“Do you live here all the time?” she asked, her voice hushed.

“Not as a rule. Usually I’m here on the weekends only. It’s where I come to unwind.”

A shiver passed over her. “So I’ll be on my own after today?”

“No, Maeve. Until you feel more at home, I’ll stay with you.”

“In the same room and the same…bed?”

Is that what you’d like? he wanted to ask, beset by memories he almost wished he could forget. Once upon a time they had shared such insatiable passion for each other. “You have your own room for as long as you want it. But I’ll never be far away if you need me,” he said.

Catherine Spencer, once an English teacher, fell into writing through eavesdropping on a conversation about Harlequin Romances. Within two months she changed careers, and sold her first book to Mills & Boon in 1984. She moved to Canada from England thirty years ago and lives in Vancouver. She is married to a Canadian and has four grown children—two daughters and two sons (and now eight grandchildren)—plus two dogs. In her spare time she plays the piano, collects antiques, and grows tropical shrubs. You can visit Catherine Spencer’s website at www.catherinespencer.com

Recent titles by the same author:

SICILIAN BILLIONAIRE, BOUGHT BRIDE

THE GIANNAKIS BRIDE

THE ITALIAN BILLIONAIRE’S CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

THE COSTANZO BABY SECRET

BY

CATHERINE SPENCER

MILLS & BOON® Pure reading pleasure™

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

AT TEN o’clock on the morning of September 4, exactly one month to the day since the accident, Dario Costanzo received a phone call he’d begun to fear would never arrive.

“I have news, signor,” Arturo Peruzzi, chief neurologist in charge of Maeve’s case, announced. “This morning, your wife awoke from her coma.”

Sensing from the man’s neutral tone that there was more to come that didn’t bode well, Dario steeled himself to hear the rest. Over the last several weeks, he’d conducted enough research to know that brain damage resulting from a head injury came in many shapes and sizes, none of them good. “But? There is a ‘but,’ is there not, Doctor?”

“That is correct.”

He’d thought himself prepared and found he wasn’t prepared at all. Images of her as she’d looked the last time he’d seen her, with her head swathed in bandages and the rest of her hooked up to a bewildering array of tubes to keep her alive, clashed horribly with the way she’d been before everything began to go wrong.

Lovely, graceful, elegant.

Sunlight in motion.

His.

And now? Abruptly, he sat down at his desk, afraid his legs would give way beneath him. “Tell me,” he said.

“Physically she shows every sign of making a full recovery. Naturally she’s very weak at present, but with appropriate therapy, we anticipate she’ll soon be well enough to continue her convalescence at home. The problem, Signor Costanzo, is her mind.”

Ah, Dio, not that! Better she had died than—

“…not to alarm you unduly. This is quite common following the kind of trauma she sustained, and is by no means as serious as you might suppose.”

Realizing that in leaping to the worst possible conclusion, he’d missed what appeared to be a more optimistic prognosis, Dario wrenched his attention back to the neurologist’s measured tones. “Exactly what are you suggesting, Doctor?”

“I’m suggesting nothing, signor. I’m telling you bluntly that your wife is suffering from retrograde amnesia. In short, she has no memory of her…recent past.”

Peruzzi’s hesitation was brief, but telling enough to arouse Dario’s worst fears all over again. “How recent?”

“That’s what makes her case unusual. As a rule, retrograde amnesia applies only to events immediately prior to the injury. In this instance, however, your wife’s memory loss extends over a longer period. I am sorry to say that she does not appear to remember you or the life you shared.”

Psychogenic amnesia…hysterical amnesia…. Terms that had meant little or nothing to him a month ago, but with which he’d become all too familiar since, floated to the forefront of Dario’s mind. “Are you saying her amnesia is psychologically induced, as opposed to physiologically?”

“It would appear so. But the good news is that, regardless of which label we apply, the condition is rarely permanent. In time she will almost certainly regain her memory.”

“How much time?”

“That I cannot predict. No one can. It’s possible that she could recall everything within minutes of her returning to familiar territory. More likely, it will take days or even weeks, with flashes of memory trickling back in random order. What you must understand is that nothing is to be gained by trying to force her to remember that which, for whatever reason, she cannot recollect. Doing so could be highly detrimental to her well-being. And that, Signor Costanzo, brings me to the crux of this conversation. We have done our part. Now you must do yours.”

“How?”

How—the word had hounded him for over a month, begging for answers no one could give. How had he so badly misjudged the depth of her discontent? How, after all they’d promised each other, could she have turned to another man? How had she shown so little faith in him, her husband?

“Patience is the key. Bring her home when she’s ready to leave the clinic, but don’t immediately expose her to a crowd of strangers. Begin by making her feel safe and secure with you.”

“How do I do that if she doesn’t even remember me?”

“Once she is a little stronger, we’ll explain to her who you are. We have no choice. You’re her only next of kin, and she needs to know she is not alone in this world. But she has lost a year of her life, a frightening thing for anyone to face. Let her see that you care about the person she remembers herself to be. Then, as her trust in you grows, slowly reintroduce her to the rest of your family.”

“The rest of my family happens to include our seven-month-old son. What do you suggest I do with him in the meantime? Pass him off as belonging to the cook?”

If the good doctor picked up on his sarcasm, he gave no sign. “Hide him,” he said bluntly. “You have a sister and parents living close by. Surely one of them will look after him for a while?”

“Deceive her, you mean? How is that helping her?”

“The burden of guilt associated with her learning she has an infant son whom she’s wiped from her memory might well shatter her sense of worth and leave her with permanent emotional scars. It goes against the very nature of motherhood for any normal woman to forget she bore a child. Of everything that has made up the fabric of your wife’s life over the last year, this is the most delicate, and how you handle it, definitely the most critical.”

“I see.” And he did. Maeve might have woken up from her coma, but she was far from healed. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes. For now, do not expect her to be more than a wife in name only. Intimacy and what it connotes, with a man who might be her husband, but is, in fact, a virtual stranger, is a complication she can do without.”

Fantastic! The one thing they’d always been good at was no longer in the cards, and he had to farm out Sebastiano to relatives. “Is there anything I can do to help her—besides sleep in another room and send our son to live somewhere else?”

“Certainly there is,” Peruzzi informed him. “Your wife has lost her memory, not her intellect. She will have questions. Answer them truthfully, but only as much as she asks for. In other words, don’t elaborate, and above all don’t try to rush matters. Think of each small fact you reveal as a building block in the empty canvas of her memory. When enough blocks are in place, she’ll begin filling in the rest by herself.”

“And if she doesn’t like everything she learns?”

“It then becomes imperative that you, signor, remain calm and supportive. She must know that she can rely on you, regardless of what has happened in the past. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” he said dully. What other choice did he have? “May I visit her in the meantime?”

