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.

‘That’s not

‘It’s important.’

her, looking both directions down the wide corridor before ushering her in and swiftly closing the

was rumpled; a tablet

challenged. This was a conversation she

strode to the window and closed the heavy curtains. ‘Believe me,

only she were in a position

It would make what was coming next easier to cope with, of that she was certain.

heart lighten for her brother’s sake and sink at the knowledge it was something

hadn’t really had the opportunity to

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

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

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

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