Greek Affairs in his Bed: Sleeping with a Stranger\Blackmailed into the Greek Tycoon’s Bed\Bedded by the Greek Billionaire (29 page)

‘Come here.’

He pushed open the door and, like children trespassing, they crept inside. It didn’t look particularly hallowed, Karin thought, more like the changing rooms at her old school. But it smelt of men and passion, or was it just that Xante was standing beside her?

He pulled her down onto the bench beside her and put his arm around her. She didn’t jump, didn’t flinch; instead she just curled into him.

‘I love you.’ He said it again. ‘I think I have loved you from the moment you walked into my hotel. I have never wanted to change or mould you, Karin—all I wanted was the woman you are. I thought I had lost you. Every minute of every day I have wanted to contact you. These last couple of months have been hell, knowing all you were going through and not being able to help you.’

‘I had to go through them.’ She smiled at his confused face. ‘Xante, I had to fix this myself.’

‘That row …’ She could see the blaze of pain on his face as he recalled it. ‘Did I say sorry? Did I tell you how sorry I was for what happened to you? I keep going over and over it, but I can’t remember if I did.’

‘Yes.’ Karin nodded. ‘You did. But, way better than that, you didn’t let me wallow in my own pity. You were right—it took for ever for me to admit it—but …’ She closed her eyes as she summoned her truth. ‘You did have a right to know my past when I slept with you. All I can say in my defence is that, yes, I might have been using you. But …’ She opened her eyes and he was still there. ‘I loved you by then, too. I
had
to have loved you then, Xante, because otherwise it could never have happened like it did.’

He pulled out a little black box and she felt her world still. She could hear the crowd singing outside as he opened it, and she saw the most perfect ring, tiny rubies delicately crafted into a rose.

Her ring.

‘You might prefer a diamond.’ For the first time ever there was uncertainty in his voice. ‘We can change it.’
And it seemed right, Karin reflected, that he wasn’t worried she might say no, that he knew as she did that this love was for ever.

‘You’ve been carrying this around all this time?’

‘No.’ Xante shook his head and placed it on her finger, right where it belonged. ‘That is why I had to go back to my room.’

‘Not to kick out the blonde?’

‘There’s been no one else since you, Karin.’

She believed him.

Absolutely she believed him. This delectable man, this playboy made good, would be hers, scars and neurosis and all.

It was Karin’s turn for the truth.

‘Xante, I can’t show you my scars.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘I just get scared sometimes.’

‘So, tell me when you do.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘It can be.’

He was kissing her, soft, tender kisses that she’d longed for. But a wooden bench didn’t allow for much contact so, still kissing, they stood instead and she was back in his arms where she belonged. And then it changed. The switch tripped, like every time he touched her, just waving away all her doubts and fears.

Oh, and the air was thick with testosterone all right. Xante’s hand crept up her skirt, his body pressing into hers. On paper it might not have been the most romantic place in the world, being pushed into a cubicle by a six-foot-two Greek lover, but to Karin it was …

‘You’ll miss the match.’ She was kicking off her panties as she grappled with his belt.

‘The boys would understand.’

She’d forgotten just how good he was. Good enough for them both, at least till she caught up. He pressed her to the changing-room wall; she’d forgotten too just how fabulous
it
was, how strong he was as he lifted her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, his breath hot on her neck, and the passion chased every last doubt away …

Leaning on his shoulder as the world trickled back in, she could hear the roar of the crowd outside. A crescendo was building, a humungous roar, that didn’t quite match the still peace she felt inside.

‘Come on.’ Karin smiled. ‘Something big is happening out there.’

‘Something big just happened in here.’ There was no embarrassment as quickly they dressed, Xante doing the honours and darting his head outside. ‘They’ll be coming in soon to prepare the room …’

‘It’s not a hotel!’ Karin laughed as they ran outside.

‘It’s—the—changing room—at—Twickenham.’ Xante spelt out each word. ‘Way better than a hotel—it is hallowed ground.’ They were running through the tunnels, climbing the steps to the stands, and then they stopped for a moment to share a wild grin.

‘Wasn’t it great.’ She wasn’t asking a question.

‘The best,’ Xante admitted, the perfect proposal executed beyond even his wildest dreams. Seeing her stand there, blonde hair tumbling, her cheeks flushed, he knew only sweet secrets would be their bedfellows
now. ‘The very best!’ he affirmed, and, taking her hand, he led her back into the crowd, blending into this mass of passionate singing that carried her home.

O
H, SHE
still had her moments.

Her wishes might have been granted—but love, despite the propaganda that surrounded it, actually wasn’t a magic wand.

Love didn’t take away every last neurosis.