“I cannot forbid it, but I urge against it. Regaining her physical stamina is enough for her to deal with at present, and your inserting yourself into the picture is more likely to compromise her progress than help it. Let it be enough that you’ll soon be together again, with the rest of your lives to reestablish your connection to each other.”

“I understand,” Dario said, even though it was so far from the truth as to be laughable. “And I appreciate your taking time from your busy schedule to speak with me.”

“It has been my pleasure. Would that I had such encouraging news to offer the families of all my patients. I will be in touch again when your wife is ready to come home. Meanwhile, I and her other doctors are always available to discuss her progress and address any concerns you might have. Ciao, Signor Costanzo, and good luck.”

“Grazie e ciao.”

Returning the phone to its cradle, Dario paced moodily to the window. In the shelter of the walled garden directly outside his study, Marietta Pavia, the young nanny he’d hired, sat on a blanket, singing to her charge. That a wife could forget the husband she’d grown tired of was understandable, if far from flattering. But how was it possible, he wondered bleakly, that a mother could erase from her mind and heart all memory of her firstborn?

Behind him another voice, cultured, authoritative, interrupted his musings. “I overheard enough to gather there’s been a change in her condition.”

Swinging around, he confronted his visitor. Black hair smoothed in a perfect classic chignon, and immaculately turned out in a slim-fitting ecru linen dress relieved only by the baroque pearls at her throat and ears, Celeste Costanzo belied her fifty-nine years and could easily have passed for a well-preserved forty-five. “You look ready to take the Milan fashion world by storm, Mother, rather than relaxing on the island,” he remarked.

“Just because one is out of the public eye on Pantelleria is no reason to be slovenly, Dario—and don’t change the subject. What is the latest news?”

“Maeve has emerged from her coma and is expected to make a full recovery.”

“Then she’s going to live?”

“Try not to sound so disappointed,” he said drily. “She is, after all, the mother of your only grandson.”

“She is an unmitigated disaster and I fail to understand why, in light of everything that happened, you continue to defend her.”

“But that’s the whole point, Mother. We can only guess at what really happened. Of the two people who know for sure, one is dead and the other has lost her memory.”

“So that’s her game now, is it? Pretending she can’t remember she was leaving you and taking your son with her?” His mother curled her lip scornfully. “How convenient!”

“That’s preposterous and you know it. Maeve’s in no shape to put on any sort of act, and even if she were, her doctors are too experienced to be taken in by it.”

“So you buy their diagnosis?”

“I do, and so must you.”

“I’m afraid not, my son.”

“I advise you to rethink that decision if you wish to be made welcome in my home,” he suggested coldly.

Celeste’s smooth olive complexion paled. “I am your mother!”

“And Maeve is still my wife.”

“For how long? Until she decides to run away again? Until you find Sebastiano living on the other side of the world and calling some other man Papa ? Tell me what it will take, Dario, to make you see her for the kind of woman she is.”

“She’s the woman who bore my son,” he ground out, the anger that had festered for weeks threatening to boil over. “For all our sakes, kindly refrain from pointing out what you deem to be her shortcomings as a parent or a wife.”

Unmoved, his mother said, “I don’t imagine I’ll have to, my dear. She’ll do so for me.”

Everyone at the clinic, from the lowliest aide to the loftiest doctor, who’d been so kind to her and looked after her so well came to say goodbye.

And who, when she’d asked what had happened to her, had said only that she’d been in a car accident and shouldn’t worry that she couldn’t remember because, eventually, it would all come back.

And who’d steadfastly waved aside her concerns about who was sending her flowers and paying the bills—all except for one young aide who’d carelessly let slip that “he” was, before the charge nurse shushed him with a glare that would have turned the Sahara to solid ice.

He who? Maeve wanted to demand, but sensing that answer wouldn’t be forthcoming, instead asked, “Am I at least allowed to know where I’m going when I leave here?”

“Of course,” the nurse said, adopting the sort of soothing tone one might apply to a fractious child. “Back to the place where you lived before, with the people who love you.”

Wherever that was!

A few days before she was discharged, the doctors told her she was going to convalesce in a place called Pantelleria. She’d never heard of it.

“Who’ll be there?” she asked.

“Dario Costanzo…”

She’d never heard of him, either.

“…your husband,” they said.

And that left her too speechless to persist with any more questions.

Gathered now around the black limousine waiting to take her away, they all showered her with good wishes. “We’ll miss you,” they chorused, smiling and waving. “Stop in and see us when you’re in the neighborhood, but under your own steam the next time.”

And suddenly, after days of wanting nothing more than to be free of their round-the-clock vigilance, she was afraid to leave them. They were “after the accident” and all that anchored her to the present. “Before” was a missing chapter in the book of her life. That she was about to rediscover it and the man she’d apparently married during that time, should have filled her with elation. Instead it left her terrified.

Sensing her panic, the young nurse accompanying her to the airport touched her arm sympathetically. “Don’t be alarmed,” she said. “I’ll see you safely to the plane.”

The thought of mingling with the general public appalled her. She’d seen herself in a mirror and knew what a spectacle she presented. Despite the clinic’s excellent food and the hours she’d lately spent in the sunlit gardens, she remained gaunt and pale. Her hair, once long and thick, was short now, no more than four or five inches, and barely covered the long curving scar above her left ear. Her clothes hung on her as if she’d lost a ton of weight or was suffering from some unspeakable illness.

When the car she was in arrived at the airport, though, it drew up not outside the departure terminal, but took a side road to a tarmac quite separate from the main runways, where a private jet stood and a uniformed steward waited to usher her aboard.

What kind of man was her husband, that she was entitled to such luxury, she who’d grown up in a workingclass neighborhood in east Vancouver, the only child of a plumber and a supermarket cashier?

Remembering her parents and how much they’d loved the daughter born to them years after they’d given up hope of ever having children brought a rush of tears to her eyes.

If they were still alive, she’d be going home to them, to the safe, neat little rancher on the maple-shaded street, half a block from the park where she’d learned to ride a two-wheeler bike when she was seven.

Her mom would fuss over her and bake her a blackberry pie, and her dad would tell her again how proud of her he was that she’d made something of herself and become such a success. But they were both dead, her father within weeks of retiring at sixty-eight, her mother three years later, and the neat little rancher sold to strangers. As a result, Maeve, already exhausted by the emotional upheaval of the day, was strapped in a divinely comfortable leather seat in an obscenely luxurious private aircraft, headed for a life that was nothing but a big, mysterious question mark.

CHAPTER TWO

ALTHOUGH not exactly chatty, when Mauve asked more about the place she was being taken to, the flight attendant wasn’t quite as tight-lipped as the medical personnel had been.

