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 talk to you. Can I

throat rose. ‘That’s

‘It’s important.’

quirked in an easy smile, clamped together. He shifted past her, looking both directions down the wide corridor before ushering her

was rumpled; a tablet

you drunk?’ she challenged. This was a conversation she needed

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

in a

the corner chair. She could really do with a shot of that bourbon. It would make what was coming

her brother’s sake and sink at the

arms over his broad chest. She hadn’t really had the opportunity to study his

his bronzed chest and she felt an almost unbearable compulsion to hurtle herself

been an experience she would

as she had to expel the memories from her head, they’d stayed with her, tantalising her, taunting her

of his smooth skin flush against her nakedness made her