by Anne Mather
‘Was it great?’
‘The best!’ Xante nodded. ‘You should hear the coach speak; he made you believe that you can do anything.’
‘You can.’ Karin smiled. ‘You do.’ Tears pricked her eyes; it was Karin’s turn to make an apology.
‘What I said that time about you buying friends …’ Her skin crawled with shame at the viciousness of her own words. ‘I know that’s not true. I knew it then, too. They like you because you’re knowledgeable, funny, and good and kind …’
‘I know.’ Xante grinned. ‘I’m just glad that you agree.’
‘I know who you donated that rugby prize to, too.’
‘I can afford to be generous, Karin. When you have so much money, there is the down side that you question people’s motives. But on the upside?’ He smiled that dangerous smile, the one that always tripped her heart into a gallop. ‘Well, there are a lot of upsides!
‘Come here.’
He pushed open the door and, like children trespassing, they crept inside. It didn’t look particularly hallowed, Karin thought, more like the changing rooms at her old school. But it smelt of men and passion, or was it just that Xante was standing beside her?
He pulled her down onto the bench beside her and put his arm around her. She didn’t jump, didn’t flinch; instead she just curled into him.
‘I love you.’ He said it again. ‘I think I have loved you from the moment you walked into my hotel. I have never wanted to change or mould you, Karin—all I wanted was the woman you are. I thought I had lost you. Every minute of every day I have wanted to contact you. These last couple of months have been hell, knowing all you were going through and not being able to help you.’
‘I had to go through them.’ She smiled at his confused face. ‘Xante, I had to fix this myself.’
‘That row …’ She could see the blaze of pain on his face as he recalled it. ‘Did I say sorry? Did I tell you how sorry I was for what happened to you? I keep going over and over it, but I can’t remember if I did.’
‘Yes.’ Karin nodded. ‘You did. But, way better than that, you didn’t let me wallow in my own pity. You were right—it took for ever for me to admit it—but …’ She closed her eyes as she summoned her truth. ‘You did have a right to know my past when I slept with you. All I can say in my defence is that, yes, I might have been using you. But …’ She opened her eyes and he was still there. ‘I loved you by then, too. I had to have loved you then, Xante, because otherwise it could never have happened like it did.’
He pulled out a little black box and she felt her world still. She could hear the crowd singing outside as he opened it, and she saw the most perfect ring, tiny rubies delicately crafted into a rose.
Her ring.
‘You might prefer a diamond.’ For the first time ever there was uncertainty in his voice. ‘We can change it.’ And it seemed right, Karin reflected, that he wasn’t worried she might say no, that he knew as she did that this love was for ever.
‘You’ve been carrying this around all this time?’
‘No.’ Xante shook his head and placed it on her finger, right where it belonged. ‘That is why I had to go back to my room.’
‘Not to kick out the blonde?’
‘There’s been no one else since you, Karin.’
She believed him.
Absolutely she believed him. This delectable man, this playboy made good, would be hers, scars and neurosis and all.
It was Karin’s turn for the truth.
‘Xante, I can’t show you my scars.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I just get scared sometimes.’
‘So, tell me when you do.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘It can be.’
He was kissing her, soft, tender kisses that she’d longed for. But a wooden bench didn’t allow for much contact so, still kissing, they stood instead and she was back in his arms where she belonged. And then it changed. The switch tripped, like every time he touched her, just waving away all her doubts and fears.
Oh, and the air was thick with testosterone all right. Xante’s hand crept up her skirt, his body pressing into hers. On paper it might not have been the most romantic place in the world, being pushed into a cubicle by a six-foot-two Greek lover, but to Karin it was …
‘You’ll miss the match.’ She was kicking off her panties as she grappled with his belt.
‘The boys would understand.’
She’d forgotten just how good he was. Good enough for them both, at least till she caught up. He pressed her to the changing-room wall; she’d forgotten too just how fabulous it was, how strong he was as he lifted her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, his breath hot on her neck, and the passion chased every last doubt away …
Leaning on his shoulder as the world trickled back in, she could hear the roar of the crowd outside. A crescendo was building, a humungous roar, that didn’t quite match the still peace she felt inside.
‘Come on.’ Karin smiled. ‘Something big is happening out there.’
‘Something big just happened in here.’ There was no embarrassment as quickly they dressed, Xante doing the honours and darting his head outside. ‘They’ll be coming in soon to prepare the room …’
‘It’s not a hotel!’ Karin laughed as they ran outside.
‘It’s—the—changing room—at—Twickenham.’ Xante spelt out each word. ‘Way better than a hotel—it is hallowed ground.’ They were running through the tunnels, climbing the steps to the stands, and then they stopped for a moment to share a wild grin.
‘Wasn’t it great.’ She wasn’t asking a question.
‘The best,’ Xante admitted, the perfect proposal executed beyond even his wildest dreams. Seeing her stand there, blonde hair tumbling, her cheeks flushed, he knew only sweet secrets would be their bedfellows now. ‘The very best!’ he affirmed, and, taking her hand, he led her back into the crowd, blending into this mass of passionate singing that carried her home.