“It is called Pantelleria,” he said in careful English, as he served her a late lunch of poached chicken breast and asparagus spears so tender and young, they were almost premature.

“So I understand. But I don’t think I’m familiar with it.”

“It is an island, known also as the black pearl of the Mediterranean.”

“And still part of Italy?”

“Sì, signora. Close to one hundred kilometers southwest of the extreme tip of Sicily and less than eighty from Tunisia, which is in Africa.”

She hadn’t lost all her marbles. She knew where Africa was, and Tunisia, but Pantelleria? The name still didn’t ring a bell. “Tell me about this black pearl.”

“It is small, windy and isolated, and the road circling the island is not good, but the grapes are sweet, the sea is a clear, beautiful blue, the snorkeling and the sunsets magnifico.”

It sounded like a paradise. Or a prison. “Do many people live there?”

“Except for the tourists, not so many.”

“Have I lived there very long?”

She’d veered too far from the geographical to the personal. His face closed, and he straightened his posture as if he were on a parade ground and about to undergo military inspection. “May I offer you something to drink, signora?” he inquired woodenly.

She smiled, hoping to trick him into another revelation. “What do I usually have?”

The effort was wasted. His guard was up. “We have wine, juice, milk and acqua minerale frizzante on board or, if you wish, I can serve you espresso.”

“Sparkling mineral water,” she said testily, and decided that whoever met her when she arrived had better be prepared to give her some straightforward answers, because this whole secrecy conspiracy was getting old very fast.

But the questions bursting to be asked fled her mind when the aircraft skimmed in for landing and, descending the steps to the tarmac, she saw the man waiting to greet her.

If Pantelleria was the black pearl of the Mediterranean, he was its imperial topaz prince. Well over six feet tall, broad, sun-bronzed and so handsome she had to avert her gaze lest she inadvertently started drooling, he took her hand and said, “Ciao, Maeve. I’m your husband. It’s good to have you home again and see you looking so well.”

His thick black hair was expertly barbered, his jaw clean shaven. He had on tan linen trousers and a light blue shirt she recognized was made of Egyptian cotton, and sported a Bulgari watch on his wrist. By comparison, she looked like something the cat dragged in, and ludicrously out of place juxtaposed next to this well-dressed stranger and presumable owner the sleek private jet.

Privately he must have thought so, too, because, despite his kind words, when she ventured another glance at him, she saw the same pity in his dark gray eyes that had dogged her throughout her teenage years.

Desperate to give her advantages neither of them had enjoyed, her parents had almost bankrupted themselves to send her to one of the best private high schools in the city, never realizing the misery their sacrifice had caused her. They’d hidden their words behind their hands, those snooty fellow students born to old money and pedigrees, but she’d heard them anyway, and they had left scars worse than anything a car accident could inflict.

Poor thing, she could eat corn through a picket fence with those teeth….

No wonder she hides behind all that hair….

I feel bad not inviting her to my party, but she just doesn’t fit in….

An orthodontist had eventually given her a perfect smile, and flashing it now to hide the crippling shyness that still struck when she felt at a disadvantage, she said, “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m afraid your name’s slipped my mind.”

They had to be the most absurd words ever to fall out of her mouth, but if he thought so, too, he managed to hide it and said simply, “It’s Dario.”

“Dario.” She tried out the word, splitting it into three distinct syllables as he had and copying his intonation, as if doing so would somehow make it taste familiar on her tongue. It didn’t. She paused, hoping he’d enlarge on their relationship with a few pertinent details, and caught something else in his eyes. Disappointment? Reproach?

Whatever it was, he masked it quickly and gestured at the vehicle parked a few yards away. Not a long black limousine this time, but a metallic-gray Porsche Cayenne Turbo, which, although much smaller, she knew came with a hefty price tag attached. “Let’s get in the car,” he said. “The wind is like a blast furnace this afternoon.”

Indeed, yes. Her hair, or what remained of it, stood up like wheat stalks, and perspiration trickled between her breasts. She was glad to slide into the front passenger seat and relax in the cooling draft from the air conditioner; glad that she was on the last leg of the journey to wherever. Though the flight had lasted no more than a couple of hours from takeoff to landing, fearful anticipation of what lay ahead had left her weary to the bone.

Since Dario was so clearly disinclined to talk, she turned her attention to the passing scene as he drove away from the little airport, praying something she saw might trigger a memory, however slight. Soon they were headed south along the coast road the flight attendant had mentioned. It was narrow and winding, but picturesque enough.

To the left, neat patchwork vineyards protected by stone walls rose up the hillsides. Groves of stunted olive trees hugged the earth as if only by doing so could they prevent the winds from sweeping them out to sea.

On the right, turquoise waves shot through with emerald surged over slabs of lava rock rising black along the jagged shoreline. Hence the island’s other name, no doubt.

At one point they passed through a charming fishing village. Odd, cube-shaped houses were clustered next to each other with perforated domes or channels on their flat roofs.

“To catch the rainwater,” Dario explained, when curiosity got the better of her enough that she dared break his rather forbidding silence and ask what they were for. “Pantelleria is a volcanic island with many underground springs, but the sulphur content makes the water undrinkable.”

Disappointingly, this meager tidbit of information struck no more of a chord than anything else she saw. Which left quizzing her laconic husband her only other option if she wanted to arrive at her destination with at least some point of reference in a life dismayingly bereft of landmarks.

“Your flight attendant told me this island’s quite small,” she said, as the minutes ticked by and he made no further effort to engage her in conversation.

“Sì.”

“So your house isn’t very far away?”

“Nothing’s very far away. Pantelleria is only fourteen and a half kilometers long and less than five kilometers wide.”

“So we’ll arrive soon?”

“Sì.”

“I understand that’s where we lived before the accident.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Sì.”

Talk about a man of few words! “And we’ve been married how long?”

“A little more than a year.”

“Are we happy?”

He tensed visibly, a scowl marring his forehead. “Apparently not.”

Distressed, she stared at him. She had exchanged vows with this gorgeous man. Taken his name and presumably once worn his ring, although there was no sign of it now. Had slept in his arms, awakened to his kisses. And somehow let it all slip away.

“Why not?”

He shrugged and gripped the steering wheel more tightly. He had beautiful hands. Long-fingered and elegant. And there was no sign of a wedding ring. “Our living arrangement was not ideal.”

She ached to ask him what he meant by that, but the reserve in his voice was hard to miss even for someone in her impaired mental state, so she once again focused her attention on her surroundings.

He’d turned the car off the main road and was navigating a private lane leading to an enclave of secluded villas perched on a headland. By some high-tech method she couldn’t begin to fathom, a pair of iron gates set in a high rock wall opened as he approached, then swung smoothly closed again immediately afer the car had passed through.

