Читать книгу Her Forgotten Lover's Heir - Annie West - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

HER PULSE SLAMMED past fast to frantic as she gawped up at the imposing man before her. One part of her mind atrophied in shock, another part raced in circles trying to make sense of his words.

Her husband? This unnerving man?

It wasn’t possible.

Even forgetting for a moment his air of cool assurance and those honed, handsome features, everything about him screamed money and power. His suit must have been made for him, it fitted so perfectly. His shirt was snowy, nothing as average as mere white, and his subtly gleaming silk tie was the sort that came in a designer box. At his wrists were discreet yet intricately crafted gold cufflinks.

His hands... Her heart gave a sharp thump as she concentrated on his hands. They were large and strong but well-shaped. Seductive hands, the sort that would know their way around a woman’s body. Hands adept at giving a woman pleasure.

She had a thing for sexy hands?

Of all the things she needed to know about herself, that had to be low down on the list. Except, staring at Pietro Agosti’s hands, such knowledge suddenly seemed of paramount importance.

Heat flared in her cheeks and she kept her gaze fixed there rather than meet his stare, worried what he might read in her eyes. It seemed...wrong to feel that squiggle of strong reaction deep in her feminine core just looking at this man. Despite his words, he was a total stranger to her.

The hands in question were well-cared-for and there was a heavy gold signet on one finger that looked old and expensive.

He came from money, lots of it. She’d guess, based on his ingrained air of command and that ancient ring, he’d probably been born to it.

But she wasn’t. She didn’t know how she knew, but in that moment she was convinced of it.

Her face, when she’d scrutinised it in the bathroom mirror, had been ordinary. Not beautiful or intriguing. Her hair was lank and a shade somewhere between caramel and dirty blonde that surely was too ordinary to have come out of a bottle? Her hands weren’t scarred or rough, but nor were they manicured. And her only jewellery was a pair of tiny gold stud earrings.

She and Pietro Agosti didn’t match. How could they be married?

If it were true, then it must be his child she carried. The idea sent a tumble of unsettling emotion through her.

‘Signora Agosti.’

Her head jerked up at the sound of the doctor’s voice. She opened her mouth to reject the title he’d given her.

That wasn’t her name, was it? And as for being married...

She shot a sideways glance at the tall man standing beside her bed, utterly unmoving. There was something about his stillness that unnerved her. He was waiting for something.

For her to acknowledge him?

Or for her to declare she couldn’t possibly be his wife?

She frowned, the tightness in her head turning into a thump of pain in time with her quickened pulse.

When she winced the doctor bustled forward, murmuring in Italian beneath his breath as he checked her pulse and got her to lie back.

Yet all the time she was aware of Pietro Agosti looming silently beside her, tall, dark and dauntingly handsome. If the doctors hadn’t assured her she’d recover fully physically, she might have wondered in her confused way if he was the Angel of Death come to take her.

She lifted her head and caught him staring. He didn’t look away and she sank into the surprising warmth of his bright gaze.

Heat flared anew, this time not in her cheeks but deep, deep inside. In those female organs where her tiny embryo of a baby was lodged.

Was this the father?

Emotion sliced through her. Excitement or fear?

She settled for disbelief.

‘You’re sure I’m married to this man?’ It didn’t seem likely. Surely he spent his time with gilded socialites, not au pairs?

The doctor’s eyes rounded and he darted an apologetic look at the taller man.

Was Pietro Agosti so important that no one ever questioned him?

A shiver snaked through her. For some reason she hadn’t a hope of identifying, she baulked at the idea of being at his mercy.

His mercy? Surely that wasn’t how a wife thought of her husband?

‘Signora Agosti.’ The doctor’s reassuring tone broke across her thoughts. ‘There was no doubt about the identification. Your husband was able to describe you in perfect detail before he arrived, right down to your appendix scar.’

Which only meant he was intimately acquainted with her body.

A sizzle of sensation prickled her skin. Was it a remnant of memory? The legacy of intimacy with this man? Or anticipation at the idea of him stroking those big hands across her bare skin sometime in the future?

