by Annie West
The suitcase was soft-sided and nondescript. She frowned. It wasn’t familiar. Then she took a step closer and saw the bright-orange ribbon tied around the handle and her stomach dropped in free fall.
Molly’s hand shook as she reached out and stroked the fabric. She’d put it there so her case would be recognisable on the airport luggage carousel. Her sister Jillian had laughed and suggested she invest in a bright-orange backpack instead. That had been what she was doing for her trip.
Molly blinked and found herself sitting beside the case, stunned by the vivid memory of Jill. It was the first true memory she’d had of her! The enormity of the breakthrough made her wobbly with excitement.
She pressed the heel of her hand to her sternum, trying to keep her heart from bashing too hard against her ribs.
Was this suitcase the key to her missing memories?
She reached out and tugged at the zip.
Half an hour later Molly was sitting in the same spot. The tea Marta had brought was on a nearby table, growing cold.
Molly’s burst of excitement had petered out, grown cold too as disappointment and a strange sense of dislocation had set in.
She’d expected the discovery of her luggage would be a breakthrough, helping her recover the past, but there’d been nothing more than that first flash.
Dully, she looked down at the lace-trimmed camisole top in her hands. It was the one she’d worn in the photo Pietro had of her on his phone. But it evoked no memories.
There’d been a sense of familiarity as she’d handled the clothes and toiletries in the case. There was no doubt these were her clothes. The slightly scuffed ballet flats, the uncrushable skirts, the worn soft denim of the jeans.
But there were no flashes of insight. Nor was there a phone or notebook, or anything to help her fill the gaps. Presumably those had been in the shoulder bag dragged off her in the accident.
Her hands fell to her lap as she stared blindly across the room towards the dressing room.
Molly realised the discovery of her luggage had only achieved one thing. It proved that, whoever Molly Armstrong was, she was a stranger to this opulent world. One single top or skirt hanging in that elegant dressing room would cost far more than she’d spent on this suitcase and all its contents together.
She’d known she and Pietro came from different spheres but the stark gulf between them seemed more important with each item she unpacked.
Her brow knitted. Strange that she hadn’t packed even one luxury item when she’d left Tuscany for her Rome visit. Pietro was a generous man. As his fiancée, living in his villa, she must have lovely things he’d given her, for he always seemed ready to buy her gifts. She’d given up admiring clothes in shop windows lately in case he ordered them for her.
Not that there was anything wrong with the clothes in the suitcase. They were just from another world. As she was.
Molly thought of her excitement at the changes she’d made in the sitting room. As if cushions and a cotton throw could transform something designed to be ultra-glamorous. Had she really thought daisies in a pretty vase would make it somewhere she’d feel at home?
She huffed out a miserable laugh. Pietro’s world was on a different plane. He, and now she, even had a discreet security detail when they went out in the city. The first few days, she’d been so distracted she hadn’t noticed the men in dark suits who kept their distance but maintained a watchful eye on anyone getting too close. Now they were part of everyday life. Like the limo and the effusive welcome that greeted Pietro wherever they went.
Her fingers clutched at the fabric. All her luggage had proved was that she was an outsider here. Despite her hopes, she was no nearer recovering her past. No matter how strong her determination to move forward and build a future, the past was a ghost hovering on the edge of her happiness, threatening...
What?
She didn’t know. Yet a premonition of dread settled in her stomach, warning her that she couldn’t truly enjoy the future till she knew her past.
* * *
‘Molly?’ Pietro strode into the bedroom but halted as he saw her, shoulders hunched and head bowed.
Something hit him in the solar plexus, smacking the breath out of his lungs.
She looked so alone. So frail.
So unlike the woman he knew that anxiety climbed up his windpipe, one icy finger at a time, stealing speech.
Was it the baby? Was it a complication from her head injury? Some terrible news?
His gut knotted in the second it took for the thoughts to stab into his brain.
Pietro crossed the room in an instant.
‘Molly.’ He sat beside her on the bench seat and turned to face her, capturing her cold hands in his.
At his touch a shiver passed through her and she lifted her head, blinking up at him. She looked so dazed, Pietro feared the worst.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Her mouth crumpled and he felt something carve a chasm in his chest at the despair he read in her eyes, now the colour of winter rain.
Then she sat straighter and shook her head. ‘Don’t look like that. Everything’s fine.’
‘Clearly it’s not.’ He paused then pushed the words out. ‘Was it news from the hospital? That last set of tests?’
‘No! Nothing like that.’
The urgent clamp of fear around his ribcage eased and Pietro sucked in a deep breath. ‘Then what? Something’s wrong.’
He noticed the open suitcase beside her and his blood ran cold. His hands tightened around hers. Was this the moment he’d been dreading—the moment when she remembered what he’d done?
‘Did something in the suitcase spark a memory?’ His hoarse voice was as unfamiliar as a stranger’s. Silently he cursed. He’d planned to be here when her luggage arrived. His staff had been over-zealous, delivering it the moment the private detective had recovered it from the small pension she’d checked into. Pietro had been in a high-level meeting and hadn’t heard till it was over.