Love didn’t creep in at four a.m. and tap you on the shoulder to remind you that you were safe. No, love wrapped you in its arms at two minutes past four and patiently waited for the nightmare to abate.

Love took hard work from both sides to really make it work.

And love, Karin was fast learning, could always make you laugh.

Even at things you never thought you would have.

‘Who’s complaining?’ Xante sat up in the rumpled bed, blinking as her panic attack had awoken him, and only teasing her when he knew that she was ready to be teased. ‘I have a woman who prefers the lights on when we make love, one who knows more about rugby than me,’ Xante continued with a nudge.

‘I do,’ Karin said with a self-satisfied smile. ‘I’m going to get a drink; do you want one?’

Xante yawned and shook his head as Karin slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen. She was five months’ pregnant. They knew they were having a boy, and Karin was sure he was going to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps, because his little feet regularly kicked her awake.

She rubbed some cream into her scar; it was itching like crazy as her stomach slowly stretched. She was dreading labour. Pregnancy was made so much harder with the midwives and doctors looking at her body—though her obstetrician had told her that once she had had the baby he would refer her to a cosmetic surgeon, because there was a lot that could be done. The thought of Xante seeing her scars for the first time during labour made her feel sick. Still, instead of dwelling on it she poured some milk, drinking it down and then topping up her glass before pouring one for Xante—because, if she didn’t, he would no doubt ask for a swig of hers and then drink the lot!

She’d had no intention of going to the study, but the open door seemed to call her. Walking in, the room was familiar enough that the darkness didn’t faze her as she put down the glasses and flicked on the table lamp.

It was her favourite room in the gorgeous home they’d bought in Twickenham. It was bigger than the cottage she’d initially chosen, and rather more expensive. But it wasn’t showy, and it wasn’t stately, and Karin knew, stroking her kicking bump, that it would never, ever be a burden.

Her grandfather’s treasures suited the room, mingling
now with treasured memories of her own: their wedding day.

Despina’s first of many visits to London.

She had a friend now, a widower from the island she had shyly introduced. A lawyer who would have been a rival in business now, had Xante followed his parents’ dreams.

Instead he was becoming a firm and respected friend.

Colour hadn’t dashed in for Despina. Instead, neutral colours had replaced her black uniform—cream stockings, beige lip-glosses and now the occasional pale blouse—but colour
was
returning. Rainbows always followed rain, Karin realised now, if only you looked out for them.

Yes, new memories were being created every day.

Karin Rossi was finding her feet, and discovering that, if you opened up and let it in, the world was actually quite forgiving and kind. Life was a vast circle that you either closed off and ignored, or gingerly stepped into and let it sweep you away.

She went to flick off the light, but the rose caught her eye—and then the letter that lay beneath it.

She read it, not often, just sometimes when she was happy, and always when she was sad, or when Xante was away on business and the house seemed too big for her alone.

And on this cold, grey morning, as the heating cranked on, Karin read it again.

Read the single line that had won her heart.

His honesty was as palpable now as it had been the first day she’d read it.

That Xante Rossi—who always had the answer, always
had a back-up plan—could so concisely describe his world without
them
.

I don’t know what to do.

Xante

No kiss had followed his name, no presumption, no promises, just an honest admission, and one Karin could relate to.

Reading his words for the thousandth time, that last little piece of her heart was given over to him.

She trusted him.

Always she had loved him, but now, six months’ married and pregnant with his son, truly she trusted him.

Love was a gift that was just a given—but trust was a treasured reward.

Trust—easy for the naïve, but, oh, so much harder for the jaded.

Her baby was still; his kicks had been fading for a little while now. Karin cuddled him asleep, holding her tummy till the little rhythms faded, and then she did the bravest thing ever. She pulled off her cami and, flicking off the light, she picked up their milk and walked to the bedroom safe in her new knowledge and only a teeny bit scared.

She trusted him, and it felt fantastic.

Xante, unaware of the seismic shift that had occurred, had the nerve to be asleep and didn’t even wake as she placed his glass on the table and crawled in bed beside him. He just lay, snoring softly, grabbing those last, precious minutes before the day demanded him.

‘Xante!’ She dug him in the ribs and he mumbled an apology, rolling on his side and promptly falling back to sleep, his loose arm crashing over her body, and his hand, as it always did, heading for the usual resting-place of her left breast.

Only this time it was bare.

She felt his hand stiffen for a second, and so too did Karin. She wondered what he would do, what he would say—or, worst, wondered if he would pretend not to notice, or say it didn’t matter.

Because it did matter.

She held his hand and guided him to feel it, and turned away from him, because it was easier than watching as for the first time she let him explore.