She sneaked another look up at the sombre man beside her. As if on cue his sculpted lips turned up into a smile that would have been soothing, if it hadn’t been for the shadow that looked like calculation in his eyes.

Her throat was gritty as she swallowed. Her eyelids flickered down as she fought off the headache beginning to beat in time with her pulse. It was all too much to take in.

‘Let me assure you that your husband is most respectable and esteemed—’

‘I think that’s enough for now.’ The deep voice with that sexy, husky edge interrupted the doctor’s encomiums. ‘Molly’s obviously too tired for this tonight. It’s all been a shock. Maybe we should leave her to rest.’

He was going?

Her eyes snapped open as fear hurtled through her.

What if he left and didn’t come back?

What if he left her alone again, like an unclaimed piece of luggage?

What if, tomorrow, this proved to be a dream? If there was no one who knew who she really was?

Reason told her that wouldn’t happen. He’d identified her and the hospital staff would know how to reach this man who was so well-regarded and respectable.

Yet the well of fear that had threatened to suck her down for days swirled anew. She couldn’t face the idea of being abandoned here again.

‘No! Please, don’t go!’

There was a flash of something in those uncanny eyes but this time it looked like sympathy.

‘Perhaps, doctor, you might give us some time alone together? I know there’s paperwork to complete. I’ll see you after Molly and I have spoken.’

‘Of course. Yes, an excellent idea.’ The doctor clearly didn’t mind being dismissed. Which told her he was either glad to hand her over to someone else or that Pietro Agosti was a VIP with considerable influence. The medico nodded to Molly, assured her all would be well and left the room.

Now, alone with the man who said he was her husband, her relief dissipated. But instead of towering over her any longer he reached for a visitor’s chair and sat by the bed.

‘That’s better. Now you don’t have to crane to look up at me.’

His mouth crinkled up at one corner in the smallest of smiles but this time, for reasons she didn’t understand, she felt a tug of response. Her lips twitched and her taut muscles eased a little. It was only now that she realised her shoulders had crept up towards her ears and her hands had curled into taut fists. She looked down and smoothed her hands across the bedspread.

* * *

She looked so damnably pale. Fragile in a way he hadn’t expected, even when he’d heard about her injuries. He’d come immediately, riding a wave of shock and relief at the news that she’d been found.

Something inside Pietro stretched tight and hard, tension twanging like a plucked string. His chest squeezed as he read the pain etched in Molly’s tired eyes.

One of the things that had attracted him to her was her warm, sunny disposition. Her ready smile and the way her eyes danced. Seeing her so frightened made him want to break something. Preferably the motorbike rider who’d knocked her over. Who, it seemed likely, had targeted her for her bag with its wallet and passport.

His staff was liaising with the police. If the person responsible was located, he’d pay dearly for his actions.

Pietro’s jaw tightened at the idea of Molly lying unconscious on the road. Of her waking to the horror of not even knowing her own name.

The doctor had said her memory loss might partly be due to shock. From the fall? Or from what had happened before she’d come to Rome?

Icy fingers of guilt gripped his throat.

Pietro swallowed hard. The accident or assault wasn’t his fault. As for what had happened before...

‘I’m glad you found me.’ Solemn eyes held his. ‘It’s...worrying, not knowing who you are.’

She looked so lost, yet so determined to be brave, downplaying the fear she must feel. A wave of protectiveness washed through him.

Pietro froze. He’d thought himself immune to feminine vulnerability. He’d been inoculated against it by brutal experience. But the circumstances here were different.

He reached out to grasp Molly’s hand and reassure her then stopped himself. Better to keep his distance. She looked so frail, her eyes huge in her pale face, watching him warily.

She noticed the movement but said nothing, though her brow knitted, as if she had catalogued the abortive gesture for future consideration.

It was a reminder that he needed to be careful how he proceeded. He couldn’t afford to make another mistake.

‘I can’t begin to imagine how it feels not to recall anything,’ he admitted. He half-expected her to confess it wasn’t true, that she remembered something, even just the reason she’d left on the spur of the moment for Rome. ‘But you don’t need to worry. I’ll take good care of you.’