Yet Molly didn’t shrink from him. Instead she clung to his hands. He gathered her to him, his heart tapping out a staccato rhythm that barely slowed when she leaned closer.
‘I’m sorry. I’m just being a sook.’
‘A sook?’ His English was good but this wasn’t a word he knew.
‘A wimp.’ Yet even as she said it she was sitting straighter, blinking, as if to clear moisture from her eyes.
Pietro shook his head. ‘Isn’t a wimp a coward?’ Before she could answer he ploughed on, barely noticing the anger humming in his veins. ‘You’re one of the bravest people I know, Molly.’ He paused, willing her to lift her head and look at him. When she did, as he suspected, he saw that her eyes welled with unshed tears.
He cupped her face in his palms, tenderly rubbing his thumb over her cheek where a single track of tears had escaped. Something twisted in his chest as he felt the hot moisture.
‘Tell me what’s troubling you.’
Because watching her pain made him feel wrong inside.
‘It’s nothing really.’ Her lips curved in a shadow of her usual bright smile. ‘I just got my hopes up.’ She gestured with one hand to the crumpled, lacy top on her lap and the open suitcase beside her. ‘I saw the bag and had a moment of recollection so strong it rocked me. I remembered Jill, my sister; even heard her words.’
Molly’s eyes shone with something more than tears. Excitement?
He felt his own spirits rise in sympathy despite his ambivalence at the thought of her memory returning.
‘That’s wonderful news,’ he heard himself say.
She shrugged. ‘It made me expect...more. But even though I took out everything, touched everything, there were no more memories.’
Despite her matter-of-fact tone he heard the whisper of misery, of stalled hope, and felt a hot swirl of guilt at hi
s relief that she hadn’t recalled their final, catastrophic argument.
‘Of course you’re disappointed. It’s only natural.’ For the first time he genuinely regretted that tracking down her sister was taking so long. He wished he had some concrete hope to hold out for Molly. He knew too well how it felt to be left alone.
‘I just feel helpless. I want so badly to remember, but there’s nothing I can do to force the memories. And living here...’ She met his eyes, her own looking bruised. ‘I feel like I’m playing at belonging. That it’s not quite real.’
A chill coursed through Pietro, freezing his grasp on her hands and constricting his lungs to a scratchy, sawing rasp.
But, logic asserted, Molly had no idea how close she’d come to the truth.
‘You’ve been stuck here too long.’ Better to focus on the practical than unsettling feelings.
‘Stuck here?’ Molly shook her head. ‘You’ve taken me out a lot. And today I went shopping.’ For some reason the words made her brow pinch and she looked away.
‘A few sightseeing trips.’ And fewer lately, when he’d had to spend time in the office. But he had responsibilities to the company as well as to Molly. He’d already neglected important business that could be put off no longer. ‘You’re used to being busy, having a purpose.’
It was true. Molly was passionate and lively. Not just with a lover, but in general. She wasn’t an observer but a participant.
‘You’re used to working. Even here in Italy you weren’t on vacation. You looked after three little children every day.’
‘Until you swept me off my feet.’
Pietro saw the flash of delight in her expression and steeled himself not to feel regret at his subterfuge. For, though he’d seduced Molly into his bed, he hadn’t proposed and prised her away from her job as she thought. On the contrary, it had been the news that her employers were planning to leave due to a family emergency that had prompted Molly to tell him she was pregnant.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t know anyone here, except you and Marta. I do feel a bit cut off.’
That’s your doing. Keeping her close till you’re sure you have her where you want her.
He’d even fobbed off his cousin, Chiara, when she’d rung to arrange a coffee outing with Molly.
His train of thought splintered as he finally registered what he’d been too preoccupied to notice earlier: Molly’s hand in his. Not just slim and cool but, for the first time since he’d known her, wearing a ring.
Pietro looked down and felt a powerful jolt of emotion.
‘You’re wearing my ring.’
He traced it with his thumb, the hard gemstones a contrast to her soft skin.
Her fingers returned his grasp. ‘Yes.’
Pietro lifted his gaze to her face and what he saw there arrested his racing thoughts. Molly swallowed as she met his eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, not with tears this time, but with excitement and something that might almost have been defiance. Her smile was endearingly hesitant, almost shy.
Like a woman who’s just said yes to the man she loves.
Could it be?
‘It seemed silly not to wear it, given how I feel about you.’ She caught her lower lip in her mouth, as if nervous about admitting it, yet she continued, holding his eyes with hers. ‘I do want to marry you, Pietro.’
Another reverberation juddered through him. Surprise, he assured himself, and satisfaction.
What else could it be?
Pietro lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, noting her instantaneous shiver of response and feeling its echo in his belly.
‘You’ve made me the happiest man in Italy, tesoro.’
It was true. He felt as though he could conquer the world. His bloodstream turned effervescent, the weight he’d carried so long lifted in an instant, leaving him gloriously buoyant. Hadn’t he known this would turn out just as he’d hoped?
His fiancée, soon to be his wife. His child.
His family. His very own flesh and blood.
