Greek Affairs: Tempted by the Tycoons: The Greek Tycoon's Convenient Bride / The Greek Tycoon's Unexpected Wife / The Greek Tycoon's Secret Heir

‘No.’ Rhiannon gazed up at him resentfully. ‘You could have warned me.’

Lukas took out a handkerchief and handed it to her. ‘It was for the shock.’

‘I told you I wasn’t in shock!’

‘No? You just looked as if you were about to faint.’

‘Thanks very much!’ Rhiannon’s eyes blazed even as hectic, humiliated colour flushed her face. She lowered her voice for Annabel’s sake, and it came out in a resentful hiss. ‘I admit the last fortnight has been a bit crazy. I have every right to look pale.’

She struggled upwards, for control, only to have him place his hands on her shoulders and push her gently, firmly back down onto the bed.

‘Sit down.’

His palms were flat against her breastbone, his fingers curling around her shoulders. Suddenly everything was different. The hostility in the room was replaced with a tension of a completely different kind.

Desire.

Rhiannon gasped at his sudden touch, at the rush of surprised feeling it caused within her.

Lukas’s mouth flickered in a smile—a sardonic, knowing curve of his lips. His head was bent towards hers, his face inches from her own. Her eyes traced the hard line of his mouth, a mouth with lips as full and soft and kissable as an angel’s.

Some angel. Lukas Petrakides, with his dark hair and countenance, looked more like a demon than a cherub. But he was a handsome devil at that. And dangerous.

Her whole body burned with awareness of this man—his body, his presence, his scent. He smelled of pine and soap, a simple fragrance that made her inhale. Ache. Want.

He looked down at her for a moment, regret and wonder chasing across his face, darkening his eyes to iron. His hands were still on her shoulders, tantalisingly close to her breasts, which seemed to ache and strain towards him, towards his touch.

What would it be like to kiss him? To feel those sculpted lips against hers, to caress that lean jaw? Rhiannon’s face flamed. She was sure her thoughts and her desire were obvious. She could feel the hunger in her own eyes.

She tried to look away. And failed.

This was about Annabel.

Her mind screeched a halt to her careening heart, and she dragged in a desperate breath.

This wasn’t about her—her need to be touched. Loved.

‘No …’ It came out as a shaky whisper, a word that begged to be disbelieved. ‘Don’t.’

Lukas stilled, then dropped his hands from her shoulders.

Rhiannon felt bereft, empty. Stupid. A moment of desire, intense as it was, was only that. A moment.

A connection. He stood up, raked a hand through his hair. The room was silent save for their breathing, uneven and ragged, and Annabel’s little sighs.

She hiccupped in her sleep, and Lukas turned, startled. He’d forgotten the baby—as she had, for one damning moment.

‘We don’t want to wake her up,’ he said after a moment. ‘Come outside.’ He opened the sliding glass door that led outside.

The beach in front of the hotel room was private, separate from the crowded public area and blissfully quiet.

Rhiannon kicked off her heels and dug her toes in the cool, white sand. The sun was starting to sink in an azure sky, a blazing trail of light shimmering on the surface of the water.

It was the late afternoon of a day that had gone on for ever.

‘What has happened in the last fortnight?’ Lukas finally asked, his face averted.

She shook her head, tried to focus. ‘Leanne—Annabel’s mother—was a childhood friend of mine,’ she began stiltedly, words and phrases whirling through her mind. None seemed to fit, to explain the sheer impossibility and desperation of Leanne’s situation. Of her own situation. Where to begin? How to explain?

Why would he care?

Why had he come back?

‘And?’ Lukas prompted, his voice edged with a bite of impatience. His hands were on his hips, his powerful shoulders thrown back, grey eyes assessing. Calculating.

Rhiannon looked up; her vision was blurred. She blinked quickly, almost wanting another sip of that terrible brandy to steady her nerves. Shock them into numbness, at least.

‘She came to me after she’d been diagnosed with lung cancer and asked me to be Annabel’s guardian. She only had a few weeks to live. She’d lived hard already, so she didn’t seem that surprised. She told me she’d never expected to live long.’

‘A waste of a life.’ It was a brutal, if accurate, assessment.

‘To be fair to Leanne,’ Rhiannon said quietly, ‘she didn’t have much to live for. She was a foster child, shipped from one family to the next. She’d always been a bit wild, and when she came to live in our little town in Wales, well …’ She shrugged. ‘There wasn’t much room for a girl like Leanne. People tried to reach out to her at first, but I don’t … I don’t think she understood how to accept love. She pushed everyone away, grew wilder and wilder, and eventually no one wanted her around any more.’

‘Yet you were her friend?’

‘Yes … but not a very good one.’ Rhiannon felt a familiar pang of guilt deep inside. She could have done more, helped more. Yet the needs of her own family had taken precedence; they always had. ‘We lost touch after school,’ she admitted, after a moment when they had both seemed lost in their own separate thoughts. ‘I never bothered to try and reconnect.’

‘Yet she came to you when she was dying, to care for her child?’ Lukas raised an eyebrow in obvious scepticism.

‘I was the only person she trusted enough to care for Annabel,’ Rhiannon said simply. ‘There was no one else. There never had been.’ The realisation made her ache. It was also the leaden weight of responsibility that rested heavily on her shoulders, her heart.

She would not let Leanne down.

She would not let Annabel down.

She saw Lukas’s eyes narrow, his mouth tighten, and realised with an uncomfortable twinge that she was wasting his time. He should be at the reception, meeting and greeting, drinking and laughing.

Flirting.

‘But this has nothing to do with you,’ she said. ‘As you have already made abundantly clear.’ She shook her head. ‘Why are you here?’

Lukas was silent for a moment, his eyes, his face, his tone all hard. Dark. ‘Because I’m afraid it may have something to do with me,’ he said finally, ‘after all.’

‘What? Are you saying … you did …?’

‘No, of course not.’ Lukas waved a hand in impatient dismissal. ‘I don’t lie, Miss Davies.’

‘Neither do I,’ Rhiannon flashed, but he merely flung out one hand—an imperious command for her to still her words, her movements.