Mediterranean Men & Marriage: The Italian's Forgotten Baby / The Sicilian's Bride / Hired: The Italian's Bride. Raye Morgan
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at the small hotel room desk, working on something, and he’d looked up at her and grimaced. He knew what was coming next—just as soon as she looked down and saw the logo of her father’s company on many of the papers. She knew in an instant that this was a major betrayal—that Marco was not who he had pretended to be, that he was not really the person she’d fallen in love with. The pain of that realization still tortured her. You didn’t forget a moment like that easily.
Opening her eyes again, she looked at the man who had engineered that dishonesty. “It was just a normal room,” she told him crisply. “There were papers all over the floor. That’s all I know.”
She began to gather her things together. He watched, puzzled. There it was again, that moment in the hotel room. Something had happened, something that had ruined their relationship. Why didn’t she just come out with it and stop wasting time?
He grabbed her wrist, fingers circling it, to get her full attention.
“Shayna, tell me what happened that day.”
She glanced at him and then away. “Nothing happened,” she said shortly, pulling away from his touch. “It’s getting late. I’m going to have to go.”
He rose. “I’ll see you back to the house.”
“No need. I’ve got my Vespa.” She threw him the briefest of smiles. “I do this all the time. The island is safe. You don’t have to worry about me.”
Her lacy wrap fell down onto the chair as she rose and he picked it up, reaching out to put it back around her shoulders. As he did so, his hands lingered on her upper arms. Her bare skin felt smooth and firm and fabulous, and for a long moment, he couldn’t pull his hands away.
And then she turned and looked at him and he winced, realizing he was reacting to her like a lover, not a new acquaintance. And that made him wonder—just how close had they been? He knew what the photograph he carried with him presented. He knew what his instincts told him. But she hadn’t said a word. And she was avoiding the issue, even now.
“Tell you what,” she said, pointedly moving away from him. “I’ve got to work the breakfast shift tomorrow. If you can be ready at about ten-thirty, we’ll go hunting for your plans.”
That sounded promising. “Where do you propose to go?”
She eyed him coolly. “Everywhere you went when you were here before. We can retrace your steps and check it all out. You’ll touch base at every point of the past you’ve forgotten.” She shrugged. “At least, every point I know about. I’ll give you a chronological tour in one day.”
“That would be terrific.”
“I’ll be at Kimo’s Café in the morning,” she said over her shoulder as she walked toward the door. “Meet me there at ten. I’ll help you retrace your steps from your visit. Who knows? Maybe we’ll figure out what happened to your plans.”
He wanted to thank her. He thought he should say something. But she didn’t give him a chance. She sailed down the wide staircase and out into the parking lot before he realized what she was doing, and by the time he reached her, she’d started the Vespa and was backing out of the parking space. With a cheery wave, she was off, and all he could do was stand there and watch her go.
Chapter Five
MARCO SAT drinking black coffee and trying to stop staring at Shayna as she made her rounds of the tables, smiling and laughing with the customers. Today she was dressed in a brightly colored pareau, a Tahitian wrap skirt and a matching halter top, leaving a beautiful expanse of silky bare skin between the two. As he watched her, he had a twinge of unease. She was always lovely to look at, but today there was the hint of something more. Hadn’t he seen her somewhere before?
Well, of course, there was yesterday, and then there was the time his mind had stolen from him. Those were givens. But something else, something older and longer ago teased at him. He wished he could think of what it was. But even more, he wished he could get back his two missing weeks.
Maybe if his brain were clearer. He’d had a horrible night, tossing and turning, and it had nothing to do with drinking too much. Dreams had slithered in and out of his sleep and then he’d woken and tried to capture the fleeting images his dreams had left him with. He had a feeling the dreams were built out of those missing memories, and if he just woke up in time, he could pin the facts to the wall and then he would be able to unravel the truth.
Pulling out his sketchbook, he tried to concentrate on what he did best, dig into problems of sailing design. But as he put pencil to paper, he realized his doodling was turning out to be a woman’s face instead of the hull of a sailing craft. He stared at it. He hadn’t done any figure drawing since his days at university, but here he was, making a pretty decent stab at getting Shayna right.
She came toward him with a coffeepot and he quickly flipped the page on the sketchbook. There was no point in being blatant about the fact that she fascinated him.
“Have you had any sudden revelations this morning?” she asked as she freshened his coffee.
He had a hard time focusing on her words. Something about that beautiful expanse of tan and creamy skin, revealing a neat little belly button and a lovely curving waistline made him feel like a stammering schoolboy. He couldn’t seem to rip his gaze away from her midriff. So near and yet so far. He had a sudden fantasy of his lips against that gorgeous flesh, his tongue exploring that belly button, and he had a hard time keeping down the groan of pleasure that threatened to come out of his chest.
Wow. He hadn’t realized he could be caught out like that at his age.
“What?” he said vaguely, forcing himself to look up at her eyes but completely unable to remember what she’d asked him.
She frowned disapprovingly. “Revelations,” she repeated. “New ideas. Light bulbs going off over your head.”
“Huh?” he said, then began to regain control. “Oh. You mean about where the plans might be?” He took a quick, cleansing breath. “Not yet. How about you?”
“Me?” She looked startled. “What do you expect from me?”
“Memory. You still have yours.”
She frowned. “Yours has got to be in there somewhere. Try harder.”
He shrugged. “I have tried harder. And I’ve done relaxation therapy. And I’ve gone to hypnotists. You can’t get blood from a stone.” Shaking his head, he swore softly. “My Roman ancestors conquered the world, you would think I could conquer this one stupid thing.”
His frustration was mirrored in his dark eyes and she regretted being impatient with him. After all, he was the one who actually wanted his memory to come back—as far as she was concerned, it could stay lost.
“That’s very true,” she said more sympathetically. “But you are hardly a stone.” She smiled at him. “Don’t worry. It’s bound to come back to you eventually. Patience is a virtue.”
“And I am nothing if not virtuous,” he said wryly.
That made her smile. She couldn’t resist a quick, admiring glance at how he looked today. He wore chinos, deck shoes and a pale blue polo shirt that molded itself to the muscles of his upper body like cling wrap. It was all good. Too good.
She’d spent most of the late evening making phone calls. From the station chief at the airport to the manager of the hotel, she’d contacted anyone she could think of who might have an idea where the plans had gone. She’d even come in to work early to search the back rooms here in the café, just in case he’d stopped in for a snack before heading to his flight back on that fateful day. Perhaps he had left the portfolio at his table and someone had stuck it in a cupboard somewhere and forgotten about it. So she’d searched, but so far, no luck. Maybe their trip today would bear fruit, though she didn’t have a lot of hope. Somehow she had a feeling that anything left behind two weeks before would have shown up by now.