A drive bordered with dwarf palm trees wound through extensive grounds to a residence which, while remaining true to what appeared to be a traditional island dwelling, was much larger than any they’d passed on the way, and bore an air of unmistakable opulence. Single-storied, it sprawled over the land in a series of terraced cubes, with a domed roof over the larger, central section.

Dario stopped the car outside a massive front door and switched off the ignition. “This is it?” she breathed.

“This is it,” he said. “Welcome home, Maeve.”

She opened her door and stepped out. The wind had dropped and a stand of pine trees dusted with the mauve shadows of dusk filled the air with their scent. The first stars blinked in the sky. Even from this vantage point, the estate—and estate was the only word to describe it—commanded a magnificent view across the Mediterranean.

Closing her eyes, she breathed in the peace and wondered how she could not remember such a place.

For a moment he leaned against the car and watched. The sight of her body, silhouetted sharp and brittle against the deepening twilight, brought back the shock he’d experienced when she first stepped out of the aircraft. The very second he saw her, he’d wanted to establish his husbandly right to enfold her in his arms. Peruzzi’s warning not to crowd her had been all that stopped him. That, and his fear that he might inadvertently break her ribs.

She had always been slender, but never to the point that the siroccos of autumn might blow her away if she ventured too close to the edge of the cliffs. Never to the point of such fragility that she was almost transparent. Small wonder the good doctor had urged him to patience. Restoring her physical stamina had to come first. The rest—their history, the accident and the events leading up to it—could wait. Ambushed by her intuitive questions, he’d already revealed more than he intended, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He hadn’t risen to the top of a world-wide multi-billion-dollar business empire without learning to dissemble if the occasion called for it. And from where he stood, this amounted to one of those occasions.

“Would you like to stay out here for a while?” he asked her. “Perhaps stretch your legs with a stroll through the gardens?”

She ran her fingers through her short, silky hair. “No, thank you. Even though it’s still early, I find I’m quite tired.”

“Come then, and I’ll have my housekeeper show you to your room.”

“Do I know her?”

“No. She started working for me just last week. Her predecessor moved to Palermo to be closer to her grandchildren.”

He took her one small suitcase from the back of the car and pushed open the front door, then stood back to let her precede him inside the house.

She stepped into the wide foyer and slowly inspected her surroundings, taking in the lazy motion of the fans suspended from the high ceiling, the cool white walls, the black marble floors. “Do you live here all the time?” she asked, her voice hushed.

“Not as a rule. Usually I’m here on the weekends only. It’s where I come to unwind.”

A shiver passed over her. “So I’ll be on my own after today?”

“No, Maeve. Until you feel more at home, I’ll stay with you.”

“In the same room and the same…bed?”

Is that what you’d like? he wanted to ask, beset by memories he almost wished he could forget. Once upon a time, they had shared such insatiable passion for each other. “You have your own room for as long as you want it, but I’ll never be far away if you need me,” he said instead, and congratulated himself on providing an answer that neither threatened her, nor shut the door on their resuming a more normal married life at some future point. Peruzzi would be proud of him.

“Oh,” she said, and he might almost have thought she sounded disappointed. “Well, that’s very nice and considerate of you. Thank you.”

“Prego.”

She inched a little closer. “Um…are my clothes and personal effects still here?”

“Yes,” he assured her. “Everything is exactly as you left it.” Except for the blood-soaked outfit she wore the day of the accident. That was one memory he wished he could erase and hoped she’d never recall. “Here’s Antonia now,” he continued, relieved to be able to change the subject as the housekeeper arrived on the scene. “She’ll take you to your suite and make sure you have everything you need.”

She exchanged a tentative smile with Antonia, then turned to him one last time. “Thank you again for everything you’ve done today.”

“It was nothing,” he said. “Sleep well and I’ll see you in the morning.”

As soon as the two women, one so sturdy, the other so frail, left the entrance hall and disappeared toward the lower left wing of the house where the guest bedrooms were located, he turned in the opposite direction and along the corridor that led to the library and his home office. Closing himself in the latter, he picked up the phone and called Giuliana, his sister, who lived next door.

“I was hoping I’d hear from you,” she said, picking up on the first ring. “Did Maeve arrive home safely?”

“She did.”

“And how is she? Is it as bad as we feared?”

“Ah, Giuliana!” Horrified, he heard his voice crack and had to take a moment to collect himself. “She’s fragile as spun glass, inside and out. The journey down here exhausted her. We got in just a few minutes ago and she went straight to bed.”

“Poor thing! I wish I could see her and tell her how much I love her and how glad I am to have her back among us.”

“I wish it, too. I wish you could bring her son home and have her look at him and recognize at once that she’s his mother. Sadly, the time’s not yet right.”

“I know, Dario. Small steps, isn’t that what her doctor said?”

“Yes, but not, I fear, as small as he’d like. Already she’s wormed too much information out of me and knows our marriage was on shaky ground. Not exactly the best way for us to start trying to put our lives back together, is it?”

“But it can be done if you love each other enough to fight for what you once had. The question is, do you?”

“I can’t speak for her, Giuliana.”

“Then speak for yourself. I know that the way you started out together wasn’t ideal, and that you married her because you believed it was the honorable thing to do and you had no other choice, but it seemed to me that you were making it work.”

“Until it all went horribly wrong.”

And therein lay the crux of the matter. Could either of them get past what had happened, or had they lost too much ground ever to trust each other again?

Seeming to read his thoughts, his sister said softly, “Maeve loves you, Dario. I am certain of that.”

“Are you?” he said wearily. “I wish I was. But I didn’t call to burden you with my doubts, I called to find out how you’re holding up having an extra child to care for. Is Sebastiano wearing you out?”

“Not in the least. Marietta is an enormous help. You were lucky to find so capable and willing a nanny. As for Cristina, she loves her little cousin and plays with him all the time. And he’s such a contented baby. He only ever cries if he’s hungry or tired, or needs to be changed.”

“He’s the one bright spot in this whole unfortunate business.”

“And too young to understand what’s happened.”

“Let’s hope he never will.” Dario paused. “Has anyone else in the family stopped by to see him?”

“If by that you mean our mother, then, yes. She came by this morning and again this afternoon. She’s quite adamant that he should be staying with her, and I’m equally adamant that he should not.”

“I’d hoped she’d go back to Milan with our father. The last thing Maeve needs right now is to run afoul of her.”

“Unfortunately, she seems set on staying here. But don’t worry, Dario. I can hold my own with her, as you very well know, and Lorenzo certainly can. He won’t stand for her interfering in our arrangement.”

