Won by the Wealthy Greek: The Greek's Seven-Day Seduction / Constantinou's Mistress / The Greek Doctor's Rescue

Holding Charlotte’s gaze, Iannis allowed his expression to soften just enough to snare her in his noose, and then, tightening it with a half-smile, he waited for the reaction he knew would come. He had the satisfaction of seeing Charlotte’s defiant gaze falter and her tongue creep out to moisten her lips. She was remembering, he thought with satisfaction. The explosive sex they had enjoyed was hardly something she would forget, he mused cynically, watching her eyes darken with desire.

Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat as Iannis looked at her. All the reasons for her visit drained from her mind. All she knew was that she wanted him. And when he stood and started moving round the table towards her it was like an irresistible force pulling her to her feet. Meeting him halfway, she felt nothing but a huge rush of relief when they crashed together and his arms closed around her.

She was home, she knew, and let out a soft cry as Iannis took possession of her mouth. Her lips were soft, still slightly swollen from the last time they had made love, and his mouth felt firm, hungry and demanding, just as she had dreamed it would, as he backed her to the door.

‘I want you, Iannis,’ Charlotte sobbed softly as she melted against him.

‘You shall have me,’ he promised huskily, lifting her into his arms.

He carried her up the stone steps as if she weighed nothing, and kicked open a door into the room she had seen once before—but from the other side of the open shutters—then laid her down on the bed and tugged off his clothes.

This was her Iannis’s home, her fisherman’s home. The two identities swam together and Charlotte sighed, whimpering with anticipation as he turned her on her side. She must try to remember…it was meat for her article…fuel for her soul. The headboard was taupe-coloured suede, the sheets crisp linen—

The details jarred. Iannis was already stripping off her clothes, and with them went her reason. And then he stretched out behind her, and all Charlotte knew as she groaned in expectation was that he was already naked and very much aroused. The warm touch of his flesh on hers and the jutting pressure of his erection sent a shower of sensation flooding through her, and when he tested her readiness with one skilful hand she angled herself in shameless invitation, so that he entered her smoothly in one deep thrust, bringing one of her legs over his to open her completely.

He rested a moment, to give them both a chance to savour the sensation, but Charlotte thrust her hips towards him and he began to move deeply and rhythmically, rocking her back and forth, controlling her with one hand while he stroked her very swollen centre of sensation with such an advanced skill and understanding of her needs she was soon sobbing with delight.

The dual sensation was almost too much for Charlotte to bear—the regular thrusts, the delicate attention to her clitoris made all the better by the fact that for once Iannis didn’t tease, he didn’t make her wait. Instead he took a very lenient view of how many times she could climax without him. Work could wait for ever, she told herself, melting into another violent maelstrom of sensation as he encouraged her with harsh words in his own language. She had no idea what he was saying, but it had the desired effect…

He dried her with a fluffy white towel after the shower they shared together. They had been kissing all the time under the stream of warm water—Charlotte’s hands reaching up to cup his beard-roughened cheeks, Iannis’s arms resting loosely around her waist. He had given her every bit of the reassurance she’d needed to hear. He was everything she had ever wanted; she was satiated and complete. All her doubts, all her anger had disappeared, and all she could remember was where they had been and what they had done.

This was the man who inhabited her thoughts every waking moment and was a welcome visitor in her dreams at night. She was in far, far too deep, Charlotte realised as Iannis dropped the lightest, most seductive of kisses on her neck. After what they had just shared she could not pretend to herself any longer that she wanted Iannis for nothing more than sex, or for research of any kind. Just the thought of how cold-bloodedly she had planned her campaign before she met him seemed preposterous now.

‘Would you like to take a look around when you’re dressed?’ he enquired, tenderly dabbing at the moisture on her face with the edge of the soft towel.

‘I’d love to,’ Charlotte admitted softly, watching him, drinking in his every move, filling her mind with him. This time she had no ulterior motive, Charlotte knew, and she gazed at Iannis with her eyes full of love. She didn’t care if he saw it, didn’t trouble to hide the devotion in her gaze. She never wanted to return to life before Iskos, before Iannis. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ she said, remembering how private he was.

‘Would I be asking if I did?’ Iannis countered, one corner of his mouth tugging up so that her gaze was drawn to the sexy, boyish crease down one side of his face. ‘You’re here now,’ he pointed out easily. ‘Be my guest.’

He couldn’t resist, Iannis realised. Maybe because, just like Charlotte, he had an appetite for danger. He had to torture himself. He had to see how she would react when he drew back the curtain on his life—even if just a chink. Would she show her true colours? Would she continue with the charade? He had to know.

He softened his expression as he jerked his chin towards the bedroom. ‘After you,’ he invited pleasantly.

‘My clothes—’ Charlotte said, shooting a rueful glance at the towel she was wearing.

‘I’ll find you something in the bedroom,’ Iannis promised, standing aside to let her pass.

