Her Forgotten Lover's Heir

by Annie West

  ‘Bathroom,’ she whispered, her voice strained almost to nothing.

  Pietro moved like lightning. She found herself gently lowered to the floor. She braced herself, grasping the sink with shaking hands, Pietro behind her solid as a bulwark, his arms around her waist to support her.

  Tremors wracked her from her head to her feet, and she tasted acid at the back of her throat as sickness swirled.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she found herself whispering. ‘It’s just morning sickness.’ Relief settled, despite her churning stomach and that spidery sensation of cold fingertips playing along her spine. It was good to have an explanation. ‘You can leave me.’

  For answer Pietro widened his stance, as if preparing to take all her weight.

  Molly was torn between craving privacy and being thankful for his presence.

  Yet as she stood, bowed over the sink, the roiling nausea began to fade. After a time the sharp tang on her tongue lessened.

  ‘It’s passing.’ She looked up into the mirror, finding Pietro’s face taut with concern. ‘But I’ll lie down for a bit.’ She still shivered and that headache grew sharper instead of dulling.

  Instead of letting her walk, Pietro lifted her in his arms again, crossed back into the bedroom and lowered her onto the bed. It felt like heaven, despite the needle points of pain in her skull.

  Swiftly he removed her shoes and spread a light cover over her legs. The mattress dipped as he sat beside her, slowly brushing her hair back from her face.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘The nausea’s gone, but my head...’ She bit her lip and shut her eyes. ‘I think I’ll rest for a bit.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll call the doctor.’

  ‘No!’ Her eyes sprang open and her hand shot out to grab his forearm. ‘It’s just a headache. Probably the aftermath of the nausea.’ What did she know? She’d never had morning sickness. But it sounded reasonable. ‘I just need some rest.’

  ‘Nevertheless—’

  ‘Please, Pietro. No doctor. I’ve had my fill of them fussing around me. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be free of them.’ She knew the hospital stay and subsequent medical checks had been necessary. But sometimes it felt as though she’d been a rare medical specimen put on show for any passing medic. ‘Let me rest and if I’m no better then I’ll see someone.’

  Molly held his eyes till eventually he said, ‘Very well. But if there’s no improvement...’

  ‘I know.’ She nodded, and had to prevent a wince, as pain lanced her skull.

  Pietro stood, staring down with a furrowed brow. Then he poured a glass of water, positioning it and the phone nearer the bed. ‘It’s a house phone. Just lift the receiver if you feel worse.’

  ‘Thank you, Pietro. I will.’ She reached for his hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t fret. Millions of women get morning sickness and survive.’

  His long fingers squeezed back. ‘But none of them are my woman.’ Despite the pain, her heart fluttered at his words. How had she ever doubted his feelings for her? He mightn’t have said, ‘I love you,’ but he made it clear in so many other ways.

  Pietro finally released her, moving to close the curtains. Then he kissed her gently on the forehead, his hand stroking her cheek. ‘Try and sleep, carissima.’ There was such tenderness in his voice, it felt like a velvet stole wrapping around her.

  ‘I will.’

  Quietly he padded from the room. Molly heard the door snick and closed her eyes.

  There’s nothing to be worried about.

  The headache and the nausea were clearly connected. It had to be some strange version of morning sickness. As for that feeling of dread... She let her gaze roam the dim outline of the bedroom, experiencing a weird sense of déjà vu.

  The chill creeping along her spine intensified.

  * * *

  Pietro opened the door silently and stepped inside.

  On the bed Molly’s slender form seemed incredibly slight, despite the rounded swell of hip and shoulder.

  She didn’t move, apart from the slow, even breathing that indicated she slept.

  Nevertheless Pietro padded closer. As far as he could tell she hadn’t moved. Not wanting to wake her, he stopped at the edge of the bed behind her. She lay facing away from him, her legs bent, her glorious tawny hair, dull in the dim light, loose around her shoulders.