That much he knew to be true. His mother might be a handful at times, but his brother-in-law was no more a man to be pushed around than Dario himself was. “I’m grateful to both of you for your support. Kiss my son good-night for me, will you? I’d come over and do it myself, but—”

“No,” his sister cut in. “Tonight, at least, it’s more important that you stay home in case Maeve needs you. It wouldn’t do for her to find herself alone before she gets her bearings.”

And how long before that happened, he wondered moodily, ending the call and pouring himself a stiff drink. It was all very fine for Arturo Peruzzi to counsel patience, but Dario had never been a particularly patient man. Already, after little more than an hour, his tolerance was tested to the limit as far as letting nature take its course in its own sweet time. He’d spent too many days neglecting work because he couldn’t concentrate. Too many evenings like this, with a bottle of single-malt Scotch for company. And a damn sight too many nights alone in a bed designed for two.

Irritably, he threw open the glass doors and stepped out onto the terrace. Night had fallen and the dozens of solar lights dotted throughout the garden and around the perimeter of the pool gleamed softly in the dark.

Once upon a time not so very long ago, Maeve had wanted him as much as he wanted her. They’d slipped naked into the warm, limpid depths of the private spa outside their bedroom and made love with an urgency that bordered on desperation. He’d buried his mouth against hers for fear that someone might hear her cries of surrender. He’d withheld his own pleasure in order to prolong hers, and finally come so hard and fast within the confines of her sleek, tight flesh that his heart almost stopped.

So why was he standing here alone now, hard and aching, and she was sleeping in a guest suite? Dannazione, she was his wife!

A sound punctured the night, closer than the murmur of the restless sea, fainter than a whisper. A footfall so hesitant he might have dismissed it as a figment of his imagination had it not been accompanied by a fragrance he recognized: bergamot, juniper and Sicilian mandarin softened with a touch of rosemary. Her fragrance, and he ought to know. He’d bought it for her.

Turning his head, he found her framed in the open doorway behind him, her silhouette softened this time by the long, loose garment she’d put on. She had never looked more ethereal or desirable.

“I thought you’d turned in for the night,” he said when he was able to speak.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Too much excitement?”

“Perhaps.” She took a step toward him and then another. “Or perhaps I’ve done enough sleeping and it’s time for me to wake up.”

CHAPTER THREE

HE REMAINED so still and watched her so warily that she almost lost her nerve and scuttled back to the safety of her suite. Decorated in shades of celadon and cream, nice soothing colors designed not to agitate the amnesiac mistress of the house, it was more luxurious than anything she could have imagined. The gorgeous bathroom had a steam shower and a tub deep enough to drown in. Adjacent to the bedroom was a sitting room, and outside in the private garden overlooking the sea, a swimming pool.

An oasis of tranquility, she’d have thought, yet she’d found neither answers nor rest there. From the minute she stepped over the threshold into the house, an air of utter desolation had engulfed her. She felt hollow inside. Bereft beyond anything words could describe.

Something bad had happened here. Something that went beyond a less than perfect marriage, and try though she might to dismiss it, the weight of unspeakable tragedy, of an event or events too horrific to contemplate, continued to haunt her. This spectacular seaside villa held a dark and dreadful secret, one she was determined to unearth. And whether or not he wanted to, her tight-lipped husband was the man who’d reveal it to her.

“Are you going to offer me a drink?” she asked boldly, even though her pulse ran so fast that she could hardly breathe. Nothing new there, though. She’d lived with subdued panic most of her life, and had long ago learned to disguise it behind a facade of manufactured poise.

“If you’re asking for alcohol, I’m not sure that I should,” Dario said.

“Why not? Am I a raging dipsomaniac?”

He actually laughed at that, a lovely rich ripple of sound that played over her nerve endings like the bass keys of a finely tuned piano. “Hardly.”

“That’s a relief. For a moment, I was afraid I might be a good-time girl who danced on the table after one beer.”

“I’ve never known you to drink beer. You prefer good champagne, and never more than a glass or two at that. Nor have I ever seen you dance on a table.”

“Then why the reluctance to humor me now?”

“Medication and alcohol aren’t a good mix.”

“I’m not taking any medication. Haven’t for more than two weeks.”

“I see,” he said and ran a hand over his jaw. “In that case, I’ll make you a deal. Join me for dinner and I’ll crack open a bottle of your favorite vintage. It was always your favorite.”

Not wanting to appear too eager, she pretended to give the matter some thought. “All right. Now that you mention it, I am rather hungry.”

“Eccellente. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll let the cook know there’ll be two of us dining tonight.”

“Of course.” She waited until he’d disappeared then, weak at the knees from his departing smile, she tottered to a pair of sun lounges upholstered in blue-and-whitestriped cotton, and practically fell onto the one nearest.

The view spread out in front of her was breathtaking. A big oval infinity pool, strategically placed for maximum dramatic effect, appeared to cling to the very rim of the cliff. An illusion, of course, brought about by the sort of complicated engineering feat only the very rich and famous could afford. But the profusion of bougainvillea framing the picture was nature’s handiwork alone.

Dario returned in a matter of minutes with two slender tulip-shaped flutes and a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne. He poured the wine, sat down beside her and touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Salute!”

“Salute! And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything you’ve done since I’ve been ill. They told me at the hospital that you’re the one who sent me flowers every day and who took care of all my expenses.”

“What else would you have had me do, Maeve? I’m your husband.”

“Yes, well…about that…”

“Relax, cara,” he advised her gently. “I didn’t mention our relationship as a prelude to demanding my conjugal rights.”

“Oh,” she said, swallowing a wave of disappointment along with a sip of champagne. Not that she was raring to make love to a man she didn’t know, but that he presumably knew her very well indeed, yet was so willing to keep his distance, wasn’t exactly flattering. On the other hand, what else did she expect? “Under the circumstances, it never occurred to me that you were.”

He turned his head sharply and fixed her in a probing stare. “What do you mean by that?”

“I might not remember marrying you, Dario, but I’ve still got twenty-twenty vision. I know I look more like a scarecrow than a woman.”

“You’re still recovering from an accident that almost cost you your life. You can’t expect to look the same as you did before.”

“Even so, my hair…” She tugged self-consciously at the pathetic remains of what had once been her crowning glory, as if doing so might persuade it to sprout another few inches.

Reaching across the space separating them, he stilled her hand and brought it down to rest beneath his. It was the kind of thing a parent might do to stop a child picking at a scab, but however he might have intended it, his touch electrified her in places not referred to in polite society. Involuntarily she clamped her knees together as primly as a virgin defending her innocence.

Fortunately, he couldn’t read her mind. Or if he could, he didn’t like the direction it had taken, because he let go of her hand as quickly as he’d grasped it. “You have beautiful hair,” he said. “It reminds me of sunshine on satin.”