‘You will?’

He couldn’t work out if she looked pleased about that or petrified. Did he scare her? He knew his size could be daunting...

‘Of course. You can count on me. Everything will be all right, Molly. Just give it time. You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’m trying to contact your sister in Australia, to bring her over to see you.’

The tightness around the corners of her generous mouth eased and a little colour returned to her wan face, making her look more like the woman he knew.

‘I have a sister?’ She sounded so excited, so wistful.

‘Her name is Jillian.’

‘And my parents?’

Pietro shook his head, wishing he could give her better news. ‘I’m sorry, Molly. There’s just the two of you.’

Her face fell and Pietro felt his chest squeeze. He remembered loss only too well. Molly’s pain reinforced his determination to do everything he could for her.

‘But I’m very lucky to have both a husband and a sister.’ Her gaze dropped from his, as if she were fascinated by the movement of her hand plucking at the bedclothes. ‘I wondered if anyone would ever come along and identify me.’

There was a wealth of repressed fear behind her words and Pietro felt a surge of relief that he’d mobilised a search for her. If he hadn’t, if he’d ignored that belated voice of logic telling him he’d made an appalling mistake, how long would she have been stuck here alone in frightening limbo?

The knowledge strengthened his determination. He’d acted impulsively tonight but he didn’t regret it, or any complications that might arise from it. Molly needed him.

‘You’ll feel better when you’re out of here.’

‘Out of here? You mean out of the hospital?’

He nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Really?’ Her tentative smile reached her eyes, making them shine more blue than grey. ‘They’ll let me go?’

Again Pietro felt that strange sensation in his chest as he looked into her hopeful eyes. He told himself it was only satisfaction that this would be so straightforward.

‘You’re not a prisoner, Molly.’

* * *

‘I know that. I know they’ve been doing their best for me.’ She looked up into that brown-gold gaze and told herself there was nothing to be frightened of now. Her husband was here. The person she presumably trusted above all others.

Yet still that nervous tingle of energy ran from her nape to her fingertips and down her spine as her gaze collided with his. Each time it felt like a shock, an assault on her senses.

There was definitely a sizzle of awareness as she took in his proud features and the strength of his rangy, powerful form. Yet shouldn’t there be something more? A sense of relief and comfort; of...homecoming...when she looked at him?

It wasn’t relief she felt, at least not solely. There was something else mixed in there too. Something her subconscious tried to tell her, except she wasn’t very good right now at reading subliminal messages.

Who was she kidding? She wasn’t much good at anything. Complex thought made her head spin and any attempt at delving into the past made the grey walls around her close in.

Defeated, she shut her eyes as her struggle to remember failed and pain rose once again.

‘Molly? What is it?’ His tone was sharp. Even with her eyes closed she clearly caught his sense of urgency.

Which was natural for a man seeing his wife in these circumstances. It was absurd for her to think there was something not right here.

The only thing not right is you. Your brain isn’t working properly. You don’t even recognise your own name! Did you really think one sight of the man you love would bring your memory flooding back?

Logic told her she’d expected too much. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong.

The chair scraped across the floor and she opened her eyes to see Pietro Agosti striding towards the door.

‘Don’t go!’ Was that desperate voice hers? She shot forward to sit straight up in the narrow bed, ignoring the way the movement slammed the ache in her skull from dull to throbbing.

So much for masking her fear. Faced with the prospect of being alone again, the strength she’d relied on to see her through this nightmare evaporated. ‘Please stay.’

‘I was just getting the doctor. You’re in pain.’ Yet he stopped on the threshold, his dark eyebrows tilting down in a frown.

‘Please don’t leave.’

Was she always this needy? She hoped not.

How did she explain to this sexy, forbidding stranger that she’d give anything for a little ordinary human comfort instead of more medication?

Pietro Agosti’s gaze dropped from her face. She followed the direction of his stare and saw her hand was raised, stretched towards him. Her fingers trembled. She hadn’t been aware she’d reached for him.

She let her hand fall and swallowed hard. Her desperation for his presence, his touch, disturbed her. Maybe because it proved she’d finally reached the end of her tether. She couldn’t face being alone with her fears any longer.

