an empty room.
Was that memory or imagination? Pietro knew her body well enough to describe her appendix scar. Maybe what she’d considered an erotic dream was a memory. Perhaps it was part of her brain’s reawakening.
‘How are you doing?’ Pietro’s deep voice set off a shuddery response inside Molly, as if she was still in the grip of that erotic dream. ‘Is the temperature okay for you?’
Her blush intensified because he’d noticed it.
That was another thing: Pietro watched her continually. Molly told herself it was good that he was concerned for her comfort and so solicitous.
‘It’s just right. Thanks.’ Deliberately she made herself turn to the man beside her on the back seat.
In broad daylight he was just as dauntingly, devastatingly good-looking. Like one of the beautiful people you saw splashed on the pages of magazines and TV shows about the rich and famous.
Not that she’d describe him as beautiful. That arrogant nose and no-nonsense jaw were powerful rather than pretty, and his expression of reserve and cool consideration proclaimed he was nobody’s fool.
Yet Pietro had sat holding her hand last night till she’d fallen asleep. He’d been uncomplaining this morning as they’d waited for the results of yet more tests. Then he’d sat through a long consultation with every doctor on the premises, it seemed, plus senior administrators. Molly was convinced so many staff had appeared because Pietro Agosti had been there.
He was a VIP yet she knew nothing about him. He’d kept the conversation focused on her, her chances of recovery, symptoms and care. There’d been no chance for private conversation. There had been too many people around.
‘How did you find me?’ She fixed on those golden-brown eyes looking back at her.
‘My people were searching for you.’
‘Your people?’
‘My staff.’
‘You have staff?’ As soon as the words spilled out, she felt foolish. Of course he had staff. This was a private limousine and Pietro knew the driver’s first name. Plus there must be someone keeping his clothes in such pristine order. Molly couldn’t picture him pressing his shirt and shining his own shoes to that mirror gloss before stepping out of the door.
He shrugged. ‘I run a company. I assigned some trusted staff to help.’ Not a small company, then.
‘You didn’t just look for me yourself?’ She’d pictured her partner scouring the city for her.
Pietro’s expression turned grim. ‘You disappeared. It wasn’t a one-man job. I employed an investigation firm too.’ His voice grew even more clipped and Molly realised with a burst of relief that must be how Pietro dealt with emotion, by keeping it tightly leashed.
Maybe she’d been influenced by that popular image of Italians as extroverted about their feelings. Clearly Pietro wasn’t. He did that whole controlled, macho thing to perfection. But it warmed her heart to know he’d been worried about her.
‘How did I disappear?’
‘Sorry?’ His eyes narrowed, as if taken by surprise.
‘How come you didn’t know where I was?’ Pietro stared back silently. ‘I take it I didn’t just pop out for a carton of milk?’
‘You went to Rome and—’
‘Went to Rome? You mean we don’t live here?’ She was sure he’d given an address in the city to the hospital authorities. But then she still felt a bit foggy. Surely she hadn’t been mistaken?
‘We’d been staying at the family villa in the country. You wanted to come to Rome and I couldn’t go with you because of other commitments.’
Molly sat back against the luxuriously upholstered seat and wondered what it was about his words that sent a shimmer of unease through her. Surely there was nothing unusual about them living in the country? Except that, with his suave tailoring and severe good looks, Pietro seemed utterly urban. She couldn’t visualise him in faded jeans and a T-shirt.
Though she’d love to try. She had a suspicion he’d fill them out to perfection.
She put her unease down to their odd situation, married yet strangers. And possibly to Pietro’s unblinking regard when he spoke, as if checking she accepted everything he said. Why wouldn’t she? Did he think she’d forget what he told her? She might have lost her long-term memory but she recalled everything that had happened since she’d woken in hospital, though sometimes she found it hard to focus.
‘The trouble was, once you got to Rome you vanished.’ There it was again, that tightness in his deep voice. Molly heard it and knew Pietro repressed strong emotion. It was a male thing, she figured, not to let others see vulnerability. Plus, he probably didn’t want to stress her with how badly her disappearance had affected him.
‘I didn’t mean to.’
He looked into her face and his features softened. ‘It doesn’t matter now. That’s all over.’ After a moment he reached out and squeezed her hand briefly. Instantly Molly felt better. Her fingers wrapped around his and clung, till the limousine took a tight curve and Pietro swayed back into his own corner.
‘But we have a place in Rome too? We’re going there now, aren’t we?’
He nodded. ‘We are. It’s not far. But don’t get your hopes up. The place has just been completely redecorated, so I suspect it’s not going to awaken any memories for you.’
‘You really are a mind reader.’ Last night, as he’d watched her, Molly had been convinced of it.
‘Hardly, but it seemed logical you’d expect it to.’
Molly shrugged, trying to stifle disappointment. ‘At least with my own things around me I’ll feel more at home. You never know, even something as simple as my old clothes might spark some recollection.’