“It’s too short.”

“I like it short. It shows more of your face, which, like the rest of you, is also quite beautiful, regardless of how you might view it.”

Even though he delivered it as matter-of-factly as a Kennel Club judge might appraise a freshly trimmed poodle, his compliment was more than she’d hoped for or deserved. After her bath, she’d done her best to find something flattering to wear among the clothes she’d discovered in the small dressing room connecting her bedroom to the bathroom, and heaven knew there was quite a bit to choose from.

Layers of lingerie in glass-fronted drawers filled one side, with a shelf of shoes below, and another holding several big floppy sun hats above. Opposite was a row of loose-fitting day dresses, skirts and tops, with two or three more elegant dinner outfits on padded hangers arranged at one end. Nothing too formal, though. Judging by the plethora of beach and patio wear, and the pairs of straw sandals and flip-flops encrusted with crystals, Pantelleria was not the social center of the world.

The quality of the clothes, however, was unmistakable. She’d fingered the expensive fabrics, admiring the cut and color of the various garments. Fashion was in her blood and whatever else might have slipped her mind, her eye for style had not. That most items appeared at least two sizes too large might have proved something of a challenge to a person of lesser experience, but she was on familiar territory when it came to making a woman look her best. Bypassing silky lace-trimmed bras and panties, she’d chosen cotton knit underwear that forgave her diminished curves, and topped it with a loose-flowing caftan in vibrant purple that whispered over her body like a breeze and softened the sharp jut of her hip bones.

Regarding her efforts in the full-length mirror, she’d felt a woman a little more in charge of herself again. But although it had given her the courage to seek out Dario and try to worm more information out of him, now that he was inspecting her so thoroughly, she almost cowered.

“You’re embarrassing me,” she protested.

“Why?” he countered mildly. “You’re lovely, and I can’t possibly be the first man to tell you so.”

“No. My father used to say the same thing, but he was prejudiced. In truth, I was an ugly duckling, especially as a teenager.”

“I quite believe it.”

Her jaw dropped. “You do?”

“Certainly. How else could you have turned into such an elegant swan?”

He was laughing at her, and suddenly she was laughing, too.

It had been so long since she’d done that, and the result was startling, as if she’d opened an inner door and set free a hard, dark knot of misery. For the first time in weeks, she felt light and could breathe again. “Thank you for saying that. You’re very kind.”

“And you’re your own worst critic.” He touched her again, stroking the back of her hand, his fingers warm and strong. “What happened to make you that way, Maeve?”

“I’d have thought I told you that already, seeing that we’re married.”

“Perhaps you did,” he said, “but since we’re starting out all over again, tell me a second time.”

“Well, I was always shy, but never more than when I entered my teens. I’d become paralyzed with self-consciousness in a crowd, and had a miserable adolescence as a result.”

“Didn’t most of us at that age, at one time or another?”

“I suppose, but mine was made worse because, when I turned thirteen, my parents sent me to a very prestigious girls-only private academy, light-years removed from the kind of school I was used to and the few friends I had. Not that I came from the wrong side of the tracks or anything, but the day I walked into that elite establishment sitting across town on its high-priced five acres of prime real estate, I entered a different world, one in which I was a definite outsider.”

“You made no new friends?”

“Not really. Teenage girls can be very cruel, even if they don’t always mean to be. At best I was tolerated. At worst, ignored. I wasn’t entirely blameless, either. I compensated by withdrawing and trying to make myself invisible, which isn’t easy when you’re taller than everyone else, and painfully awkward to boot. I suppose that’s when I became fixated on long hair. I used to hide behind it all the time.”

She took another sip of champagne and stared at the empty sea, for the second time in one day harking back to that awful, unhappy era. “I wanted to be different. Be braver, more outgoing, more interesting and lively. More like those other girls who were so sure of themselves and so at ease in their environment. But I was me. Ordinary, dull. Academically acceptable, but socially and athletically inept.”

“When did all that change?”

“How do you know it did?”

“Because the person you describe isn’t the woman I know.”

Not on the outside, perhaps, and usually not on the inside either. Until someone poked too cruelly at those hidden insecurities and made them bleed. Then she was exactly that girl all over again. Not good enough. A nobody masquerading as somebody.

“Maeve,” he said, watching her closely, “what happened to make you see yourself in a different light?’

She remembered as if it had occurred just last week. “The day in my senior year that the headmistress called me up on stage during morning assembly and ordered the entire student body to look at Maeve Montgomery and take notice. Believing I was about to be castigated for having broken some unwritten rule of decorum, and to hide the fact that I was shaking inside, I stood very erect and stared out at that sea of faces without blinking.”

“And?”

“And what she said was, ‘When members of the general public meet girls from this academy walking down the street or waiting at the bus stop, this is what I expect them to see. Someone who doesn’t feel the need to raise her voice to draw attention to herself, but who behaves with quiet dignity. Someone proud to wear our uniform, with her blouse tucked in at the waist, her shoes polished and her hair neatly arranged.’”

Maeve paused and shot Dario a wry glance. “In case you’re wondering, by then I’d progressed to the point that I wore my hair in a French braid, instead of letting it hang in my face.”

“I see. So the girl who thought she was an outsider turned out to fit in very well, after all.”

“I suppose I did, in a way. I’m not sure if I was really the paragon of virtue the headmistress made me out to be, or if she understood that I needed a morale boost and that was her way of giving it to me, but after that morning the other seniors regarded me with a sort of surprised respect, and those in the lower grades with something approaching awe.”

“What matters, cara, is how did you see yourself?”

“Differently,” she admitted. That night she’d looked in the mirror, something she normally avoided, and discovered not a flat-chested, gangly teenager forever tripping over her own feet, but a long-legged stranger with soft curves, straight teeth and clear blue eyes.

Not that she said as much to Dario, of course. She’d have sounded too conceited. Instead she explained, “I realized it was time to get over myself. I vowed I’d never again be ashamed of who I was, but would face the world with courage, and honor the ideals my parents had instilled in me. In other words, to value honesty and loyalty and decency.”

“People don’t necessarily abide by their promises though, do they?”

Taken aback by the sudden and inexplicably bitter note underlying his remark, she said, “I can’t speak for other people, Dario, but I can tell you that I’ve always tried hard to stick to mine.”

He stared her at her for a second or two, his beautiful face so immobile it might have been carved from granite. When he spoke, his voice was as distant as the cold stars littering the sky. “If you say so, my dear. It’s such a fine night that I ordered dinner served out here. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she answered, “but I do mind your changing the subject so abruptly.”

He turned away with a shrug, as if to say, And I should care because? But she was having none of that. She’d been stonewalled long enough by doctors and nurses and therapists. She’d be damned if she’d put up with the same treatment from a man claiming to be her husband.

