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

rose. ‘That’s not a good

‘It’s important.’

clamped together. He shifted past her, looking

neatly on the door of the wardrobe. The bed was rumpled; a tablet was

challenged. This was a conversation she

the heavy curtains. ‘Believe

in a position to

bourbon. It would make

had the dual effect of making her heart lighten for her brother’s sake and sink at the knowledge it was something she could never

had the opportunity to study his

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

him had been an experience she would

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

flush against her nakedness made her feel as if