The Greek's Pregnant Bride

She waited a few moments before knocking again, louder.

Unless Christian had left without telling anyone, he was in there. The dim light seeping under the door testified to this. She’d casually asked Stefan and Zayed where their fellow musketeer had escaped to. She could only hope she’d imagined the suspicious but pitying look in Stefan’s eyes when he’d told her Christian had gone to bed.

Please, God, let him be alone in there.

What were the chances?

She’d been nothing special, just another notch on a bedpost crammed with notches.

Christian Markos travelled with a trail of broken hearts attached to him ranging from Hong Kong to London. Some sold their stories to the tabloids, tales of short-lived lust before being discarded. Some spoke with bitterness. Most spoke with longing. Most wanted him to break their hearts all over again.

It took an age before the handle turned and the door opened.

Christian stood clad in a pair of jeans. And nothing else.

He blinked narrowing eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’

talk to

throat rose. ‘That’s

‘It’s important.’

an easy smile, clamped together. He shifted past her, looking

on the door of the wardrobe. The bed was rumpled; a tablet was on the bedside table next to a half-full bottle of

conversation she needed to

heavy curtains. ‘Believe me,

in a position to reach that state

of that bourbon. It would make what was coming next

obvious happiness had had the dual effect of making her heart lighten for her brother’s sake and sink at the knowledge it was something she could

against the wall by the window and crossed his arms over his broad chest. She hadn’t really had the opportunity to study his torso in her apartment, and now she could look at it properly

dusted across his bronzed chest and she felt an almost unbearable compulsion

love to him had been an experience she would

from her head, they’d stayed with her, tantalising her, taunting

smooth skin flush against her nakedness made her feel