Her Forgotten Lover's Heir. Annie West

      ‘A nanny. A child minder.’

      She nodded impatiently. She knew what an au pair was. Yet, how did she know, when even her own name was totally unfamiliar?

      Molly. Was that really her name?

      ‘You’re sure you know me? You’re not confusing me with someone else?’

      Was that sympathy in his eyes? Whatever his expression, it was swiftly masked.

      ‘Absolutely sure. You’re a teacher but gave it up for the chance to come to Italy.’

      ‘A teacher...’

      ‘You love children.’ Something in his voice, something sharp and hard, snagged her attention. Was it imagination or was the golden light in his eyes more pronounced than before?

      Yet for the first time she accepted his words without question. Yes, she did love kids. She could visualise herself as a teacher. Not that she could remember any individual children, but for the first time in this odd conversation his words struck a resonance deep within her.

      She’d been dumbstruck to discover herself pregnant in such extraordinary circumstances. Terrified at the idea of bringing a child into the world, not knowing who she was or who the father was. Yet even her fear couldn’t completely obliterate her wonder at the new life she carried. Maybe, once her memory returned, she’d actually be excited about it.

      She sank back against the pillows and offered a tentative smile.

      Instantly he reacted. His nostrils flared, as if he drew in extra oxygen, and his eyes...

      She didn’t have time to worry about his eyes, no matter how gorgeous they were. This was about her. Molly... Molly what?

      ‘What’s my last name?’ Once she had that she could find her past, locate her family and friends and begin to knit her life together again. Her fingers tightened, clenching the thin blanket. If she could get her memory back. If she wasn’t doomed to lose her past for ever.

      The idea sent a shaft of fear right through her.

      The tall man’s gaze flickered towards the doctor, who nodded.

      ‘Agosti. Your name is Molly Agosti.’

      She frowned. ‘Agosti?’ Once more she waited for her subconscious to recognise the unfamiliar name. Nothing. Not even the faintest quiver of recognition. ‘Are you positive? That sounds Italian. But I’m Australian.’ And her colouring wasn’t typical of someone descended from Italians.

      ‘Absolutely sure.’

      She’d have to take his word until she had proof to the contrary. ‘And you are...?’

      Did he stiffen? No, he didn’t look at all put out. Yet something had changed. Surely the vibration in the air between them grew charged?

      She blinked. Vibrations? Charged air? Was she a person who thought in terms of auras and unseen forces? Or was she just preternaturally attuned to this man?

      ‘I am Pietro Agosti.’

      She stared up past the disturbingly powerful hands resting on the rail at the edge of her bed and that long, elegant body.

      ‘Agosti. But that’s the same name.’

      He inclined his head. ‘It is.’ Then the corners of his mouth curled up in a smile that made the breath stop in her lungs, even though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. That golden-brown stare remained watchful, assessing.

      Deep in her subconscious, an alarm bell sounded.

      ‘That’s because I’m your husband.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      HER PULSE SLAMMED past fast to frantic as she gawped up at the imposing man before her. One part of her mind atrophied in shock, another part raced in circles trying to make sense of his words.

      Her husband? This unnerving man?

      It wasn’t possible.

      Even forgetting for a moment his air of cool assurance and those honed, handsome features, everything about him screamed money and power. His suit must have been made for him, it fitted so perfectly. His shirt was snowy, nothing as average as mere white, and his subtly gleaming silk tie was the sort that came in a designer box. At his wrists were discreet yet intricately crafted gold cufflinks.

      His hands... Her heart gave a sharp thump as she concentrated on his hands. They were large and strong but well-shaped. Seductive hands, the sort that would know their way around a woman’s body. Hands adept at giving a woman pleasure.

       She had a thing for sexy hands?

      Of all the things she needed to know about herself, that had to be low down on the list. Except, staring at Pietro Agosti’s hands, such knowledge suddenly seemed of paramount importance.

      Heat flared in her cheeks and she kept her gaze fixed there rather than meet his stare, worried what he might read in her eyes. It seemed...wrong to feel that squiggle of strong reaction deep in her feminine core just looking at this man. Despite his words, he was a total stranger to her.

      The hands in question were well-cared-for and there was a heavy gold signet on one finger that looked old and expensive.

      He came from money, lots of it. She’d guess, based on his ingrained air of command and that ancient ring, he’d probably been born to it.

      But she wasn’t. She didn’t know how she knew, but in that moment she was convinced of it.

      Her face, when she’d scrutinised it in the bathroom mirror, had been ordinary. Not beautiful or intriguing. Her hair was lank and a shade somewhere between caramel and dirty blonde that surely was too ordinary to have come out of a bottle? Her hands weren’t scarred or rough, but nor were they manicured. And her only jewellery was a pair of tiny gold stud earrings.

      She and Pietro Agosti didn’t match. How could they be married?

      If it were true, then it must be his child she carried. The idea sent a tumble of unsettling emotion through her.

      ‘Signora Agosti.’

      Her head jerked up at the sound of the doctor’s voice. She opened her mouth to reject the title he’d given her.

      That wasn’t her name, was it? And as for being married...

      She shot a sideways glance at the tall man standing beside her bed, utterly unmoving. There was something about his stillness that unnerved her. He was waiting for something.

      For her to acknowledge him?

      Or for her to declare she couldn’t possibly be his wife?

      She frowned, the tightness in her head turning into a thump of pain in time with her quickened pulse.

      When she winced the doctor bustled forward, murmuring in Italian beneath his breath as he checked her pulse and got her to lie back.

      Yet all the time she was aware of Pietro Agosti looming silently beside her, tall, dark and dauntingly handsome. If the doctors hadn’t assured her she’d recover fully physically, she might have wondered in her confused way if he was the Angel of Death come to take her.

      She lifted her head and caught him staring. He didn’t look away and she sank into the surprising warmth of his bright gaze.

      Heat flared anew, this time not in her cheeks but deep, deep inside. In those female organs where her tiny embryo of a baby was lodged.

      Was this the father?

      Emotion sliced through her. Excitement or fear?

      She settled for disbelief.

      ‘You’re sure I’m married to this man?’ It didn’t seem likely. Surely