The Greek's Pregnant Bride

‘It’s only five days, not a week,’ she corrected. ‘I’ve been travelling with my job since I was eighteen. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’

‘You weren’t my wife then. Is there something wrong with me wanting to spend time with you?’

Yes, she wanted to scream. There was everything wrong with it. Every minute they spent together made her heart hurt even more that their marriage could never be real, that the love she felt for him could never be reciprocated...

Love?

Where had that thought sprung from?

Amore?

Frantically she fought with herself to deny it, to refute the obvious.

Dear God, had she really fallen in love with her husband?

No. She couldn’t be that foolish. She wouldn’t be.

In a flash, she remembered the first time she’d seen him, sitting with the rest of the Brat Pack in her brother’s den, drinking beer and watching football.

Little Alessandra had taken one look at the blond Adonis and immediately pictured him on a white horse coming to rescue her from the tower where the evil witch held her.

She’d had plenty of them: pop stars, film stars—her bedroom walls had been littered with posters of

felt a funny tugging deep in the pit of her belly. She’d never understood the feeling

had belonged to Christian

the pop stars or film stars rescuing her

hadn’t rescued her. He hadn’t saved her. All

how his women could swallow his lies, had assumed he must have lied to

Women wanted him regardless.

She always had.

‘Alessandra?’

darted her eyes to

the matter?

her head with vigour, part in denial and part to clear the burn scratching the back of her retinas. ‘Will Kerstin come

don’t know. I haven’t thought

you slept with her yet?’ The question escaped

of

‘An obvious one.’

have not slept with Kerstin, and I am insulted you

insulted. It’s only a matter of