Her Forgotten Lover's Heir

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 important, 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.

‘Now, sit here and I’ll get you a cool drink. I don’t want you to overdo it.’

Molly shook her head. ‘No need.’ Tempted as she was to stay, sunning herself in the open air, she had other priorities. ‘What I’d really like is a long, hot shower or maybe a bath.’

At the hospital they’d removed the last bandage and she’d had a quick shower before changing into the clothes Pietro had brought. Yet she felt as if she still smelled of institutional cleanser and the indefinable scent of hospital that had filled her nostrils too long.

‘If you’re sure.’ He stood back so she could rise. ‘But then have a rest, and later we can talk. You need to build up your strength gradually.’

Molly was about to reassure him that she was healthy and that she’d had more rest than she’d liked. But she did feel fatigued. Just from the stress of leaving hospital! The realisation dampened her excitement. How long before she was back to normal?

‘Perhaps you’re right.’

Besides, Pietro wanted to look after her. She shouldn’t throw his concern back in his face.

His solicitousness warmed her. How foolish she’d been when he’d arrived at the hospital, thinking there was something darkly brooding and dangerous about him. He’d just been worried about her.

How much more concerned would he be if he knew she was pregnant?

She needed to tell him and soon. But not yet. According to the hospital, the pregnancy was in the very early stages. Pietro hadn’t mentioned other children so this would be their first. She wanted to choose the right moment to break the news.

Besides, she needed more time to adjust to being Molly Agosti. To get to know her husband and herself. She had so many questions, so many things she needed to understand.

So she didn’t blurt out the news of the baby. She had no idea how he’d react. Would he be thrilled? Maybe they’d been trying for a while. Or would it be unexpected? No, definitely better to wait a little longer before throwing that news at her husband as well. For now they had enough to deal with.

Which was why Molly didn’t demur when Pietro showed her to a gorgeous bedroom, asked again if she needed anything then left, closing the door behind him. For a moment, maybe two, she’d wondered if he’d stay with her, fold her in his arms and take her to bed, not for sex, but for a long overdue cuddle.

Of course she wasn’t disappointed when he didn’t. He was being careful of her boundaries, aware that to her he was a complete unknown.

Yet in her heart of hearts Molly longed for the comfort of his embrace.

She slipped out of her shoes and wriggled her toes in the plush softness of the rug at this end of the room. At the far end the bed sat on a raised plinth with a gorgeous headboard of stylised roses climbing up a metal frame.

Quickly Molly turned away. She was not going to think of Pietro on that broad bed. Or of herself naked and spread-eagled on the counterpane, her fingers gripping the headboard as a tall, dark-haired man settled between her thighs.

Molly choked back a gasp of excitement mingled with shock.

Was that a memory? Heat seared and her mouth tipped up in a grin as she thought of her returning memory beginning in the bedroom. But it wasn’t to be. It was simply a case of wishful thinking.

Yet between her legs a pulse started up and her muscles softened.

Simply from imagining Pietro in bed with her.

How long had it been since they’d had sex? Had they been abstaining for some reason or did she have a naturally sensual nature?

So many questions. So few facts. After she’d showered, she’d begin finding out more. This morning it had been enough to get away from the claustrophobia of the hospital and trust Pietro to bring her home.

Soon she’d get more answers.

Sighing, she crossed the floor and opened a door. Instead of the bathroom she found herself in a dressing room. Molly stopped, eyes widening, as she took in the luxurious space. Customised storage for shoes, bags, boots and hats. A deeply padded day-bed, presumably for reclining on while deciding what to wear. Racks of clothes in a multitude of colours and styles. Her dazed eyes took in a bright sundress and a tailored suit. There were dresses that sparkled and swept low towards the floor and skirts that flared or fell in straight lines.

Slowly she pivoted, surveying the range of feminine clothes it would surely take months and months to wear. Had they, like the clothes she wore, been bought while she’d been in hospital? Was it all on loan while she decided which items she wanted? She’d have to talk with Pietro.

But as she turned she discovered something else. There was no men’s clothing in the space.

Frowning, Molly backed out and returned to the bedroom.

There was another set of doors. But as she turned the handle she discovered they led out onto part of the roof terrace, made private by screens of green foliage that blocked it from the rest of the garden.

Molly turned and crossed the room, her feet silent on the cool floor. She pushed open another door and there was a bathroom, an airy space full of exquisite creamy marble flecked with gold.

Ignoring the call of the sunken tub, and the rain shower big enough for a small crowd, Molly spun round, surveying the bedroom.

No more doors, which meant no walk-in closet for Pietro.

Nor were there any signs of male habitation. There was nothing on the bedside tables, desk or even on the long sofa facing the bed.

Pietro didn’t share this room with her.

Which begged the question—exactly what sort of marriage did they have?

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