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