‘Can I see?’

So she let him. She let him turn on the sidelight, and watched the tears in his eyes as he took it all in—and then he kissed it. Kissed all the hurt and pain, and if love could have erased it then Karin would have looked down to find it gone.

‘I’m sorry for all that happened to you. I am so sorry that it did. But it made you who you are, Karin; it made you strong.’

‘I know.’

‘And you are beautiful.’

‘Not like this.’

‘Yes,’ Xante said. ‘Your grandfather had scars; did it make you love him less?’

‘No.’

‘They told a tale—and these tell yours.’

His fingers were cool and stopped the burning itching,
and it felt so strange but so nice to be utterly naked, not to have the itch of fabric on her scars.

‘It won’t.’ Karin cleared her throat. ‘It won’t put you off …?’

‘Hey, you’re talking to a Greek boy.’ Xante grinned, holding her wrists over her head and pinning her down with his mouth. ‘Not some namby-pamby boy playing soldiers …’

She was laughing and crying and doing that stupid wrestling thing, rather stunned to realise that they were over that hurdle, that the mountain she had envisaged wasn’t even a molehill; it was nothing at all. Just another part of her that Xante had long ago accepted. And clearly it wasn’t going to affect his ardour; clearly, because something was rapidly nudging awake against her leg, just as it did every single morning.

‘Does nothing stop you?’

‘Nothing.’ Xante grinned. ‘So you’d better just get used to it.’

She attempted a martyred sigh, only she was smiling too much to manage it.

‘I love you, Karin.’

He wasn’t playing and he wasn’t joking. He loved her—it was as simple and as complicated as that.

Love was a lesson she’d happily spend for ever learning.

Kate Walker

KATE WALKER
was born in nottinghamshire, but as she grew up in Yorkshire she has always felt that her roots are there. She met her husband at university and originally worked as a children’s librarian, but after the birth of her son she returned to her old childhood love of writing. When she’s not working, she divides her time between her family, their three cats, and her interests of embroidery, antiques, film and theatre, and, of course, reading.

You can visit Kate at www.kate-walker.com

T
HE
driving rain lashed against the windscreen of the car, obscuring the road and blurring the sign fixed to the low stone wall, but Angelos Rousakis needed no help or guidance in finding his way to the place he was looking for. The country lane that led to the Manor House hadn’t changed at all in the years since he had last seen it, and his hands were already moving on the steering wheel, ready for the turn, even before he glimpsed the gateway.

The savage downpour meant that he could only take the steep, curving driveway in low gear and at a crawling speed but that wasn’t something that troubled him. He had waited for this moment, planned for it, for so long that a few more moments didn’t matter. The truth was that he was enjoying the anticipation almost as much as he expected to enjoy putting his planning into operation, and as the big sandy-coloured house came into view the sense of grim satisfaction that had been with him ever since he had left Athens deepened and darkened at the thought of what was to come.

Inside that house Jessica Marshall was acting out her part as lady of the manor, unaware of the fact that her days in that role were strictly numbered—had, in fact, already come to an end. In a very short space of time the reality of her situation would hit home to her and he would be there to see her reaction as her
world fell apart around her. The thought of that moment was something that made the long, tedious journey from the airport bearable, even in this appalling weather.

‘I think we’re ready now.’

Jessica spoke softly, stopping her stepfather’s butler just as he was about to leave the room after ushering in the latest black-coated, sombre-faced arrival.

‘Would you ask them to bring the cars around to the front of the house? Is there a problem?’ she added, blue eyes frowning slightly as Peters hesitated, looked a little concerned.

‘No problem, miss,’ the elderly man explained. ‘It’s just that I think it might be best to wait a little while yet—until everyone has arrived.’

‘Wait?’

Jessica pushed a hand through the soft fall of her chestnut hair as she looked round the room, struggling to remember just who had been invited today. She couldn’t think who, if anyone, was missing.

‘But everyone is here—aren’t they?’

Again there was that flash of a disturbing expression—one that crossed Peters’s face and was gone in a moment. But Jessica had seen it and the feeling that it left in its wake was one of unease, a niggling sense of something she didn’t know about—but felt that she should. Something that unnerved and worried her, setting her on edge like a nervous cat.

‘Not quite everyone, miss.’

‘But who …?’

Jessica glanced around the room, frowning as she completed another survey of the guests. Everyone there was elderly, like most of her stepfather’s friends, and she couldn’t think if someone was obviously missing from the list of people who should have been invited to Marty’s funeral.

‘I can’t think of anyone …’

‘There is one last …’ Peters hesitated over the right way to describe the person he meant. ‘A person I was told to expect,’ he finished awkwardly

‘Told by who?’

