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‘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?
CHAPTER FOUR (#u3cb81c97-661f-5e2b-ba3e-f51fa9d7ef9d)
THE SUN WAS low in the sky as Pietro sat on the roof terrace, pondering his situation.
There were too many chances for failure. At any moment, if Molly’s memory returned, he’d be scuppered. She’d put up so many barriers it would make what he had to do almost impossible.
Not that that would stop him. He was determined to get what he needed. Because he played for the highest stakes.
Pietro might have been born to wealth and privilege, but he’d known tragedy, deceit and disappointment. Those had galvanised him into a man who didn’t play at life. He worked single-mindedly to get what he wanted then keep it.
At the age of ten his world had been ripped asunder. His beloved parents and little sister had been killed in a freak accident. He’d known then what it was to feel utterly alone and vulnerable, cut off from the world. As the years had passed and he’d learned to deal with the terrible sense of isolation, he’d vowed to build a life that contained everything he’d lost.
The success of the family business, which had been tottering towards insolvency by the time he was old enough to take control, was a result of his determination. As CEO, he thrived on challenge.
Pietro’s mouth twisted. His personal life was less successful. Less successful. There was a laugh.
His marriage to Elizabetta had been a fiasco. He’d been so distracted by the prospect of having a family of his own, by the child she’d said she was carrying, that he’d ignored the warning signs. How had he not seen earlier that his ex-wife was a gold-digger and liar? How had he allowed himself to fall for the sham pregnancy?
Simple. She offered what you longed for. What you’ve dreamed of since you were a kid.
Belonging.
Family.
Somehow Elizabetta had sensed that and exploited his weakness. But he’d learned quickly. Now she was out of his life. Yet the yearning remained. For blood ties, for a family of his own.
With Molly he’d get just that. The thought sent anticipation ripping through him. Finally, he’d have it all.
A sound drew his attention and he looked up. Molly stood, paused, in the doorway. His pulse kicked and tension coiled in his belly.
Yet it wasn’t the success of his careful scheme that excited him as Molly stepped out onto the terrace.
It was sex.
Heat burgeoned low in his body and his pulse thrummed as he took in her slim figure in fitted white capri pants and a sleeveless blue top, her narrow feet in low white sandals.
Pietro frowned at the stark intensity of the hunger grabbing at his insides. He wanted to march over and sweep her into his arms and straight back to bed.
He’d looked in on her a few hours ago and had stood far too long staring down at her as she slept. She’d been curled up like a child on top of the covers. But the glimpses of pale breast and thigh at the gap in her robe had been pure, seductive woman. He’d been on the verge of kissing her awake and joining her on that bed when he’d come to his senses, remembering she was still an invalid.
It had been the same the night they’d parted in Tuscany. Despite his fury and the sour taste of disgust on his tongue, he’d lusted after her then too. Neither pride nor common sense had eradicated his hunger for this woman. That, above all, explained why he’d lost his temper so monumentally.
In his eyes what she’d done had been unforgivable, but even worse was the fact that he still wanted her in spite of it.
Now that anger was gone, stripped away by the truth. Everything had changed. Except his desire for Molly. It was so strong, so electric, he wondered that she didn’t pick up on it.
He smoothed the frown away and raised a hand in greeting. ‘Ciao, bella.’
She gave him a tentative smile and made her way towards him.
The late sun burnished her tawny shoulder-length hair into waves that showed highlights of gilt and amber. Possessiveness struck. Pietro remembered threading his fingers through those thick tresses, fascinated by the colour. She’d dismissed it as somewhere between brown and dirty-blonde and had spoken of dyeing it one day.
Women were strange—never happy with what they had.
‘Sleep well?’
She nodded. ‘Better than I remember ever sleeping.’ Her mouth twisted into a rueful smile and she shrugged. ‘Which isn’t saying much since my memory only goes back days.’
‘One day at a time, cara. You’ll get there.’
Despite his need to take advantage of her memory loss, Pietro didn’t like to think the amnesia might be permanent. He’d spent a long time interrogating the medical staff about that. The one thing they’d all agreed was that no one knew for sure, but most were hopeful her memory would return given time.
Meanwhile he was determined to look after her, keep her safe.
And ensure the success of his own plans.
‘Thanks, Pietro.’ She hesitated over his name as if shy, and instantly he was hurtled back to the day they’d met. She’d been self-conscious yet charming. He’d been intrigued as he’d watched her stiffness disappear as soon as she’d interacted with her young charges and forgotten him.
Now she stopped by the table, her head angled as if to scrutinise him better. Instantly he was alert, conscious of the need to be careful.
‘Is something amusing? You’re smiling.’
‘Am I?’ Pietro was surprised. He might have been amused at the memory, but he hadn’t actually smiled. He’d been told more than once that he kept his emotions well-hidden. It was a useful trait during business negotiations and over the years it had become instinctive, as he preferred to keep his feelings private.
She took the chair opposite and sank down. ‘Not exactly smiling, but one corner of your mouth twitched and your eyes looked different.’
Pietro stared, astounded that she’d sensed his mood from such slight evidence. No one else read him so easily.
He needed to be even more careful than he’d anticipated. Had Molly always been able to sense his thoughts and feelings? The idea disturbed him. Pietro was used to being the one in control, the one reading others, not being an open book himself.
Marta appeared with a tray.
‘Grazie.’ Molly smiled at the older woman and accepted a soft drink.
‘Prego, signora.’ Marta served Pietro’s glass of wine and a platter of antipasto misto.
Pietro nodded his thanks then turned back to Molly. ‘You haven’t forgotten your Italian, then?’
Just how much did she remember? He hadn’t probed earlier for she’d looked so fragile. Yet he had to know, for it would determine his next move. Was it possible she recalled more than she admitted?
She shrugged. ‘Much good it will do me. I can say “please” and “thank you”. I know some food and the days of the week, but I get the numbers confused.’ Her eyes fixed on him, grey now rather than blue. ‘Was I ever fluent in Italian? I don’t remember. Not a thing.’
The sunny smile she’d given the housekeeper faded and her eyes grew shadowed. She blinked, her mouth pursing, as if to stop it trembling. Molly wasn’t dissembling. She really knew nothing of her past. He was so caught up in his own deception he was too ready to expect it in others.
Molly’s distress tugged at something deep within. He reached for her hand resting on the table and covered it with his. He ignored the heat that flared when they touched.
‘Give it time.’ He made his tone upbeat. ‘But I’m afraid as far as Italian goes you weren’t ever proficient. You’d just started learning.’
‘There was I hoping that when my memory came back I’d find myself fluent.’ She smiled just a little too widely and he read the fear in her eyes despite her light tone. Something struck his chest and his hand tightened. He wanted to help but there nothing he could do. The experts had told him that. Yet such impotence made him uncomfortable. He was used to decisive action.
‘I can fill in some of the blanks for you.’ Even though he’d much rather not talk about the past he wasn’t accustomed to lying and, though he had no doubt he was pursuing the right course of action, he’d prefer to avoid more untruths.
Molly’s smile rewarded him. Gone were the clouds in her eyes, replaced with sunny pleasure.
‘Fantastic! I have so many questions. But first, what amused you when I came out? Was it to do with me?’ Her hand slid from his and began twisting a tiny pearl button on her pale blue top. Her other hand lifted to her hair then fell to her lap.
