Her Forgotten Lover's Heir. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.
was not going to think of Pietro on that broad bed. Or of herself naked and spread-eagled on the counterpane, her fingers gripping the headboard as a tall, dark-haired man settled between her thighs.
Molly choked back a gasp of excitement mingled with shock.
Was that a memory? Heat seared and her mouth tipped up in a grin as she thought of her returning memory beginning in the bedroom. But it wasn’t to be. It was simply a case of wishful thinking.
Yet between her legs a pulse started up and her muscles softened.
Simply from imagining Pietro in bed with her.
How long had it been since they’d had sex? Had they been abstaining for some reason or did she have a naturally sensual nature?
So many questions. So few facts. After she’d showered, she’d begin finding out more. This morning it had been enough to get away from the claustrophobia of the hospital and trust Pietro to bring her home.
Soon she’d get more answers.
Sighing, she crossed the floor and opened a door. Instead of the bathroom she found herself in a dressing room. Molly stopped, eyes widening, as she took in the luxurious space. Customised storage for shoes, bags, boots and hats. A deeply padded day-bed, presumably for reclining on while deciding what to wear. Racks of clothes in a multitude of colours and styles. Her dazed eyes took in a bright sundress and a tailored suit. There were dresses that sparkled and swept low towards the floor and skirts that flared or fell in straight lines.
Slowly she pivoted, surveying the range of feminine clothes it would surely take months and months to wear. Had they, like the clothes she wore, been bought while she’d been in hospital? Was it all on loan while she decided which items she wanted? She’d have to talk with Pietro.
But as she turned she discovered something else. There was no men’s clothing in the space.
Frowning, Molly backed out and returned to the bedroom.
There was another set of doors. But as she turned the handle she discovered they led out onto part of the roof terrace, made private by screens of green foliage that blocked it from the rest of the garden.
Molly turned and crossed the room, her feet silent on the cool floor. She pushed open another door and there was a bathroom, an airy space full of exquisite creamy marble flecked with gold.
Ignoring the call of the sunken tub, and the rain shower big enough for a small crowd, Molly spun round, surveying the bedroom.
No more doors, which meant no walk-in closet for Pietro.
Nor were there any signs of male habitation. There was nothing on the bedside tables, desk or even on the long sofa facing the bed.
Pietro didn’t share this room with her.
Which begged the question—exactly what sort of marriage did they have?
THE SUN WAS low in the sky as Pietro sat on the roof terrace, pondering his situation.
There were too many chances for failure. At any moment, if Molly’s memory returned, he’d be scuppered. She’d put up so many barriers it would make what he had to do almost impossible.
Not that that would stop him. He was determined to get what he needed. Because he played for the highest stakes.
Pietro might have been born to wealth and privilege, but he’d known tragedy, deceit and disappointment. Those had galvanised him into a man who didn’t play at life. He worked single-mindedly to get what he wanted then keep it.
At the age of ten his world had been ripped asunder. His beloved parents and little sister had been killed in a freak accident. He’d known then what it was to feel utterly alone and vulnerable, cut off from the world. As the years had passed and he’d learned to deal with the terrible sense of isolation, he’d vowed to build a life that contained everything he’d lost.
The success of the family business, which had been tottering towards insolvency by the time he was old enough to take control, was a result of his determination. As CEO, he thrived on challenge.
Pietro’s mouth twisted. His personal life was less successful. Less successful. There was a laugh.
His marriage to Elizabetta had been a fiasco. He’d been so distracted by the prospect of having a family of his own, by the child she’d said she was carrying, that he’d ignored the warning signs. How had he not seen earlier that his ex-wife was a gold-digger and liar? How had he allowed himself to fall for the sham pregnancy?
Simple. She offered what you longed for. What you’ve dreamed of since you were a kid.
Belonging.
Family.
Somehow Elizabetta had sensed that and exploited his weakness. But he’d learned quickly. Now she was out of his life. Yet the yearning remained. For blood ties, for a family of his own.
With Molly he’d get just that. The thought sent anticipation ripping through him. Finally, he’d have it all.
A sound drew his attention and he looked up. Molly stood, paused, in the doorway. His pulse kicked and tension coiled in his belly.
Yet it wasn’t the success of his careful scheme that excited him as Molly stepped out onto the terrace.
It was sex.
Heat burgeoned low in his body and his pulse thrummed as he took in her slim figure in fitted white capri pants and a sleeveless blue top, her narrow feet in low white sandals.
Pietro frowned at the stark intensity of the hunger grabbing at his insides. He wanted to march over and sweep her into his arms and straight back to bed.
He’d looked in on her a few hours ago and had stood far too long staring down at her as she slept. She’d been curled up like a child on top of the covers. But the glimpses of pale breast and thigh at the gap in her robe had been pure, seductive woman. He’d been on the verge of kissing her awake and joining her on that bed when he’d come to his senses, remembering she was still an invalid.
It had been the same the night they’d parted in Tuscany. Despite his fury and the sour taste of disgust on his tongue, he’d lusted after her then too. Neither pride nor common sense had eradicated his hunger for this woman. That, above all, explained why he’d lost his temper so monumentally.
In his eyes what she’d done had been unforgivable, but even worse was the fact that he still wanted her in spite of it.
Now that anger was gone, stripped away by the truth. Everything had changed. Except his desire for Molly. It was so strong, so electric, he wondered that she didn’t pick up on it.
He smoothed the frown away and raised a hand in greeting. ‘Ciao, bella.’
She gave him a tentative smile and made her way towards him.
The late sun burnished her tawny shoulder-length hair into waves that showed highlights of gilt and amber. Possessiveness struck. Pietro remembered threading his fingers through those thick tresses, fascinated by the colour. She’d dismissed it as somewhere between brown and dirty-blonde and had spoken of dyeing it one day.
Women were strange—never happy with what they had.
‘Sleep well?’
She nodded. ‘Better than I remember ever sleeping.’ Her mouth twisted into a rueful smile and she shrugged. ‘Which isn’t saying much since my memory only goes back days.’
‘One day at a time, cara. You’ll get there.’
Despite his need to take advantage of her memory loss, Pietro didn’t like to think the amnesia might be permanent. He’d spent a long time interrogating the medical