‘Mr Hilton—Mr Simeon Hilton.’

Her stepfather’s solicitor. So this person, whoever they might be, was known to Simeon Hilton. But why hadn’t Simeon told her about him—or her—when they had had their last discussion about the preparations?

‘I’ll ask …’ she began when the sound of a powerful car’s engine outside cut through her words, making her break off. The next moment the rich, purring sound had been silenced too as the car drew to a halt beyond the big bay window, just out of sight.

‘It looks as if our missing guest is here,’ she told Peters, whose attention had been caught as well. ‘I suggest you go and let them in now and we can get on our way to the church.’

And she could find out who the missing person was, she told herself as she smoothed back a wayward lock of her gleaming hair that had fallen loosely around her face once more, tucking it behind her ear in an attempt to secure it. She’d fastened most of it back for today, but it seemed that one bright lock was determined to escape.

The new arrival must be someone important, she reflected. Important enough for Simeon to have told Peters not to start without them. But if that was the case, then why hadn’t he mentioned this expected arrival to her when they had been going over the details of Marty’s funeral? She’d asked him to let her know if there was anyone she ought to take particular notice of.

Out in the hall she heard the big, heavy oak door creak open and the murmur of voices.

Male voices. So the mysterious arrival was a he after all. One small part of the problem solved.

There was something about the tone of the voice that responded
to Peters’s greeting that grated on her, searing over nerves that were suddenly and unexpectedly drawn tight. Something unnervingly familiar that tugged on her senses and reminded her of …

Of what?

Of something just out of reach that she couldn’t focus on or grasp at. The thundering sound of the driving rain out beyond the open door had blurred the words and made them totally incomprehensible so that, try as she might, she couldn’t make them out. But they had stirred a memory she had thought was hidden deep. One that set her heart racing, brought her breath into her lungs in a sudden gasp, as she struggled with the clenching of her stomach in irrational response.

There was no way this visitor could be
him
, she reproved herself. And there was no reason to panic over nothing. The strain of the past week was getting to her. The shock of Marty’s sudden, devastating heart attack. The long, anxious night while he had lain in a coma. At least he hadn’t suffered, and he hadn’t lived long after that first attack, but all the same it had been a distressing, exhausting time. She wasn’t surprised that it was starting to catch up on her. But it had to be just that which was playing tricks on her mind.

Peters was coming back. As so many times before this afternoon, he paused in the doorway, clearing his throat slightly.

‘Mr Angelos Rousakis …’ he announced formally and the sound of the name she hadn’t even allowed herself to think of hit home like a blow to Jessica’s face, making her mind reel in shock.

Angelos Rousakis.

No!

It couldn’t be—it just couldn’t! She really had to be dreaming. Either that or the confusion of her thoughts had scrambled her brain so that she had got it wrong, hearing the name that was in her mind instead of …

The sight of the man who stepped into the doorway, taking Peters’s place as the older man moved aside, froze the thoughts in her head, wiping away her ability to think. She could only stand and stare, struggling to reject what she was seeing.

There was no reason at all why he should be here. No reason why he should return to the estate that he had left under such a cloud almost seven years before, just about shaking the dirt of the land from his feet as he’d vowed that he would never ever return.

But there was no denying the evidence of her eyes. The tall, powerful frame was too strong, too solid to be a figment of her imagination, the black-haired head held arrogantly high, the burning black eyes that swept round the room as if he was looking for something.

Or someone.

The sting of guilt and anxiety was so sharp that instinctively she shrank away a little, not daring to take a step back in case the movement drew attention to her, but unable still to control the instinctive response. But it seemed that the tiny movement was enough to catch his eye and that searching gaze focused sharply, his dark head turning in her direction as he took in her shaken face, the sudden loss of the colour that she could feel draining from her cheeks.

In that moment she felt like nothing so much as a small, cowering field mouse that had been spotted by a circling hawk and was now frozen to the spot, simply waiting for it to pounce.

It was as if the seven years since she had last seen him had been stripped away. She was eighteen all over again, burning with the deepest, hottest embarrassment of her life, and hearing a sneering, thickly accented voice saying, cold and clear, ‘Don’t delude yourself, child. I have no interest in you in that way at all. I don’t play with little girls.’

After that appalling last night, she had been so glad to know that he had gone, and she’d hoped never to see him again. So
what sort of malign fate had brought the man she had once named the Black Angel back into her life at this terrible moment?

