Visconti's Forgotten Heir

Visconti's Forgotten Heir
Elizabeth Power

At her new job interview, single-mum Magenta James feels like her life is finally back on track after suffering from amnesia. Until she meets Andreas Visconti’s familiar sapphire gaze across the desk…She just knows the Italian CEO is the father of her child, but when she doesn’t get the job, it’s clear they parted on bad terms. Then he offers her a new role… as his very personal assistant.Now Magenta will have to rearrange the scattered puzzle of her memory in order to make sense of the sensual tension that burns between them…

‘There isn’t any vacancy, is there? You just wanted me to stay behind so that you could taunt me with whatever it is you think I did to you in the past. So go ahead. Get it all out of your system!’

At least then she might know, once and for all, what it was all about.

Instead Andreas merely laughed, that soft mirthless laugh that seemed as controlled and calculated as everything else about him. Then with a suddenness that had Magenta’s instincts leaping onto red alert, he reached out and caught one end of her scarf. Winding it carefully around his finger, he drew her gently into his dominating sphere.

‘Is this a fashion thing?’ He tugged lightly at the silk. ‘Or is its purpose merely to conceal the remnants of a current lover’s carnal appetite?’

‘How dare you!’ She made to push him away, only to find her hands trapped between his own and the warm hard wall of his chest.

‘Yes, I dare,’ he growled as his head came down, stopping with his mouth just a breath from hers.

It was the unfathomable dark emotion she saw in his eyes as her trembling gaze wavered beneath his that seemed to rob the breath from her lungs—that and the thunderous hammering of his heart.

She wasn’t sure who made the next move, but suddenly their mouths were fused in hungry and antagonized passion and her arms were sliding up around his neck as his stronger ones tightened around her, welding her to him.

ELIZABETH POWER wanted to be a writer from a very early age, but it wasn’t until she was nearly thirty that she took to writing seriously. Writing is now her life. Travelling ranks very highly among her pleasures, and so many places she has visited have been recreated in her books. Living in England’s West Country, Elizabeth likes nothing better than taking walks with her husband along the coast or in the adjoining woods, and enjoying all the wonders that nature has to offer.

Recent titles by the same author:

A GREEK ESCAPE

A DELICIOUS DECEPTION

BACK IN THE LION’S DEN

SINS OF THE PAST

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Visconti’s Forgotten Heir

Elizabeth Power

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

To Alan—for always being there

Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#u824b5092-1503-51b1-a919-ba86d31fff84)

CHAPTER TWO (#ufc4bfba2-766d-588d-8a44-a0f71d4222f0)

CHAPTER THREE (#u7a4f168c-30ec-58cd-b056-f9d3afffc1d9)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE

AS SOON AS she laid eyes on the broad-shouldered man who had just stepped through the door of the crowded wine bar Magenta knew that he was the father of her child.

She didn’t suspect, or wonder, or even hope. She simply knew.

The stem of the glass she had been wiping suddenly snapped from the tension gripping her fingers, and as she put a steadying hand to her forehead she heard Thomas, her work colleague, enquire, ‘Are you all right?’

The laid-back, long-haired college graduate who, like her, was helping out part-time behind the bar until something better came along, was frowning as he came away from the cash register.

She shook her head. Not in answer, but in an attempt to make some sense of the jumble of distant memories that were leaping chaotically through her brain.

Anger. Hostility. Passion. Over all a hungry, all-consuming passion...

Someone spoke to her, trying to give her an order, and she looked up at them with her velvety-brown eyes dazed and her fine features ashen against the darker sheen of her thick swept-up hair.

‘Would you mind serving my customer for me?’ she appealed croakily to her colleague and, dumping the two pieces of glass and the tea towel down behind the counter, made a hasty bid for the merciful seclusion of the Ladies’.

Grabbing the cracked and solitary basin, she struggled to regain her composure, her lungs dragging in air.

Andreas Visconti. Of course. How could she ever have let anyone persuade her into believing that her child might have been fathered by anyone else when she’d known in her heart that she wasn’t the type of woman to sleep around, even during those lost and irretrievable months of her life?

She felt sick and stayed where she was, leaning over the basin, until the nausea subsided, trying to sort out the tangle of erratic thoughts and images in her mind.

The doctors had told her not to try and force things, and as the years had passed they had said that the memories she had lost might never come back. But they were going to. Even if they were appearing like the distorted shapes of a jigsaw puzzle she was going to have to piece together. Either way, right now, she thought, hearing the outer door open and one of the regular bar staff urgently calling to her, she had to go back out there and face the music. Even if she didn’t know—or like—the tune that might be playing.

* * *

As the countless people in front of him were gradually served, and a spindly young man finally took his order, at first Andreas Visconti thought he was imagining things when his gaze drifted to the young woman who was filling glasses further along the bar.

She was slim, beautiful and flawlessly photogenic, with her magnificent hair pinned up to emphasise high cheekbones, stunning dark eyes and a lovely mouth above that long, elegant neck. The vision of her held Andreas in thrall. As if he was seeing a ghost. Or hallucinating. Both of which were pretty unlikely, he thought wryly, for a hardened cynic like himself.