  Pietro halted, his hammering heart slowing to a more normal beat as he took in her sleeping form. Whatever had been wrong—and it probably had been morning sickness—it seemed to have passed.

  Absently Pietro rubbed the heel of his hand across his tight chest. When Molly had taken ill like that, it had hit him how much she meant to him. Not just as the mother of his unborn child but because she was Molly, the woman he cared for. The woman he wanted by his side.

  He’d come so far from the night he’d ordered her off these very premises. He remembered the explosive fury, the mercurial heat engulfing him, as he’d realised, or at least believed, she’d betrayed him in exactly the same way Elizabetta had. That she’d slept with him for long-term gain, even going so far as to pretend a pregnancy in order to weasel her way into his life.

  Now he knew Molly for what she was. Innocent and honest. She really did carry his child.

  More, she was the one woman with whom Pietro wanted to share his life. He’d married Elizabetta because he felt it to be his duty and he’d hoped that they might, over time, be able to build a life together. That had been an exercise in futile optimism. How stupid he’d been, conned by her!

  Knowing Molly—so genuine, so warm and giving, so strong—made him wonder how he’d ever fallen for Elizabetta’s lies.

  He stretched out a hand to touch Molly’s hair where it spilled across the pillow. But he stopped without making contact. She needed sleep.

  Yet it was difficult to draw back. Pietro wanted to get into bed with her, slip his arm around her and pull her close. To be there if she needed him. To reassure himself that she was okay.

  Molly had accused him more than once of fussing as if she was an invalid, but since that first night home from the hospital he hadn’t thought of her like that. He’d wondered about her memory, and been wary of stressing her, but he didn’t think of Molly as weak.

  On the contrary, Pietro thought of her as feisty. Which was why she’d scared him this afternoon. He’d held her to him and been struck by the size of her, so fine-boned. She was average height for a woman but small compared with his rangy height. Maybe her indomitable spirit made her seem bigger.

  Pietro straightened, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach for her.

  His chest felt over-full, strained and tight.

  His gaze traced the dips and curves of Molly’s delectable body and he felt the familiar unfurling of desire. But there was more too. A tenderness, a sensation that was new to a man unused to strong feelings for anyone. A man who hadn’t cared so much for anyone since his family had been wiped out when he was ten.

  Pietro looked at Molly’s sleeping form and knew he’d avoided telling her the truth for too long. He wasn’t comfortable with deception. He abhorred it in others. No wonder he’d felt so uncomfortable these past weeks.

  He huffed out a breath, audible and resigned.

  He’d reached the end of this game. Molly deserved better. She deserved the truth.

  He’d told himself it didn’t matter because his intentions were good. But he’d lied, to Molly and himself. Now the time for prevarication was over.

  When Molly woke he’d tell her the truth. She had the right to know.

  * * *

  Molly heard the door close then the snick of the latch.

  Instantly the even rhythm of her breathing tore apart and she snatched a ragged lungful of oxygen. Then another. Even then it didn’t seem enough. She felt dizzy, starved of air, th
ough common sense told her that wasn’t true. Those long, even breaths while Pietro had stood beside the bed had done their job.

  It had been the hardest thing, lying here, pretending to sleep, knowing he was within arm’s reach. A day ago, even an hour, she’d have reached for him. Pietro’s consuming passion and his tender concern had got her through the dark days when the trauma of amnesia had been worst.

  Her mouth crumpled and her throat closed on a well of rancid emotion.

  She’d learned to lean on him. To need him.

  She forced out a shuddering breath and dragged in another, telling herself that if she lay still for a little longer she’d summon the strength she needed.

  Dully her gaze fixed on the dim outline of the small table by the window. It was too dark to see the detail of the framed photo standing there but she knew what it was. A photo of Pietro at age ten, a cheeky grin on his face. Beside him was a little girl in a frilly dress who shared exactly the same grin. Behind them a handsome man bent his head towards the woman smiling down at the children, as if about to whisper something in her ear. Pietro and his family.