She thought disconsolately of the red comb and vanilla lip-balm now nestled in the smart designer handbag Pietro had produced for her this morning. So far none of her possessions had opened the door to her lost memory.
Nor had the clothes he’d brought in this morning. Expensive pewter-coloured shoes and a plain silk dress that had looked almost drab on the hanger, but which had clung elegantly and transformed her into a stylish stranger. Yet she hadn’t felt at home in the outfit, despite the luxury of the gossamer-fine silk and exquisitely dainty underwear.
Her mouth curved bitterly. She didn’t care about being stylish, but she hated the fact Molly Agosti was still a stranger to herself.
‘Ah, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer for those.’
‘Sorry?’
His eyes met hers. ‘For your own clothes. You brought some with you to Rome but because our place here was still under wraps, with paint fumes and the designer adding the final touches, you didn’t stay there.’ He paused and for a second she thought she read uncertainty in Pietro’s face.
The impression swiftly passed. He spread his hands in a speaking gesture and lifted his shoulders. ‘Unfortunately you forgot to give me your accommodation details before you went out and had your accident. Your luggage is still in your room in Rome. But we haven’t managed to track down where that is yet.’
‘You don’t know where I was staying?’ It seemed strange.
/> He nodded, his expression regretful. ‘It would have been a simple matter to have my secretary arrange your accommodation, but the trip was on the spur of the moment, and you’ve always been...independent. You don’t like a fuss.’
Molly sank back in her seat, her mind reeling. ‘So these clothes aren’t mine?’ She plucked at the fine dress which was lovely and clearly pricey but which felt somehow not her. Which was an absurd idea, when she didn’t know what sort of person she was.
‘Bought for you by a personal shopper. A very discreet woman.’
Pietro’s sharp gaze must have registered her dismay, for he leaned towards her, once more covering her hand in his.
‘It’s okay, Molly. It will all be okay.’ His voice hit that low gravel and suede note she’d heard in her dreams last night.
A shiver passed through her, a ripple, not of dismay but of awakening. For in response to Pietro’s touch her body began to come alive. Heat stirred in her belly and her breasts tightened against the lace of the brand-new bra.
She was disappointed, horribly disappointed, that at journey’s end she wouldn’t have anything of her very own to help her regain her memories. But with Pietro leaning close, the warmth of his body invading hers, it wasn’t panic she felt. It was desire. Awareness. Attraction.
The constraint she’d felt around her impossibly gorgeous husband cracked. Their carefulness with each other was due to her unusual situation. For beneath it was a deep channel of passion. That passion ran strong and true now as they edged their way towards an understanding of new boundaries.
It said something about her husband’s character that he didn’t press her, expecting her to act as if everything was normal between them. He must be hurt by the fact she had no recollection of him. Yet he was patient and restrained, respecting how difficult this was for her.
Molly smiled up into the dark face so close to hers, her heart filled with thankfulness and joy.
‘I’m so lucky I’ve got you. Thank you, Pietro.’
* * *
Pietro’s lungs stalled, his breath faltering as Molly looked up at him, her generous mouth pulling wide in a smile that was all gratitude and happiness.
Her smiles had always been heady things. When she was carefree, they were like golden sunshine on an endless summer day. When she was amused, her smile beckoned conspiratorially, inviting you to share the joke. And when she was aroused her smile turned sultry and irresistible, a siren’s weapon with the power to stifle even the sternest voice of caution.
At the moment it wasn’t the voice of caution that bothered him but his conscience. She’d accepted everything he’d told her easily, which of course was what he wanted. But then to have her so grateful to him...
Pietro thrust aside the quibble of conscience. There was no place for such niceties here.
He was doing the right thing. His goals were the same as hers—to look after her and the baby.
What could be wrong with that?
Yet he wished she wouldn’t look at him that way. It wasn’t just that it evoked an unnecessary pang of guilt. Her adoring look stirred other feelings too, feelings he didn’t have time for. This situation was precarious enough without adding further complications.
He turned his head and looked outside satisfaction rising as he saw where they were. ‘Good. Here’s our place now.’
* * *
‘Our place’ turned out to be a lavish top-floor apartment sprawling across the footprint of a whole building.
Molly felt her eyes bulge as she took it in. It looked like something from an upmarket home-decorating magazine, each room more discreetly luxurious than the last, all in shades of white or cream. She reached out to touch the celadon figure of a horse, the sole touch of colour in a huge living room, then tugged her hand back. It was probably some priceless antique.
Her breath quickened and her pulse too as she gazed through the wide open doors to the formal dining room, large enough for a banquet. Even the sleek, minimalist study nearby screamed expense with its spare designer furniture and exquisite artwork.
Did she really belong here? She felt like an interloper.
Firmly Molly told herself it was because the place had been recently remodelled, with perfect taste and a restrained opulence that absolutely screamed wealth. She sensed she hadn’t been born to this sort of money, even if Pietro had.
