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.

all it had been. She’d had plenty of them: pop stars, film stars—her bedroom walls had been littered with posters of her favourites. Christian had seemed as remote to her

whoever was the latest woman hanging off his arm, she’d felt a funny tugging deep in the pit of her belly. She’d never understood

had belonged to

never imagined any of the pop stars or film stars

her. All he’d done was

his women could swallow his lies, had assumed he must have lied to them to get so many of

didn’t need to. Women

She always had.

‘Alessandra?’

her eyes

something the matter? You’ve gone

vigour, part in denial and part to clear the burn scratching

I

The question escaped before she could contain

kind of question

‘An obvious one.’

and I am insulted you would think

insulted. It’s only a matter of