Grasping his arm, she stopped him before he could put more distance between them. “Don’t ignore me, Dario. You implied that I’m lying, and I want to know why. What have I done to make you not believe me?”

Before he could answer, the housekeeper came to announce that dinner was ready. Obviously relieved at the interruption, he took Maeve by the elbow and steered her the length of the terrace, to a table and chairs set under a section of roof that extended from the house. Long white curtains hung to the floor on the open three sides, no doubt to provide protection from the sun and wind during the day, but they were tied back now and gave an unobstructed view of the moon casting a glittering path across the sea.

It was, she thought, as he seated her and took his place opposite, like a scene out of the Arabian Nights. Candles glowed in crystal bowls and sent flickering shadows over a marble-topped table dressed with crisp linen napkins and heavy sterling cutlery. Music with a distinctly Middle-Eastern flavor filtered softly from hidden speakers. Some night-blooming flower filled the air with fragrance. Yet the harmony was tainted by the tension still simmering between her and Dario.

Antonia reappeared from inside the house and proceeded to serve from a sideboard positioned next to the wall. The meal began with a salad of tomatoes, olives, onions and capers dressed in oil flavored with basil, followed by grilled swordfish on a bed of linguine. And since Antonia remained at her post well within earshot as they ate, the opportunity to pursue the cause of Dario’s sudden change of mood had to go on hold in favor of inconsequential chitchat.

At length, however, the meal was over, the dishes removed and they were alone again. Pushing aside her water goblet, Maeve interrupted him as he waxed eloquent about the therapeutic benefits of the many hot springs on the island, and said, “Okay, Dario, it’s just you and me now, so please forget being a tour guide and answer the question I put to you before your housekeeper interrupted us. And don’t even think about telling me to forget it, because I’ve had about as much as I can stand of people not being straight with me.”

“I spoke out of turn,” he said carefully, seeming to find the contents of his wineglass more riveting than her face. “I’ve met more than a few business acquaintances whose idea of a gentleman’s agreement turned out to be as meaningless as their handshake. Sad to say, it’s left me somewhat jaded as a result.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, finally meeting her gaze. “I apologize if I insulted you, Maeve. It was not my intention, and I quite understand if you feel compelled to kick me under the table for being such a brute.”

His smile was back, dazzling as ever. Basking in its warmth, she said, “I’ll forgive you on one condition. So far tonight I’ve done most of the talking, when what I’d really like is to learn more about you.”

“All right.”

“And I wouldn’t mind going for a walk while I quiz you.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it? This is your first day out of hospital, after all.”

“But I haven’t been bedridden for a few weeks now. As long as I don’t have to rappel down a cliff or run a marathon, I’m quite sure I’ll be fine.”

“Then we’ll take a stroll through the grounds.”

He led her along a crushed stone path that meandered around to the landward side of the villa and through a series of small gardens.

“Why is each one enclosed like this?” she wanted to know, finding the high stone walls almost claustrophobic.

“To protect them from the winds. These lemon trees here, for instance, would never survive if they were exposed to the sirocco.”

She supposed she once knew that, along with the thousand other trivial details that made up daily life on this tiny island, but rediscovering them could wait. For now, sketching in the major figures that shaped her particular situation had to take precedence. “I can see I have a lot to relearn, so let’s get started.”

“D’accordo. Where shall I begin?”

“With your family, since they’re also now my family by marriage. Do they live here some of the time, as well?”

“Yes.”

“Are they here now?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t seen any sign of them.”

“They don’t actually live in my dammuso.”

“You’re what?”

“Dammuso,” he repeated, his grin gleaming in the dark. “Plural, dammusi. It’s an Arabic word loosely translated as house although more accurately meaning vaulted structure. The style and method of construction is the same for all residences on Pantelleria.”

Not quite, she thought. They might all be shaped like sugar cubes with arched openings and domed roofs, but most were a far cry from the elegant luxury that defined his and the others perched on this remote headland. “Then where do they live?”

“Here, we’re close neighbors. My sister lives next door, and my parents next door to her.”

“And when you’re not on the island?”

“Our home base is Milan where our corporate headquarters are located. But we’re not on top of each other there the way we are here. In the city, you and I have a penthouse, my parents also, but not in the same building, and my sister and her husband have a villa in the suburbs.”

“You have no brothers? Just the one sister?”

“That’s right.”

“Does she have children?”

“Yes, but it’s probably not a good idea to confuse you with too many names and numbers just yet.”

“Okay, then tell me about these corporate headquarters, which sound imposingly grand. Exactly what sort of corporation is it?”

“A family business going back over ninety years. Costanzo Industrie del Ricorso Internazionali. You might have heard of it.”

She frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“My great-grandfather started it in the early 1920s. After hearing about and reading of the misery and destruction during World War I, particularly of children left orphaned and homeless, he vowed he’d dedicate himself to creating a better, more beautiful world for those who’d been born into poverty. He began small here in Italy, buying abandoned land and creating parks in areas of our cities where before, rat-infested alleys were the only playgrounds.”

“Then you do know of at least one man who kept his word.”

“Sì.” He acknowledged her gentle dig with another smile. “Eventually, he expanded his idea to include holiday camps in the country for needy children, some of whom had never seen the sea or a lake. To subsidize their operation and make it possible for cash-strapped families to send their sons and daughters away for a few weeks every summer, he turned his entrepreneurial skills in a more lucrative direction, developing ski, golf and beach resorts, at first on his home turf, then in neighboring countries. A portion of the profits went toward setting up endowment funds for his charity work.”

“I wish I’d known him. He sounds like a very fine gentleman.”

“From all accounts, he was. When he died in the mid-1960s, CIR Internazionali was a household name in Italy. Today, it’s recognized worldwide and supports a variety of nonprofit organizations for underprivileged children.”

“And where do you fit in the corporate structure?”

“I’m senior vice-president to my father, the chairman and CEO. Specifically, I oversee our European and North American operations.”

“So I married an executive giant.”

“I suppose you did.” By then they’d come to a flight of stone steps that brought them back to the seaward side of the property. “Be careful. These are a little uneven in places,” he warned, taking her hand.

This time he didn’t release it at the first opportunity, but tucked it more firmly in his. Except for the glow of lamps inside the house and the lights illuminating the infinity pool, the scene was locked in dark blue moon shadows, creating a sense of such isolation that she instinctively tightened her fingers around his. “We might be the only two people left in the world,” she murmured.

He caught her other hand and drew her closer. So close that even though their bodies weren’t quite touching, such an electrifying awareness sprang up that she wouldn’t have been surprised to see blue sparks arcing between them. “Would it trouble you if, in fact, we were?”