But there was no way she could ignore the new arrival. He was looking straight at her, that arrogant dark head slightly tilted to one side as if he was waiting for her to make the first move. As was everyone else in the room, she realised, suddenly becoming conscious of the eyes that were turned in her direction. Of course, as Marty’s only surviving family member, even if only by marriage, she was the one who had to greet every new arrival, as she had been doing for the past hour or so.

Somehow she made herself move forward, stiffening her back, her neck, so that the threatening weakness in her legs didn’t show. She was sure that the result was to make her look as if she was marching stiffly like a wooden toy as she crossed the worn gold- and burgundy-coloured carpet, the gathered crowd of friends and neighbours parting like the Red Sea as she moved towards the man in the doorway.

And all the way across the room he watched her come. Those dark, dangerous eyes were fixed on her face as she walked towards him, the burning gaze never flickering, the dark concentration so fierce that she almost felt it sear her skin where it landed.

What was he doing here? And why would he turn up now—at the worst possible moment?

‘Don’t come back!’ In the darkness of her mind she heard her own voice in an echo of the words that she had flung at him. ‘Don’t ever come back! I never ever want to see you again.’

And, ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ he’d said, the tone of the words turning the endearment into the exact opposite. ‘One taste of hell is enough for any man in his lifetime. I will not be fool enough to risk that again.’

And yet now here he was, big and dark and large as life. Larger than life when compared with the younger man he had been when she had last seen him. Those years had filled out his
lean, rangy frame, giving him an image of solid power that seemed to fill the doorway in which he stood, blocking out the light from the hallway behind him.

For one sudden, terrifying moment she had a sense that he was blocking her way out too. Closing off her way of escape, making sure that she stayed trapped in the room. Her heart seemed to rise up into her throat, beating frantically so that she found it difficult to breathe, and for a moment the sight of his hard-boned, strongly carved face blurred before her eyes, fading into a hissing, whirling mist.

Not for the first time that morning she ardently wished that Chris had been able to be with her today. But her fiancé had an important business meeting in London, one that couldn’t be cancelled for anything, and so she had been denied the comfort and support of having him at her side through today’s ordeal. If she had known—or even dreamed—that Angelos Rousakis was going to reappear from whatever dark place he had crawled into seven years ago then she would have begged Chris to stay, no matter what. But then how could she ever have imagined that her shameful past would come back to haunt her in this way, in the form of this man?

What had he come for? Why was he here? She had always feared that one day he would turn up, dark and dangerous, seeking vengeance for the way he believed she’d treated him. The image of those gleaming black jet eyes, the expression in them promising burning retribution as he’d flung one last viciously contemptuous look in her direction had haunted her dreams for months afterwards. It had been a long time before the memory had faded and even now it could still come back to haunt her when she was tired or feeling low.

But then reality surfaced and she shook her head slightly, feeling the haze clear, the panic ebb away. Peters had announced Angelos Rousakis as he had every other person who was attending
the funeral. The butler had been expecting him because Simeon Hilton had said that he was coming—even if he was the last person on earth that
she
had been thinking to meet. And that meant that he should be treated as any other guest today. Surely she could manage that even if she would not truly be able to breathe easily until he left the house—left England—and she knew he was out of her life again.

So—’Mr Rousakis …’ She made herself say it, forced her voice to sound at least calm and indifferent so that if one hadn’t known that they had met in the past and the savage hostility that now burned between them, at least it couldn’t be guessed from her tone. ‘Thank you for coming.’

She forced herself to put out her hand too. Every last bit of training that her mother had instilled into her made her do it. Courtesy to guests was something Andrea had always insisted on and even now she couldn’t go against the rules that had been instilled into her. But it was all she could do not to flinch when the burn of his skin against her own actually scorched her palm, sending stinging sensations shooting along every nerve.

‘Miss Marshall …’

Seen up this close, he was even more imposing, more devastating than he had been in the moment that he had walked into the room. Even in the elegant heels she wore, she was still several inches below him in height, needing to tilt her head back to meet him eye to eye. His tanned olive skin seemed almost impossibly vibrant and alive in contrast to the early spring pallor of the rest of the guests. He was wearing black, like everyone else in the room, but he wore it like no one else in the room.

His clothes were of a far better quality than anything the newly employed stable hand she had known would ever have been able to afford all those years ago. The long black overcoat worn loose over a black shirt and beautifully tailored black suit hung from the width of his powerful shoulders with the dramatic
effect of a cloak or a greatcoat worn by some swashbuckling Regency highwayman. The thunderous downpour outside had soaked into the fine material, making it even darker, even sleeker in patches. Raindrops from the same storm were scattered through the black silk of his hair, sparkling like diamonds against the polished jet strands that they clung to, and the moisture had even spiked the impossibly lush, thick lashes that fringed the ebony darkness of his eyes.