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

bronzed throat rose. ‘That’s not a

‘It’s important.’

He shifted past her, looking both directions

The bed was rumpled; a tablet was on the

drunk?’ she challenged. This was a conversation she

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

only she were in a

she said, sitting gingerly on the corner chair. She could really do with a shot of that bourbon. It would make

her brother’s sake and sink at the knowledge it was something she could never have for

hadn’t really had the opportunity to study his torso in her apartment, and now

rowing and track had honed his physique, his form strong and athletic, his shoulders broad. Fine hair dusted across his bronzed

had been an experience she would never

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

nakedness made her