Pregnant By The Commanding Greek

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u56a0848c-172a-5de3-a6df-2d83722272ec)

‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, he wants us to “get rid of it”?’ Antoinette Roberts scooped up the small, greying terrier and clutched him close. ‘Doesn’t he realise that “it” is a gorgeous, living creature?’ She glared at Joel, her junior colleague.

‘I don’t think he does, Ettie,’ Joel answered in an agitated whisper. ‘He just stormed in here first thing and demanded access to Harold’s apartment and started clearing stuff out.’

‘You’re kidding?’ Disgust surged through Ettie.

Cavendish House, an exclusive apartment building in the heart of London’s Mayfair, offered full concierge service to its privacy-loving residents, and, as head concierge, Ettie was used to delivering it for her demanding guests; from everyday mundane queries to the most outrageous, extravagant requests.

She didn’t just arrange parcel deliveries and make restaurant bookings, she sourced rare first editions of famous novels and cajoled Michelin chefs to cook in a resident’s apartment to help create the perfect proposal… And she was proud of the service she worked hard to provide. Until today there’d been no request she hadn’t been able to fulfil.

But she drew the line at the euthanasia of a perfectly healthy, beloved pet on a total stranger’s whim.

‘I suppose George let him in?’ she growled.

Joel nodded.

That’d be right. George, the building manager, was obsequious to clients, pernickety with petty rules while sloppy with what was actually crucial, and a belligerent bully to the personnel. Ettie spent half her time fixing his blunders and soothing staff resentment when he’d blamed them.

It was her fault it had got this far with the dog. She’d arrived late for the first time in years because she’d been up most of the night counselling her stressed-out sister, Ophelia, who was panicking that she’d flunked her latest physics test. Not that Ophelia had flunked a test in her life. Fiendishly academic, she was away at boarding school on a partial scholarship. Ettie was paying the rest of the fees and Ophelia was desperate to secure a university place. That meant another scholarship, which in turn meant outstanding results in every assessment in this last year of her schooling. As amazing as Ophelia was, Ettie worried the pressure was too intense. But she wouldn’t let Ophelia give up her dream. Ettie had sacrificed too much herself to allow that. So, after calming Ophelia, she’d lain awake fretting about how she could better financially support her. Since their mother’s death two years ago, it fell to Ettie to make it happen.

But making things happen was what Ettie did. She’d learned and worked for it, making miles-long lists and instituting systems so her sometimes impulsive and distraction-prone self wouldn’t forget anything. But today she’d lapsed into her natural disorder. She’d overslept, in her mad scurry she’d missed breakfast, lost her last hair tie and resorted to using an old rubber band, and still missed her train.

When she’d finally raced into Cavendish House this morning, it was to the shocking news that her favourite long-term resident, Harold Clarke, had been rushed to hospital in the small hours of the night. While his passing had been quick and peaceful, his family—the family Ettie hadn’t seen visit once in the five years she’d been working there—was already on the premises and clearing out his treasures. Apparently they didn’t regard Toby, Harold’s small terrier, as a treasure. They’d sent him down for Joel, her junior concierge, to “get rid of”.

If Ettie had been at work on time, that nephew would never have made it into the apartment, let alone cast his callous instructions for Toby.

‘Ettie, there’s something else…’ Joel called after her.

Not now there wasn’t.

Shock, grief and sheer fury overrode the caution and calm she’d schooled within herself over the years. Ettie tightened her hold on the small dog and impulsively swept to the lift. Appalled by that uncaring request, she’d no time for niceties or other distractions. The family were monsters.

At the slide of the doors, Ettie stepped out onto Harold’s floor. His apartment door was open and curt voices echoed along the corridor. She stalked the length of it, unconsciously stroking the soft fur of the small dog. A quick glance into the room showed George on the far side looking as smarmy as ever, next to an older-looking couple. All three were facing a tall man who had his back to her but, given the sullen looks on the faces of the others and the iceberg-thick atmosphere, he wielded the power. His immaculate appearance and crisply clipped hair enraged her all the more. He was obviously loaded because the impeccably tailored suit was clearly bespoke. No off-the-rack number ever fitted so perfectly—lovingly emphasising his height and strength. Though most men didn’t have perfect physiques either. One look and she knew he was fit, healthy and wealthy. So why did he need to be so greedy over Harold’s assets? Why be so cruel?

‘You shouldn’t be in here.’ Ettie didn’t hesitate stepping into the room.

How could he not have visited Harold in all this time and yet turn up the second he thought there were valuable possessions to be claimed?

