The Stephanides Pregnancy

‘But you know Rory Bartram better than anyone!’ Corinne protested vehemently. ‘He’s breaking Gemma’s heart—’

‘Lots of couples live together these days,’ Betsy interposed gently.

‘Rory wasn’t planning to make you live in sin, though, was he?’ Corinne snapped out that reminder with audible resentment on her younger daughter’s behalf. ‘Is it any wonder that Gemma feels terribly hurt when she sees the father of her child paying attention to you?’

‘He wasn’t paying attention to me,’ Betsy stressed wearily, but she knew that the older woman was barely listening. All worked up by the spur of a doubtless emotional phone tirade from her younger daughter, Corinne Mitchell was set on having her say about the deficiencies of Gemma’s relationship with Rory.

It was a familiar pattern and it hurt Betsy a lot that her mother should be so indifferent to her feelings. Why did she have to be upbraided with the tale of Gemma’s problems with Rory? Why was she expected to endure her sister’s shrewish comments in forgiving silence? Even less welcome was the wounding bitter note in her mother’s voice that implied that it was somehow Betsy’s fault that Gemma’s world was not as rosy and perfect as she thought it should be.

More and more Betsy was learning that when Gemma was annoyed with her she would be shunned by the rest of her family as well. It would be quite a few weeks before she heard from her mother again. Gemma was very like her mother in looks and personality and Corinne identified closely with Gemma’s interests. When she was a kid, Betsy had never questioned the reality that her sister two years her junior was the favoured child. As a baby, Gemma had had a heart murmur and everybody had fussed over her. By the time she’d received a clean bill of health, her parents had been so used to giving her the lion’s share of their attention that nothing had changed. Betsy’s parents simply idolised Gemma and Sophie was the jewel in her sister’s crown.

In comparison, Betsy had always been a bit of a misfit in the Mitchell family circle. Her preferences in clothes and her interests had never been feminine enough to meet with her mother’s approval. In fact her happiest childhood memories revolved round her late grandfather, who had restored classic cars in his spare time. As a teenager, she had been a sporty tomboy, obsessed with cars when other girls her age had been obsessed with the boys who drove them. On that front she had been a shy late developer and intimidated by the success of her kid sister in the same department. Boys had started chasing Gemma when she was only thirteen.

Betsy had met Rory at a sports club when she was eighteen. He had been a friend first, but she had known how she’d felt about him long before he’d got around to asking her out. At that point, Betsy killed her forbidden thoughts stone dead. That was the past, she reminded herself sharply. Nobody needed to tell her that no man could be ‘stolen’ by another woman against his will. Nor, she reflected, should she even have been surprised when Rory had fallen for Gemma, who was much livelier and sexier. That mental slap administered, Betsy got into bed.

The next morning when she arrived at work, Joe Tyler was already putting a gleaming polish to the bonnet of the car he drove. He was a hard worker, she acknowledged grudgingly, and she questioned her own almost instinctive recoil from him. So he struck her as being a little arrogant and conceited, but he was young, attractive and single and she had met men smug about a great deal less. It was only two weeks since he had joined the staff at Imperial Limousines and he didn’t join in with the usual grousing about the awkward hours, the low pay and the demanding and unappreciative customers. In fact, rather like herself, Joe was a loner and a man of few words. How long had it been since she had dated someone? Too long, she decided, strolling rather self-consciously closer to the blond man.

‘You said you would get tickets for the racing at Silverstone…is the offer still open?’

Joe kept on polishing. ‘Maybe…’

Her ready temper sparked her into embarrassed defensiveness. ‘Well, when you’ve made your mind up, tell me. But then maybe I’ll need—’

‘No, you took me up wrong,’ Joe protested, planting a large hand on her arm to prevent her walking away again. ‘Offer’s still open.’

He was built like a rock face and the unease that he had awakened in her before almost surfaced again. Mastering the urge to go into retreat, she managed to smile instead and told herself not to take offence at the smug satisfaction he could barely hide. If Joe Tyler thought she would be a pushover for his muscular charm, he would soon find out how wrong he was…

Six weeks after his previous visit, Cristos flew into London from the South of France.

Timon met him off his flight and handed him a sealed envelope.

Cristos raised a questioning brow. ‘What’s this?’

‘Spyros Zolottas asked me to give it to you before you left the airport.’

Cristos pulled out a brash greetings card signed by his cousin. ‘But it’s not my birthday,’ he said in bewilderment.

Timon looked tense and said nothing. Some minutes later, Cristos came to a halt twenty feet away from the limousine that his PA had indicated across the car park. His mystification came to a sudden end and was replaced by a raw leap of anticipation. He had a photographic memory. It was the same car that had been driven by the beautiful redhead he had admired while in his cousin’s company more than a month earlier. He could not initially credit that Spyros could have come up with such a classy surprise.

Timon broke into an urgent explanation, ‘Your cousin was determined to surprise you. He said that he would take responsibility for hiring this particular limo company for the weekend but I didn’t feel—’

‘No need to hyperventilate,’ His employer advised in a husky undertone, his bold dark eyes glittering over the female figure already emerging from the driver’s seat.

Not even the chauffeur’s uniform could conceal her essential perfection. Slender as a reed with a waist that could not be larger than the span of his two hands, she moved with the liquid grace of a dancer. He pictured her in silk. Silk that would slide across her fine skin and feel smooth as satin beneath his hands. It did not cross his mind for even a moment that he might not be able to have her. Whenever he wanted a woman, she came to him. Whichever woman he wanted, he got. Once or twice the strength of his own magnetic pull with her sex had been a curse when the wives and partners of his friends had given him willing and eager signals. But he had never met with failure.