EPILOGUE
OH, SHE still had her moments.
Her wishes might have been granted—but love, despite the propaganda that surrounded it, actually wasn’t a magic wand.
Love didn’t take away every last neurosis.
Love didn’t creep in at four a.m. and tap you on the shoulder to remind you that you were safe. No, love wrapped you in its arms at two minutes past four and patiently waited for the nightmare to abate.
Love took hard work from both sides to really make it work.
And love, Karin was fast learning, could always make you laugh.
Even at things you never thought you would have.
‘Who’s complaining?’ Xante sat up in the rumpled bed, blinking as her panic attack had awoken him, and only teasing her when he knew that she was ready to be teased. ‘I have a woman who prefers the lights on when we make love, one who knows more about rugby than me,’ Xante continued with a nudge.
‘I do,’ Karin said with a self-satisfied smile. ‘I’m going to get a drink; do you want one?’
Xante yawned and shook his head as Karin slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen. She was five months’ pregnant. They knew they were having a boy, and Karin was sure he was going to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps, because his little feet regularly kicked her awake.
She rubbed some cream into her scar; it was itching like crazy as her stomach slowly stretched. She was dreading labour. Pregnancy was made so much harder with the midwives and doctors looking at her body—though her obstetrician had told her that once she had had the baby he would refer her to a cosmetic surgeon, because there was a lot that could be done. The thought of Xante seeing her scars for the first time during labour made her feel sick. Still, instead of dwelling on it she poured some milk, drinking it down and then topping up her glass before pouring one for Xante—because, if she didn’t, he would no doubt ask for a swig of hers and then drink the lot!
She’d had no intention of going to the study,
but the open door seemed to call her. Walking in, the room was familiar enough that the darkness didn’t faze her as she put down the glasses and flicked on the table lamp.
It was her favourite room in the gorgeous home they’d bought in Twickenham. It was bigger than the cottage she’d initially chosen, and rather more expensive. But it wasn’t showy, and it wasn’t stately, and Karin knew, stroking her kicking bump, that it would never, ever be a burden.
Her grandfather’s treasures suited the room, mingling now with treasured memories of her own: their wedding day.
Despina’s first of many visits to London.
She had a friend now, a widower from the island she had shyly introduced. A lawyer who would have been a rival in business now, had Xante followed his parents’ dreams.
Instead he was becoming a firm and respected friend.
Colour hadn’t dashed in for Despina. Instead, neutral colours had replaced her black uniform—cream stockings, beige lip-glosses and now the occasional pale blouse—but colour was returning. Rainbows always followed rain, Karin realised now, if only you looked out for them.
Yes, new memories were being created every day.
Karin Rossi was finding her feet, and discovering that, if you opened up and let it in, the world was actually quite forgiving and kind. Life was a vast circle that you either closed off and ignored, or gingerly stepped into and let it sweep you away.
She went to flick off the light, but the rose caught her eye—and then the letter that lay beneath it.
She read it, not often, just sometimes when she was happy, and always when she was sad, or when Xante was away on business and the house seemed too big for her alone.
And on this cold, grey morning, as the heating cranked on, Karin read it again.
Read the single line that had won her heart.
His honesty was as palpable now as it had been the first day she’d read it.
That Xante Rossi—who always had the answer, always had a back-up plan—could so concisely describe his world without them.
I don’t know what to do.
Xante
No kiss had followed his name, no presumption, no promises, just an honest admission, and one Karin could relate to.
Reading his words for the thousandth time, that last little piece of her heart was given over to him.
She trusted him.
Always she had loved him, but now, six months’ married and pregnant with his son, truly she trusted him.
Love was a gift that was just a given—but trust was a treasured reward.
Trust—easy for the naïve, but, oh, so much harder for the jaded.
Her baby was still; his kicks had been fading for a little while now. Karin cuddled him asleep, holding her tummy till the little rhythms faded, and then she did the bravest thing ever. She pulled off her cami and, flicking off the light, she picked up their milk and walked to the bedroom safe in her new knowledge and only a teeny bit scared.
She trusted him, and it felt fantastic.
Xante, unaware of the seismic shift that had occurred, had the nerve to be asleep and didn’t even wake as she placed his glass on the table and crawled in bed beside him. He just lay, snoring softly, grabbing those last, precious minutes before the day demanded him.
‘Xante!’ She dug him in the ribs and he mumbled an apology, rolling on his side and promptly falling back to sleep, his loose arm crashing over her body, and his hand, as it always did, heading for the usual resting-place of her left breast.
Only this time it was bare.
She felt his hand stiffen for a second, and so too did Karin. She wondered what he would do, what he would say—or, worst, wondered if he would pretend not to notice, or say it didn’t matter.
Because it did matter.
She held his hand and guided him to feel it, and turned away from him, because it was easier than watching as for the first time she let him explore.
‘Can I see?’
So she let him. She let him turn on the sidelight, and watched the tears in his eyes as he took it all in—and then he kissed it. Kissed all the hurt and pain, and if love could have erased it then Karin would have looked down to find it gone.