‘You don’t storm in here and start stripping out Harry’s assets and condemning his dog to instant death.’ She barely paused to draw breath. ‘You want to us to “get rid of” Toby?’ Her voice quivered but she stood straight, not letting the tremble in her knees spread to the rest of her.

Because the man had turned around and Ettie was rendered breathless. He was much taller than her and younger than she expected. No older than thirty. But it was his face that stopped her—he had the sharpest, most handsome face she’d ever seen. High cheekbones, a straight nose, a full mouth, a cleft in his chin and a square, relentlessly masculine jaw…and to cap it off, deep brown, unbearably intense eyes. Brown eyes usually held some warmth, right? Not his. She’d never encountered either such beauty or such coldness. He was totally intimidating.

But it seemed he wasn’t left as much breathless as speechless. Good. It was obviously time someone challenged him and his appalling instructions. Inhaling sharply, Ettie recovered enough to continue her attack.

‘Toby is the sweetest little dog ever, not that you’d know because you never visited him or Harold in all this time…’ Her voice trembled as she thought of the quiet elderly man who’d been gentle. And so alone. ‘Now it’s barely five minutes after…and you want Toby put down? Are you even human?’

George cleared his throat. ‘Ettie—’

‘You’re not going to get away with it,’ she carried on passionately, too steamed up to let George and his lack of spine stop her from telling this jerk some home truths. ‘I won’t let you.’

She became aware Joel had arrived and was breathlessly standing beside her, an appalled but fascinated expression on his face. The older couple present didn’t look at her at all but stared at the tall stranger with silent, seething resistance. She knew how they felt.

The man’s arctic glare sharpened on her, pinning her with almost visceral force. ‘Who are you?’

She refused to quake. ‘I think that’s my question. You’re the one trespassing.’

‘I think not,’ he said softly. There was a faint foreign tone to his cutting, cold accent.

George was frantically doing some kind of dance behind the arrogant ass’s back. But she paid no attention—she was too incensed. The guy needed to be schooled. Tired and strung out and sad, Ettie couldn’t hold back her contempt. ‘You’ve never once set foot in this place before now.’

‘No.’ His quiet confirmation sounded stronger than George’s audible gasp.

‘You’re despicable,’ Ettie told him.

‘Despicable?’ He glanced behind him and caught George midway through miming self-strangulation. He turned back to face her. ‘I think what your colleague is trying to convey is that you’ve made a mistake.’

There was the slightest curl to the man’s lips—as if he was deriving some small, hideous pleasure from this moment.

Ettie frowned, not comprehending. She was still puffed from the force of her emotions and her furious dash up to the apartment. ‘I’m not Mr Clarke’s nephew,’ he informed her with brutally cold precision. ‘In fact, I’m no relation whatsoever to Mr Clarke.’

Nonplussed, Ettie blinked. Now she took a moment to study him, he didn’t look anything like Harold. This man’s hair was dark and thick and his eyes were that wintry brown, not blue, and his bronze complexion was more than a summer tan. A wave of relief so strong it was shocking rippled through her. He wasn’t an animal-murdering brute?

Then she was hit with a wave of something else altogether. Something from deep inside, so hot and intense that she refused to acknowledge, let alone define it. Because it was shocking.

‘Then what are you doing in here?’ she snapped uncharacteristically. But she was determined to halt the appallingly inappropriate, intimate direction of her thoughts. Why was everyone looking at him as if he was ridiculously important? Why was George turning greener by the second?

‘You’ve made a mistake.’ His gaze drifted over her uniform in an inspection so quick it was almost insulting. ‘And yet I think you’re this star concierge I’ve heard about. Cavendish House’s very own Girl Friday.’

She had a sudden prickling sensation that a giant black hole had opened up before her, but that she’d already taken the fatal step. It was too late to stop—the fall was in play and there was no way to backpedal and stop herself tumbling into a bottomless pit.

‘My name is Leon Kariakis. And as of close of business last night, I own this building.’

Leon Kariakis? The Leon Kariakis? Serious, publicity-averse, wealthier-than-most-small-countries Leon Kariakis?

Ettie stared at him, slack-jawed. Oh, yeah, she’d fallen into one never-ending crevasse. All she could do was comment stupidly, ‘You own…’ she drew in a breath and tried to regroup ‘…and you’re not—’

‘No relative. This man is Mr Clarke’s nephew and I’ve already spoken to him and his wife about Mr Clarke’s belongings. Nothing will leave this building until the executor of his will has been to the premises and itemised everything.’