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 her favourites. Christian had seemed as remote to her young self as

studied the tabloids with stories and pictures of him, and whoever was the latest woman hanging off his arm, she’d felt a funny tugging

to

any of the pop stars or film stars

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

had assumed he must have lied

He didn’t need to. Women wanted him regardless.

She always had.

‘Alessandra?’

her

matter? You’ve gone very

in denial and part to clear the burn scratching the

don’t know. I haven’t

you slept with her yet?’ The question escaped before she could

kind of question is

‘An obvious one.’

with Kerstin, and I am insulted you would

only