Pietro pulled her close. His hand went to her soft, thick hair, grasping the back of her skull as he bent and kissed her.
Sweetness filled him. The unique taste that was Molly’s alone. Pietro deepened the kiss, plunging in to claim her with a raw, visceral hunger that told him this was utterly, unequivocally right.
Molly responded eagerly, her hands digging into his shoulders as if she never wanted to let him go.
Her need matched his. Pietro felt the fierce craving for more. The need to take all Molly had to give. His erection swelled, drawing his trousers tight. They both wanted...
No.
Slowly, almost not believing his actions, he pulled back, defying the blood-deep craving for her soft body. Only as he straightened did Pietro register how he’d pushed Molly down towards the bed. It had been totally instinctive. With Molly it always was. One look, one touch, and he wanted her, needed the incredible heights of intimacy they shared.
But not this time.
Pietro pulled her back to a sitting position, wondering at his ability to stop when everything in him urged him to take his fill. To bring them both to the stunning rapture their bodies craved.
Yet, to his surprise, Pietro felt an even stronger impulse.
To banish the pain he’d seen in Molly’s face and in her words. He wanted to care for her. To make things right.
Sex would make things right, but only for a short time.
He wanted to do more.
He frowned down into her dazed eyes.
‘Pietro?’ She looked as bewildered as he felt.
* * *
‘What’s wrong?’ Molly stared up into Pietro’s brooding features and tried to work out what was going through his mind. He wore that impenetrable look that used to drive her crazy but which, recently, she’d seen less and less.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ He breathed deeply, as if grounding himself. ‘Everything’s right.’
Then he smiled and Molly felt the breath drift from her lungs. That rare, dazzling smile hit her with the force of a freight train. Warmth suffused her and her brain grew foggy.
‘Then why did you pull back?’
‘Is that a pout?’ He stroked her bottom lip and electricity zapped straight to her breasts and lower. ‘I stopped so we could talk.’
‘Talk?’ Molly knew she sounded totally befuddled. But when Pietro kissed her to within a hair’s breadth of losing herself it was hard to focus on words. ‘Don’t you want to make love?’
The last week had revealed she and Pietro shared a sex life that could best be described as combustible. Their need for each other grew daily. Surely she hadn’t misread the intention behind that kiss?
‘There’s nothing I’d like more.’ This time Molly saw the heat in his eyes and heard a stretched tight quality in his voice that matched how she felt. ‘But first we need to discuss what we can do to make things better for you.’
His palm cupped her chin, then slid down her neck, and Molly wanted to scream that his body against hers would make things a whole lot better. But she was curious.
‘Such as?’
‘Such as expanding your social circle. You’re used to being with people, but since leaving the hospital you’ve been stuck just with me and Marta. That’s probably partly why you felt so low.’
‘I wouldn’t call that stuck. I like spending time with you.’ And not just naked in his arms. He enthralled her.
Pietro was a great tour guide, finding quirky and fascinating things to share in this great city, so it felt as if they’d explored a more intimate world than that plotted in any guide book. He was tolerant, funny and good company. She was fascinated that his passion for football and fast cars was matched by a love of history and great food. That he’d been a successful amateur boxer i
n his youth, and that the sound of his deep voice singing an Italian ballad in the shower could melt her insides as effectively as any caress.
‘Molly? I said how about meeting my family as a first step? You seemed to like Chiara and she’s eager to know you better.’ He paused. ‘You might feel less...adrift if you get to know more people. I should have done something about that before.’
Molly covered his hand with hers, moved by his concern. ‘Don’t blame yourself. You were trying to look after me.’ Even if Pietro had been a little stifling in his concern that she must rest and not go out much alone.
She suspected he even blamed himself for her accident.
‘I’d love to meet your family, Pietro. After all, they’ll be mine too one day.’
That dazzling smile returned. ‘Soon. Let’s make it soon.’
Molly looked into that searing gaze and felt her knees go weak. She loved it when he looked at her that way, as if she meant everything to him. Because she knew for certain now that this was the man she’d spend the rest of her life with.
She loved Pietro with all her heart.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘HOW ARE YOU holding up?’ Chiara grinned and leaned against the balcony railing of her apartment. ‘The party turned out bigger than I’d planned.’ Behind her, through the glass door, the party hummed.
‘Great. You’ve got lovely friends.’ Even if Molly had initially felt awed by the number wearing couture fashion. Chiara’s friends were an intriguing mix of students, artists and the extremely wealthy.
Molly had told herself they were only people and she was probably just unused to mixing since her accident. Then, with Pietro at her side, she’d struck up a conversation with an artist and his graceful, high-society girlfriend, who turned out to be a budding author. All night she’d met fascinating, friendly people.
These days it was easier to be confident. She basked in Pietro’s love. Before they’d left the apartment tonight he’d eyed her slinky slate-blue dress and growled that he should never have agreed to this party; that they should stay at home instead. The desire in his eyes, and the way he’d stuck to her side till ten minutes ago, when a business acquaintance had cornered him, made her feel like a million dollars. That horrible fear that she didn’t fit in his world, that there was something wrong, grew weaker every day.