were the case. But still he made her feel edgy.
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