She darted a glance at the tall man beside her who’d stopped to silence the quiet buzz of an incoming call to his phone. How much she had to learn about the man she’d married! And about herself.
It was a daunting prospect but she stilled the whisper of unease sidling along her nerves and tried to project a confidence she didn’t feel. Fake it till you make it—wasn’t that what they said? Molly had a disturbing feeling it would take a long time to feel comfortable in such surroundings.
Pietro introduced her to a smiling housekeeper, Marta, explaining that she spent the days here, leaving each evening.
Molly nodded and said something suitable, surprised by how daunted she felt at the prospect of having staff to cook and clean for her. It felt...odd. As if she wasn’t accustomed to employing someone to do what she could easily do herself.
Except, exploring the prestigious residence at Pietro’s side, she realised it was probably a full-time job keeping the place in such pristine condition. Everything gleamed spotlessly, from the antique mirrors to the long lap pool on the roof garden. Even the lush potted plants flowered in profusion with not a single dying leaf.
If it had been left to her, half the plants out there would be sick. Her only gardening talent was to kill the plants she tried to nurture.
Molly froze mid-step, halfway across the terrace.
How did she know that? Did she know it or just imagine it? Was her mind filling in the vast gaps of her life with stories that weren’t real? What about her self-consciousness at having a housekeeper? Surely she was used to having staff, since it was how she and Pietro lived?
‘Molly? What is it?’
Instantly Pietro was there, his gaze concerned, his mouth tight. ‘Come, sit down.’ He gripped her elbow and ushered her towards a shady pergola and a stylish iron chair with a cream cushioned seat.
Ecru, Molly thought hazily as she sank onto it. Like everything else in the apartment, the outdoor furniture featured shades of white. Yet she’d bet the posh designer who’d created this showpiece wouldn’t call the cushions anything as ordinary as creamy white.
A broad palm covered her forehead, as if checking for a fever, and Molly knew a momentary urge to lean into Pietro’s touch, seeking comfort in his physical presence. But he dropped his hand and hunkered before her, eyes searching.
‘What is it, Molly? A headache? I’ll carry you to bed.’
Pietro reached out to her but she stopped him.
She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. For her instant response to the idea of him carrying her was yes, please. Not because she needed to lie down but because she wanted the comfort of Pietro’s arms about her, holding her close.
The one sure thing she’d discovered since meeting him was that she felt better when he touched her.
Molly craved that comfort so much she was afraid it made her weak when she needed to be strong to get through this difficult time.
She cleared her throat. ‘No need. I’m okay, truly.’
He sat back on his heels and she curled her fingers into the thick seat cushion so as not to give in to temptation and reach for him. He really was the most amazing looking man. Particularly when he stared at her with such intensity, such concern, in those stunning eyes.
‘It’s just that I remembered something.’
To her surprise, instead of evoking a smile her news made his dark, straight eyebrows draw together.
‘You did? Something important?’
‘Anything’s importan
t, surely?’ She cocked her head, trying to read his still features, then gave up. A smile tugged her mouth wide. ‘I remembered gardening!’
‘Gardening?’ Pietro looked confused.
‘Silly, isn’t it? You’d think I’d remember the big things first, like you. Or our wedding. Or coming to Italy.’ Molly shrugged and sank further into the comfortable seat, revelling in the sun’s warmth out here on the terrace after her time cooped up in hospital.
Slowly he nodded. ‘You don’t remember any of that?’ His voice sounded strained, making her abruptly aware that Pietro had also been through an enormously tough time. Think of having someone you loved disappear without a trace. And then to have her turn up and not remember you!
No wonder he was tense. He’d been through the mill too.
If she’d known him better she’d have reached out and covered his hand with hers. Or smoothed out the faint frown on his wide forehead.
A tremor passed through her, a surge of longing. She wanted so badly to connect with Pietro, to smash through the invisible barrier between them. But she didn’t have the nerve. He was still a stranger after all.
Her smile faded. ‘I’m sorry. I probably raised your hopes. It’s nothing really, not even a clear picture in my head. Just the knowledge that I’m a dreadful gardener. I used to joke and say I had a black thumb, not a green one, because of all the plants I’d inadvertently killed off.’
Excitement raced through her. She hadn’t remembered that last bit at first. The knowledge had come to her as she’d spoken the words. It was like being on a ribbon of road unfolding before her in real time but not knowing what was coming up around the next curve.
Eagerly she concentrated on the idea of tending plants. She tried to conjure a mental picture to go with the words that had popped into her head and the certainty that this really was a memory.
But there was nothing. No matter how hard she tried.
‘That’s marvellous!’ Pietro’s belated enthusiasm almost made up for her failure to form a concrete picture of the past. ‘Didn’t they say your memory would start returning?’ His mouth curved as he stood. It must be a trick of the light that gave his smile a cool edge, as if it didn’t reach up to his eyes.
