‘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