  Molly knew about the photo because she’d seen it before. The night she’d come to tell Pietro she was pregnant.

  Hot moisture tracked from her eyes, across her cheeks and nose, to slide onto the pillow. She didn’t brush the tear away because it was followed by another, and another, in an unending stream.

  Besides, she didn’t have the energy. She was too busy fighting the sensation that she was breaking apart inside.

  Molly had remembered.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EVENTUALLY, AS MOLLY lay huddled with her knees up to her chest, the tears ceased and fragments of memory slotted into a coherent whole. She was still fuzzy about some things, like the accident, but the rest was clear as crystal. Horribly so.

  No wonder she’d started to shake, coming upstairs to this room where she’d shared Pietro’s bed. And his shower. And the chair by the window where he’d planted her astride him, surging up as she rode him till she lost her mind and cried out in ecstasy.

  No wonder she’d felt odd in the library, where they’d been naked together more times than she could count.

  It must have been the cumulative effect, layer upon layer of memories nudging closer to the surface till finally the weight of them had broken through the guard she’d unconsciously placed around the past.

  How she’d longed to remember. Now she had, she almost wished she hadn’t.

  Except if she hadn’t Pietro would still have been able to lie about his feelings and make a mockery of hers.

  The pain in her chest swelled and spilled beyond the cavity of her ribs, flooding into her bloodstream till she felt that ache in her fingertips, her thighs, even her womb. Her jaw clenched as she forced herself to revisit the past.

  Most of it was fine, except the dreadful year she’d lost her parents. But she still had Jill and they were close. Molly couldn’t wait to see her sister again.

  And Tuscany had been brilliant. Most of her memories of her stay were bathed in a golden glow, for she had been happy. Because of Pietro. Because, despite him having made it clear he only wanted an affair, she’d fallen head over heels for the handsome Italian. He’d been macho yet indescribably tender, fun, easy-going, stunningly sexy and hadn’t even minded having three boisterous little boys on the premises.

  Because he loved kids.

  Not you. He made that clear the night you came to this room, full of hope that maybe he’d be as excited about the baby as you were.

  Molly gasped as razor-sharp pain shafted through her middle. She curled into a tight ball, hand to her belly, riding the hurt that just went on and on.

  Pietro hadn’t been excited. She remembered his eyes rounding, the gold flecks almost obliterated by gathering darkness.

  Then he’d spoken, his tone glacial, each word like a splinter of ice stabbing her. Then the cool scorn had disintegrated and fury had exploded. She’d barely believed him to be the same man who’d laughed and caressed her only an hour before. She’d cringed against the bed, stunned by Pietro’s vitriol.

  He’d kept a marked distance, as if being in the same room with her contaminated him.

  That, as much as his outlandish accusations, had given her the strength to fight her enveloping shock and stagger away, declaring she never wanted to see him again.

  Molly shivered and pulled the rug higher, though this bone-deep freeze couldn’t be cured by an extra layer.

  Her thoughts slid to Rome. She didn’t believe he’d searched for her. No, somehow someone had recognised her and told him she was in hospital and was pregnant. For Pietro Agosti was a powerful man with contacts in all sorts of places.

  He hadn’t visited the hospital to apologise. He’d come for one reason only.

  Her baby. He wanted her baby, even if it meant putting up with her.

  Nausea welled and Molly jack-knifed to sit on the edge of the bed, swallowing bile down her burning throat.

  From the very first she’d seen he was excited about the child. He’d never hidden that. It was only Pietro’s feelings for her that she’d wondered about. With good reason.

  Of course he’d never told her he loved her!

  Molly shut her eyes and rode a giddying wave of sickness, one hand pressed to her middle, the other clawing the mattress for support.

  So many things made sense now. Disjointed instances which, when viewed as a whole, created a totally new picture.