‘Aren’t you going to take me home?’ She gave up worrying about how weak that made her sound. She needed to know.

‘Of course.’ His voice came from right above her. She hadn’t heard him cross the room. Still, she didn’t lift her face to look at him. She felt as if that searing golden gaze could see right inside her, that she was vulnerable to this man in ways she didn’t understand. While he, with his air of control and unreadable expression, was a closed book to her. Surely lovers, husbands and wives, were more...equal?

But then, what did she know? Everything was new to her. She didn’t know whether to trust her instincts and the ideas that popped into her head or whether they were the product of trauma and medication.

‘I’ll take you home as soon as the doctor says you’re free to go.’

Home.

Relief was a splintering wall, letting hope flood her. Soon. Soon she’d be away from here and her memory would come back in familiar surroundings. Surely it would?

The chair scraped again softly. Then a long arm in a dark sleeve stretched across the bed. Old gold gleamed against a pristine cuff then hard fingers closed around hers. His touch was gentle and reassuring, enfolding her hand in warmth and comfort.

He didn’t say any more and she didn’t look at his face, too scared of the terrible strangeness she felt when she looked at the man who was her husband.

Instead she focused on his hand holding hers, the rhythmic stroke of his thumb across her flesh. The tiny caress counteracted the sickening lurch of anxiety in her belly.

Heat spread from his touch. Tiny ripples of delicious sensation that radiated through her whole body till soon she floated, limp and relaxed, in a sea of wellbeing.

Her fingers tightened around his and he gently returned the pressure. A sigh rose in her throat even as her heavy lids flickered.

She’d been wrong.

There was a connection between them after all. She could feel it now. Not just the warmth and delicious sense of peace, but something else. Something vital right at the heart of her. As if a missing part of a puzzle had slotted into place and everything was all right again.

Because Pietro Agosti was with her.

Her mouth curved up in a tiny smile and her weighted lids closed.

Everything was going to be all right.

* * *

Pietro studied the sleeping woman who still clutched his hand. He catalogued everything about her, from her slender fingers and delicate wrist to her bare arm, which the Italian sun had turned a soft gold. Her rounded breasts rose and fell beneath the blanket with each even breath.

Her collarbone looked fragile, as if she’d lost weight in the last week. At the thought, regret sliced through his midsection. His hand tightened on hers till he realised what he was doing and released her. She needed sleep.

His gaze rose to her face. She was still too pale, making that smattering of freckles stand out. Her eyebrows were finely shaped and darker than her hair. Likewise, her long lashes were brown, not blonde. Her nose was even, though undistinguished, and her chin neat. The only remarkable feature was her mouth. Wide and exquisitely sculpted into a cupid’s bow, it was the sort of mouth a man could fantasise about.

Just thinking of her lips on him sent Pietro’s blood surging low, awakening a heavy tension in his groin.

He lifted his arm off the bed and shoved his hands in his pockets.

It was a relief he’d been able to comfort her. She’d clearly been frightened and trying hard not to show it, but his touch had helped.

He told himself he was doing the right thing. Of course he was. He’d had to act quickly and there’d been no other option. If he’d thought ahead, he’d have anticipated the complication that had forced his hand. But he hadn’t been thinking clearly for days.

Pietro Agosti prided himself on his ethics, his honour. Some accused him of ruthlessness, primarily those he’d bested in a business deal or, very occasionally, an ex-lover who hadn’t believed him when he’d declared he was only interested in a short-term affair.

He was honest, sometimes brutally so.

Which meant that what he did now, what he was about to do, cut across his personal code of behaviour.

Cut across! His mouth lifted in a cynical smile. Why not call a spade a spade? He was blatantly lying.

But it had to be this way, at least for now.

Pietro stifled the carping voice of his conscience. He refused to feel guilty about doing the right thing for all concerned.

It wasn’t as if he was going to harm her. On the contrary, his aim was to care for her, look after her, during a time when, surely anyone would agree, she most needed his help.

He did what he did because there was no alternative.