The Greek's Billion-Dollar Baby

Generally.

The word was like an axe, preparing to fall. Hannah’s eyes slid back to his and the hand that was at her back, holding her pressed to him, began to move up a little, running over her spine with a possessive inquiry that warmed her from the inside out.

‘Nor do I.’

‘Theos…’ He said the word under his breath. ‘I didn’t come here for this.’

There was an undercurrent of emotion to his words, a sense of powerlessness that pulled at Hannah’s heartstrings. And if she weren’t completely drowning in this torrent of desire, she might have asked him about it. She might have insisted they find somewhere to talk. But desire was taking over Hannah’s body, and she reached her hand around behind her back so her fingers could lace with his.

‘Nor did I.’

His eyes glittered as they saw right through her, boring into her soul. ‘A night out of time,’ he said, pulling her with him, away from the bar, weaving with skill and ease towards the glass doors that led to the hotel foyer.

People seemed to move for him—he had a silent strength that conveyed itself with every step he took.

And with every inch they covered, Hannah’s mind was yelling at her that this was stupid, that she was going to regret this, even as her heart and sex drive were applauding her impetuosity.

The hotel had been more than Hannah had expected, despite its billing as one of the world’s finest. It was true six-star luxury, from the white marble floor to the gold columns that extended to the triple-height ceilings, the glossy grand piano in one corner being expertly played by a renowned pianist, the enormous crystal chandeliers that hung overhead.

As they approached the lifts, a suited bellhop dipped his head in deferential welcome. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he murmured. ‘Madam.’

His gloved hand pressed the button to call the lift and Hannah stood beside Leonidas, waiting in complete silence. The lift arrived seconds later and Leonidas stood back, allowing Hannah to enter before him.

She stepped into the plush interior, her breath held, her senses rioting with the madness of what she was about to do.

But the moment she felt regret or doubt, she closed her eyes and conjured the image of Angus’s pale face brightened by his sensual exertions with Michelle and determination kicked inside her.

Not that she needed it—desire alone was propelling her through this, but anger was a good backup.

‘You are no longer engaged?’

The lift pulled upwards, but that wasn’t why her stomach swooped.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve left him—everyone—far behind.’

‘You are angry?’

‘No.’ She was. And she wasn’t. She was…hurt. Reeling. Confused. And if she was angry, it was mostly with herself, for having been so stupid as to believe him, to care for him, to get so hooked on the idea of the picture-perfect future that she’d stopped paying attention to the present, to whether or not Angus even made her happy.

The lift doors eased open silently, directly into a large living room. It took only a moment to realise they were on the top floor of the hotel and that this magnificent space must surely be the penthouse.

‘Wow.’ For a second, everything but admiration left her—this place was amazing. Every bit as decadent as the foyer but even more so because it was designed with a single occupant in mind. Everything was pale—cream, Scandinavian wood furniture, glass, mirrors, except for the artwork that was bold—a Picasso hung on one wall. There were plants, too, large fiddle-leaf figs that added a bold hint of architectural interest.

Sliding glass doors led to a balcony that showed a stunning view of Athens in the distance—glowing golden warm, an ancient city, so full of stories and interest.

‘This is beautiful.’

He dipped his head in silent concession, moving towards the kitchen and pulling a bottle of champagne from the fridge. She recognised the label for its distinctive golden colour.

She watched as he unfurled the foil and popped the cork effortlessly, grabbing two flutes and half filling them.

‘What brings you to Chrysá Vráchia, Hannah?’

There it was again, her name in his mouth, being kissed by his accent. Her knees felt shaky; she wasn’t sure she trusted them to carry her across the room.

‘A change,’ she said cryptically. ‘And you?’

His lips twisted and she felt something sharpen within him, something that sparked a thousand little questions inside her. ‘It’s routine. I come here every year.’

‘What for?’

He didn’t answer. Instead, he strode across the room, champagne flute in hand, passing Hannah’s to her as though he were fighting himself, as though he were fighting this.

And she couldn’t understand that.

If it weren’t for the gale-force strength of her own needs, she might have paused to ask him why he was looking at her with such intensity, why he stared at her in a way that seemed to strip her soul bare.

But the incessant thrumming of her own desire was all Hannah was conscious of.

‘Habit,’ he said simply, swallowing so his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

She bit down on her lip, and his eyes dropped to her mouth, so her desire became louder, more urgent, desperation rolling through her. This was crazy. Madness. Necessary.

Outside, a spark of colour exploded through the sky—bright red, vibrant, its beauty an imperative they both resisted.

‘Happy new year,’ she said quietly, unable to take her eyes off his face.

Happy new year? He stared at the woman he’d brought up to his penthouse, completely at a loss for what the hell had come over him. For four years he’d come here to pay his respects to Amy, he’d undertaken this pilgrimage, he’d come here to remember her.

For four years he’d resisted any woman he found desirable, he’d ignored his body’s hungers, he’d resisted anything except the debt he felt he owed Amy.

Then again, no other woman had ever slammed into his body. She had literally hit him out of nowhere, and the second his hand had curled around her arm, simply to steady her, his body had tightened with a whole raft of needs he no longer wanted to ignore.

He’d sworn he’d spend the rest of his life single, celibate.

Amy’s.

But right here, with the starlit sky exploding beyond the glass wall of his penthouse apartment, something within him shifted. It was as though an ancient, unseen force was propelling him to act, was reminding him that grief could coexist with virility, that he could have sex with a woman without it being a betrayal to his wife.

He had loved Amy, even when their marriage had been fraught and neither of them particularly happy. She was his wife, he’d made a promise to her, and he had sworn he’d love only her for the rest of his life. So wasn’t it loving another woman that was the true betrayal?

What did sex have to do with it?

No, denying his libido wasn’t about what he owed Amy. It was punishment.

Punishment for being the son of a criminal mastermind. Punishment for being careless, for thinking he could turn his back on Dion Stathakis and live his life without the long, gnarled fingers of that man’s sins reaching in and shredding what he, Leonidas, possessed.

He had been punishing himself because he deserved to feel that desperate pain of denial, that constant throbbing of need.