‘I’m sorry for all that happened to you. I am so sorry that it did. But it made you who you are, Karin; it made you strong.’
‘I know.’
‘And you are beautiful.’
‘Not like this.’
‘Yes,’ Xante said. ‘Your grandfather had scars; did it make you love him less?’
‘No.’
‘They told a tale—and these tell yours.’
His fingers were cool and stopped the burning itching, and it felt so strange but so nice to be utterly naked, not to have the itch of fabric on her scars.
‘It won’t.’ Karin cleared her throat. ‘It won’t put you off …?’
‘Hey, you’re talking to a Greek boy.’ Xante grinned, holding her wrists over her head and pinning her down with his mouth. ‘Not some namby-pamby boy playing soldiers …’
She was laughing and crying and doing that stupid wrestling thing, rather stunned to realise that they were over that hurdle, that the mountain she had envisaged wasn’t even a molehill; it was nothing at all. Just another part of her that Xante had long ago accepted. And clearly it wasn’t going to affect his ardour; clearly, because something was rapidly nudging awake against her leg, just as it did every single morning.
‘Does nothing stop you?’
‘Nothing.’ Xante grinned. ‘So you’d better just get used to it.’
She attempted a martyred sigh, only she was smiling too much to manage it.
‘I love you, Karin.’
He wasn’t playing and he wasn’t joking. He loved her—it was as simple and as complicated as that.
Love was a lesson she’d happily spend for ever learning.
Bedded by the
Greek Billionaire
Kate Walker
About the Author
KATE WALKER was born in nottinghamshire, but as she grew up in Yorkshire she has always felt that her roots are there. She met her husband at university and originally worked as a children’s librarian, but after the birth of her son she returned to her old childhood love of writing. When she’s not working, she divides her time between her family, their three cats, and her interests of embroidery, antiques, film and theatre, and, of course, reading.
You can visit Kate at www.kate-walker.com
CHAPTER ONE
THE driving rain lashed against the windscreen of the car, obscuring the road and blurring the sign fixed to the low stone wall, but Angelos Rousakis needed no help or guidance in finding his way to the place he was looking for. The country lane that led to the Manor House hadn’t changed at all in the years since he had last seen it, and his hands were already moving on the steering wheel, ready for the turn, even before he glimpsed the gateway.
The savage downpour meant that he could only take the steep, curving driveway in low gear and at a crawling speed but that wasn’t something that troubled him. He had waited for this moment, planned for it, for so long that a few more moments didn’t matter. The truth was that he was enjoying the anticipation almost as much as he expected to enjoy putting his planning into operation, and as the big sandy-coloured house came into view the sense of grim satisfaction that had been with him ever since he had left Athens deepened and darkened at the thought of what was to come.
Inside that house Jessica Marshall was acting out her part as lady of the manor, unaware of the fact that her days in that role were strictly numbered—had, in fact, already come to an end. In a very short space of time the reality of her situation would hit home to her and he would be there to see her reaction as her world fell apart around her. The thought of that moment was something that made the long, tedious journey from the airport bearable, even in this appalling weather.
‘I think we’re ready now.’
Jessica spoke softly, stopping her stepfather’s butler just
as he was about to leave the room after ushering in the latest black-coated, sombre-faced arrival.
‘Would you ask them to bring the cars around to the front of the house? Is there a problem?’ she added, blue eyes frowning slightly as Peters hesitated, looked a little concerned.
‘No problem, miss,’ the elderly man explained. ‘It’s just that I think it might be best to wait a little while yet—until everyone has arrived.’
‘Wait?’
Jessica pushed a hand through the soft fall of her chestnut hair as she looked round the room, struggling to remember just who had been invited today. She couldn’t think who, if anyone, was missing.
‘But everyone is here—aren’t they?’
Again there was that flash of a disturbing expression—one that crossed Peters’s face and was gone in a moment. But Jessica had seen it and the feeling that it left in its wake was one of unease, a niggling sense of something she didn’t know about—but felt that she should. Something that unnerved and worried her, setting her on edge like a nervous cat.
‘Not quite everyone, miss.’
‘But who …?’
Jessica glanced around the room, frowning as she completed another survey of the guests. Everyone there was elderly, like most of her stepfather’s friends, and she couldn’t think if someone was obviously missing from the list of people who should have been invited to Marty’s funeral.
‘I can’t think of anyone …’
‘There is one last …’ Peters hesitated over the right way to describe the person he meant. ‘A person I was told to expect,’ he finished awkwardly
‘Told by who?’
‘Mr Hilton—Mr Simeon Hilton.’
Her stepfather’s solicitor. So this person, whoever they might be, was known to Simeon Hilton. But why hadn’t Simeon told her about him—or her—when they had had their last discussion about the preparations?
‘I’ll ask …’ she began when the sound of a powerful car’s engine outside cut through her words, making her break off. The next moment the rich, purring sound had been silenced too as the car drew to a halt beyond the big bay window, just out of sight.