  The first time in Rome that they’d made love, they hadn’t made it to the bedroom because Pietro couldn’t wait. He’d taken her on the lounge. Yet he’d had time, while she’d been lying there beneath him, to plant his hand on her belly in a gesture she’d seen as both reverent and jubilant. She’d believed it proof he was as blown away by the incredible miracle of new life as she was. Now the memory took on new significance. He’d been thrilled about the baby all right. And he’d been eager for sex. But she’d bet his hard-on hadn’t been for her specifically. Any woman would have done. Or maybe any woman who happened to be pregnant with his seed.

  Molly shoved a knuckle in her mouth to stifle a cry of pain. Heat glazed the back of her eyes again. This time they were tears of fury. Yet Molly wouldn’t let them fall.

  How often had Pietro talked about the baby, gently trailing his fingers over her abdomen as if enthralled by the life she carried?

  He’d claimed to be her husband, she realised now, solely to get his hands on their child. And when she’d challenged him on that he’d created a fake engagement instead, taking advantage of her in the worst way, because he knew how Molly felt about him. He knew he could play her emotions against her to get his hands on their child.

  He’d have done even more. He’d have married her, cementing his legal right to the baby, pretending that he cared for her.

  No wonder he’d wanted a quick wedding. He must be frantic to get everything wrapped up before her memory returned. That explained why he spent so much time with her. Pietro wanted to be on hand if the worst happened and she remembered.

  It must have been a bore for him but the regular sex would have been an added bonus. Pietro had a strong sex drive.

  Molly shuddered but forced herself to keep going. To work it out.

  She remembered what he’d said about Elizabetta. It sounded as though the woman was more interested in money than people, yet it seemed her major crime was in never actually having given him that promised child.

  In this very room he’d accused Molly of being exactly like her.

  Molly shot to her feet, unable to stand the flow of reminiscence. This whole thing, the scene they’d played out in this room when Pietro had ripped her dreams away and trampled on them, and the cruel game he’d played in Rome, made her feel sullied.

  She flung aside the rug and strode to the bathroom. It would take
more than soap and hot water to cleanse herself. The stain ran too deep. But she’d start with scrubbing every inch of skin he’d touched.

  Then she’d erase him from her life.

  * * *

  ‘We need to talk.’

  Pietro looked up from his computer, a frown settling on his features. Molly stood in the doorway, wearing the dress she’d travelled in, but her hair was wet and pulled back in a severe style that left her face pale and bare. Pale enough that the cute freckles on her nose stood out. Her tension was palpable.

  He shot to his feet. ‘Should you be up?’ He knew enough about women not to say she looked tired but she was definitely unwell. She looked drawn, her features pinched and lovely mouth tight. Her eyes looked almost febrile.

  Did she have a fever? Pietro crossed the room, reaching out to her, and slammed to a halt as she stepped back.

  ‘Molly? What is it?’

  ‘Not here.’ Her glance encompassed the study and she shivered. ‘Outside.’

  ‘You need to sit and—’

  ‘What I need is to get out of this house.’ She pivoted and marched away.

  Pietro considered reaching out and stopping her, but he was happy to talk where she was comfortable.

  He followed her past the formal gardens to the olive grove behind the villa. With every step his thoughts raced. Was she unwell? Was it the baby?

  Or had she begun to remember?

  His belly clenched. It had been a risk bringing her here but one he told himself he was ready for.

  Even if she didn’t remember, he’d vowed to tell her the truth as soon as possible.

  She halted under a gnarled tree and turned to face him.

  ‘Molly, there’s something I need to tell you.’

  He wanted to wrap his arms around her, for he knew what he had to say would be a blow. But, watching her tight posture, he held back.

  ‘Is there, really? That’s a coincidence, because there’s something I need to tell you.’ Her voice had a discordant quality, like a cracked crystal glass that no longer rang true.