‘I should warn you that your security team are very concerned by this last-minute change in your travel arrangements,’ Timon continued anxiously. ‘There has not even been time to check out this new company.’

‘I am entirely content,’ Cristos drawled, his whole attention on the young woman pacing round the limo in a last-minute inspection. He sensed her innate pride in the angle of her small head, the straightness of her spine and the upward tilt of her delicate jaw line. Would she be a challenge? He loved a challenge but he was practical too: he only had a weekend to spare.

‘It is a much smaller firm…standards of service may not be what you are accustomed to—’

The beginnings of a wicked smile tugged at Cristos’ wide, sensual mouth. ‘On the other hand, standards of service might be beyond any I have previously received.’

At that point, Timon took the hint and surrendered to the inevitable.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to find your own way back to the office today,’ Cristos added without hesitation.

An involuntary grin chased the earnest aspect from the younger man’s face.

Betsy was in a very prickly mood. Her boss had warned her that the new client was a mega-rich foreign VIP to be treated like a god in the hope of attracting further business. While amazed that an employer who gave all the best opportunities to the men on his staff had selected her as driver, she had been pleased as well. However, before she’d even left for the airport Imperial Limousines had received a visit from Cristos Stephanides’ bodyguards. That had caused a stir. Their usual clients were not in the league that required hefty personal security. The bodyguards had not been impressed by the shabby premises that housed the limo firm. They had turned up their noses at the vehicle she was to use, queried her excellent driving credentials and warned her that they would be in close supervision at all times. A bunch of unredeemable sexist pigs, she thought bitterly, who had been busily engaged in patrolling the car park like the cast of a gangster movie ever since her arrival.

Sixth sense warned her that she was under scrutiny. Spinning round, she jerked still at the sight of the male striding towards her. It was as if someone somewhere turned the pace of time to slow motion. He was tall, lean and…and so beautiful that her chest went all tight and she couldn’t breathe and couldn’t stop looking. But then her brain stepped into the breach and forced her to grab a hold of herself and break free of her own shocking paralysis.

‘Mr Stephanides…’ Mercifully her voice emerged a little breathless round the edges but calm and quiet in tone.

‘And you are…?’

‘Betsy Mitchell,’ she framed, holding open the door to the rear passenger seat.

‘Betsy…’ He said her name as if he were savouring something edible and he had a voice like no other she had ever heard before. His drawl had a dark, deep, masculine pitch, a sizzlingly sexy accented edge that sent a quiver down her taut spine. ‘So that’s what I call you.’

‘Mitchell will do, sir,’ she answered without expression, throwing up the barrier of their differing status with a strong sense of relief.

Unaccustomed to being contradicted, Cristos glanced down at her. She was not as tall as he had assumed she was from a distance: she was around five feet eight or nine. What was more, her façade of cool professionalism was a fake. He was a trained observer and he could see the almost undetectable tiny nervous tremors assailing her slight length.

‘I prefer Betsy,’ he murmured softly to make her look up at him.

Disconcerted, she tipped back her head to lift her gaze and met his brilliant dark eyes for the first time. Her mouth ran dry and her heartbeat took off at a sprint. His provocative appraisal dropped to linger on her soft full lips and then roamed on down to the pouting thrust of her breasts before flicking back up again to spell out a message of sexual interest as blatant as a speech.

Deeply shaken, she tore her gaze from his fiercely handsome features. He swung into the car and she closed the door on him. Her palms were damp on the steering wheel. How dared he look her over as if she were on offer to him? Perhaps he had noticed the way she looked at him, a snide little inner voice mocked and a wash of hot, guilty pink warmed her cheeks. What had come over her? He was the fanciable equivalent of a flying saucer. Of course she had stared. Any woman would have stared. Why was she beating herself up about a perfectly natural reaction? The guy was drop dead gorgeous. He was lucky she hadn’t stuck a pin in him to check he was real and not an illusion. Nervous laughter bubbling in her throat, she hit the communication button.

‘Everything in order, sir?’ she asked.

‘There’s no still water in the fridge,’ he informed her.

And there she had been thinking he would be dazzled by the array of soft drinks available to him! He was supposed to be very rich, she reminded herself, and the rich were reputed to be picky about little details. There was the proof. His refined taste buds could not tolerate sparkling in place of still water. She pulled off the road at the first garage and was in the act of climbing out when he buzzed down the glass partition dividing them. ‘Why have we stopped?’ he demanded.

Betsy spun back in surprise and leant back into the limo to address him. ‘You wanted still mineral water. My boss said your every wish should be my command…’

‘I wish…’ Cristos Stephanides murmured, smooth and soft as velvet.

Staring at him, she was entrapped by his sheer animal magnetism and exotic dark good looks. His luxuriant hair looked very dark against the pale backdrop of the leather head restraint. His bronzed skin was stretched taut over hard masculine cheekbones, an arrogant nose and a beautifully chiselled wide, sensual mouth. With an immense effort, she broke free of the scorching dark golden eyes that were making her tummy flip like a schoolgirl’s.

She hurried into the garage shop. Her legs felt like cotton-wool supports. She was in a daze. So he was flirting a little—so what was new? Some guys thought you expected it. Some guys flirted with every woman they met. I wish he had said. Why was she suddenly acting and thinking like a ditzy teenager? He made her feel like one. She blinked in bemusement as she turned away from the checkout.

His senior bodyguard, a giant with shoulders the size of tree trunks, barred her passage. ‘Who gave you permission to stop the limo without warning us?’ he asked in an angry hiss. ‘You have left Mr Stephanides in an unlocked vehicle without protection. How could you be so foolish?’

Betsy was astonished by the force of that verbal attack. ‘Nobody told me I needed permission or that I should warn you—’