The flutter of unease struck unexpectedly as Charlotte went past him. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it—access into his world? Then she relaxed again, recognising the cause of her concern. If she wasn’t careful her article would turn into one long love letter to the fisherman of Iskos—and that wouldn’t go down too well with her editor, or enhance her own professional reputation. If the piece was to carry real impact she had to remain objective. She had enough factual information for the article without laying bare her personal feelings for the man in question.

Charlotte’s gaze settled on a surprisingly elaborate music centre, which sat on top of an old wooden chest. There were CDs piled up all around it, running the gamut from country to classics and jazz. ‘Wow,’ she breathed softly, ‘quite a collection.’

‘Don’t you like music?’

‘I love it,’ Charlotte admitted, remembering that she had once as she ran her fingertips down the stack. ‘Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald—you have excellent taste,’ she said pointedly, hoping to provoke him into saying something revealing for a change.

‘Why, thank you,’ Iannis responded evenly.

Charlotte thought she heard an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

‘Would you like me to put some music on?’ he suggested.

She had imagined it, Charlotte told herself. He sounded so relaxed now. ‘You choose.’

‘Drink?’

She nodded in agreement, and then, as some blue notes issued softly from a number of speakers set at intervals around the room, turned full circle with surprise. ‘You really like your music,’ Charlotte remarked, when Iannis returned from the kitchen with an open bottle of wine and two glasses.

‘Yes, I do,’ he agreed, handing her a glass of chilled white wine.

‘My first husband loathed music—’ Charlotte’s stomach clenched. The words had slipped out while her brain was cruising in neutral, she realised. The soothing melody had lulled her into a false sense of security.

‘How many husbands have you had?’ Iannis said, slanting her a curious look.

‘Just one.’

‘One being enough?’

He wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Quite,’ Charlotte agreed, pressing her lips together.

‘Well, I think music can be very useful,’ Iannis said pointedly. ‘I can usually find a piece suitable for any given situation.’

I bet you can, Charlotte thought as their eyes met over the rim of the glass. Taking people off guard, perhaps? And what music would he choose for lovemaking? Nothing obvious, she was certain of that—a man with such refined skills would look for something subtle.

‘Here, wear my robe,’ he offered, tossing her a towelling dressing gown in thick cotton pile the colour of clotted cream. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said when she’d slipped it on, and, dragging the lapels together over the full swell of her breasts, he brought her close and dropped a kiss on her mouth.

Charlotte told herself to relax. She was looking for trouble where none existed. Everything was perfect. It didn’t matter who Iannis really was. If he turned out to be a small businessman on Iskos rather than a fisherman, she could live with that. The expression in his eyes, the firm curve of his mouth—that same mouth that had traced a path of sensation over every part of her—everything about him reassured her.

She loved the way he brought the robe tight over her sensitised body, loved the ownership in his firm clasp and the tickling sensation when his warm breath ruffled her hair. This was everything she wanted. She could stay, send back her work to England from Iskos; she didn’t need to go home ever again…this was home.

So why couldn’t she relax? Why was a worm of doubt creeping into her mind again? Charlotte wondered, gazing up to search Iannis’s eyes. Because nothing was as it seemed? Because the man she loved was an illusion, a figment of her imagination?

When you wanted something so badly, wanted to believe in someone so badly, you could talk yourself into anything. But, even accepting that, she wanted to hold reality at bay and lose herself in his piercing gaze. She wanted to believe everything Iannis had made her believe. And, worse still, she ached for her own fanciful ideas about him to be true. Iannis Kiriakos, fisherman of Iskos.

The phrase scorched a path of scorn right through her daydreams. Running her fingers over the dense weave of the blatantly luxurious robe, Charlotte could hardly credit the fact that she was still staring into his eyes, still wanting to believe. It was pathetic. She was pathetic! Mashing her lips together in anger, she dragged her glance away and waited until she had regained some semblance of control, then, turning back to Iannis, she smiled. Let him think she was still sucked into the deception. Then she might at least have the satisfaction of discovering the truth about him.

‘What are you looking so serious about?’ Iannis demanded softly.

There was such power in his voice, such authority—and he knew how to use it, Charlotte realised, feeling it raise all the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. ‘Nothing,’ she managed casually.

‘Why don’t I believe you?’ he said, removing the glass from her hand.

‘I don’t know,’ Charlotte murmured. She swallowed convulsively, feeling her senses flare. If she was to go along with this deception she had to go along with all of it, she realised, quivering as Iannis used his hands as a musician might, running them lightly down the length of her arms, only to use a firmer touch as he brought them up to her shoulders again.

‘Kiss me,’ he demanded, dipping his head so that their lips were only a fraction apart.

The music changed. It had to be a compilation Iannis had put together, Charlotte realised, holding her breath as Aretha Franklin started singing.

‘This is wonderful music for—’