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 you. Can I come

bronzed throat rose. ‘That’s

‘It’s important.’

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

bed was rumpled; a tablet was on the bedside table

challenged. This was a conversation she needed

strode to the window and closed the heavy curtains. ‘Believe me, I’ve been trying to reach

a position

She could really do with a shot of that bourbon. It would make what

making her heart lighten for her brother’s sake and sink at

opportunity to

athletic, his shoulders broad. Fine hair dusted across his bronzed chest and she felt an almost unbearable compulsion

experience she would

stayed with her, tantalising her, taunting her with the knowledge it was an experience that could

simple remembrance of his smooth skin flush against her nakedness made her feel as if her insides