“No,” she said, lifting her face to his. “I can think of no one else I’d rather be alone with.”

He did then what she’d been wanting him to do from the moment she set eyes on him that afternoon. He lowered his head and kissed her. Not on the cheek, as he had before, but on the mouth. Not coolly, as one person greeting another, but like a man possessed of a hunger he could barely keep in check.

She swayed under the impact. Closed her eyes, dazzled by sudden splendor. Felt his arms go around her and pin her hard against him.

His tongue slid between her lips and she tasted desire. His, hers, theirs, more intoxicating than champagne. And for as long as the kiss lasted, the emptiness that had gripped her from the moment of her arrival at the villa eased just a little.

Then it all slipped away. Lifting his head, he put her at arm’s length, his breathing as ragged as hers. “I think you’ve learned enough for one day,” he muttered.

“Not quite,” she whispered, the desolation he left behind striking through her heart like a darning needle. “I have one more question begging to be answered.”

“What is it?”

“If we can kiss like that, Dario, how is it we weren’t happily married?”

CHAPTER FOUR

PERUZZI would not be pleased. “Answer truthfully, but only as much as she asks for,” the good doctor had counseled. “Above all, don’t try to rush matters.”

In theory it had all sounded simple enough. In fact, applying the advice was as dicey as picking a path through a minefield. And kissing her, Dario realized, frustrated on more levels than he cared to number, ranked high on the list of rushing things, at least from his perspective. He was hard and aching and half-blind with hunger for a woman who wouldn’t have known him from Adam if she’d happened to pass him on the street. All of which most definitely left him in no shape to field another round of her astute questions.

Playing for time, he said, “What makes you think we weren’t happy?”

“You told me so, remember?”

Unfortunately he did, and wished he’d had the good sense to think before he spoke or, failing that, to keep his mouth shut altogether. A chunk of recent history might have gone missing from her memory, but the rest of Maeve’s brain was firing on all cylinders.

Despite not being able to see her clearly, the intensity of her gaze burned in the gloom. “Were we on the brink of divorce, Dario?” she persisted.

Were they? Only she knew the answer to that one. “No,” he said, sticking strictly to the facts. After all, no papers had been filed, no lawyers called in to divide the marital assets or mediate custodial rights.

“Then what was the problem?”

Racking his brains for a misleadingly truthful reply, he said, “All marriages go through rough patches once in a while.”

“But we’ve been married such a short time,” she mourned. “We should have been still on our honeymoon.”

Dannazione! Next, she’d be asking where they spent their honeymoon, and getting into the circumstances surrounding their wedding would certainly not meet with Peruzzi’s approval. “Don’t assume, because we might have hit a few bumps along the way, that our marriage was a failure,” he temporized. “For every disappointment there were a hundred joys, and for me, having you home again rates as one of the latter.”

“If you care that much, why did you never visit me in the hospital?”

Dio dare lui forza! Raising his eyes heavenward, he appealed for help. “I did visit you, Maeve. I sat by your bed day and night for weeks after the accident, praying that you’d live.”

“But then you stopped coming. Why?”

Because we have a son who was also hospitalized, and he needed me, too. “For a start, I’d had you transferred to a clinic outside Rome, one renowned for its success in treating brain injuries. But you didn’t know I was there, and since I was able to do nothing for you, I focused on what I could do.”

“Turned to work to distract you, you mean?”

“Yes,” he lied, because he knew the truth would be more than she was ready to hear.

“What about when I woke up from the coma?”

“I would have come to you immediately, but your doctors advised against it. You still had a long way to go before being discharged, and they didn’t want anything to interfere with your recovery.”

“Since when does seeing her husband impede a woman’s recovery?”

“When she doesn’t remember him?” he suggested drily.

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “Yes, I suppose so.”

As much by good luck as good judgment, he’d steered the conversation into safer channels. Before she derailed it with another question he couldn’t or shouldn’t answer, he said, “Difficult though it might be, you have to slow down, Maeve. When last we spoke, Peruzzi warned me against letting you overdo it. If he were here now, I guarantee he’d be appalled that, after the kind of day you’ve put in, you’re not yet in bed.”

“But there’s still so much I don’t know!”

Ushering her inside the house, he said firmly, “And a hundred tomorrows in which to learn it. At this point, what you need above all else is to get some rest. The last thing either of us wants is for you to suffer a relapse.”

He’d found the magic word. “Heavens, no!” she exclaimed with a shudder. “That’s the one thing I couldn’t face.”

“Then I’ll say good-night.” Keeping a safe distance between them, he bent and brushed his mouth across her cheek. But even so chaste a benediction tempted him beyond bearing. The fabric of her dress whispered over her skin in invitation, reminding him of the smooth, creamy flesh it concealed. And the color, a purple as deep as midnight in the tropics, turned her beautiful eyes an iridescent amethyst.

Clinging to him suddenly, she said on a trembling breath, “I am going to remember us eventually, aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“You have my word.” He disentangled himself and shooed her away. “Off you go now. Sleep well, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

With a last doe-eyed look, she went. Expelling a breath of relief, he strode to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a stiff measure of grappa. The brandy seared his throat, but did nothing to ease the turmoil consuming him.

He hadn’t climbed to the top of the corporate ladder through indecision, but through sound judgment and an uncanny ability to read other men. He could sense weakness, detect lack of integrity before an opponent so much as opened his mouth. Yet she left him riddled with self-doubt.

Had she surrendered to his kiss because the desire that had run riot in him had taken her hostage, too, or because she saw pandering to his sexual appetite as a way to buy forgiveness for past transgressions? When she’d talked of abiding by her promises and he’d hinted at her duplicity, had her dismay been sincere or a disingenuous cover-up?

He had no answers. Not for her or himself.

That night she dreamed of home. Except it wasn’t home any longer. Someone else had moved into her apartment and she stood at her parents’ graveside, with all her worldly possessions stacked around her in various crates and traveling trunks. “I’m going away and never coming back,” she told her mother and father, “but you’ll always be with me in my heart.”

The leaves on the trees chattered in a gust of wind. “You can’t go. You belong here.”

“I must,” she protested, indicating a shadowy figure in the distance. “He needs me. I hear him…”

“No.” The branches swooped low, binding themselves around her. The leaves piled on top of her, smothering her, holding her captive.

She awoke, tangled in fine cotton sheets, her body bathed in sweat, the blood thundering in her ears. Sunlight flooded the room.

Desperately she tried to hold on to the dream, certain she’d been on the brink of a memory breakthrough. Closing her eyes, she fought to recall the image of that elusive background shape, but the clouds that had inhabited her mind for so long now, closed in again, blotting out the picture. Perhaps tonight or tomorrow…

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.