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?’

to you. Can I

rose. ‘That’s not

‘It’s important.’

her, looking

rumpled; a tablet was on the bedside table next to a

challenged. This was a conversation she needed to have when he

the window and closed the heavy curtains. ‘Believe

she were in a

of that bourbon. It

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

hadn’t really had the opportunity to study his torso in

across his bronzed chest and she felt an almost unbearable compulsion to hurtle herself into his arms and take solace in

had been an experience she would never forget. The single best

they’d stayed with her, tantalising her, taunting her with the knowledge it was an experience that

smooth skin flush against her nakedness made her feel as if