INTERNATIONAL BILLIONAIRES
Life is a game of power and pleasure. And these men play to win!
Let Modern™ Romance take you on a jet-set journey
to meet eight male wonders of the world.
From rich tycoons to royal playboys—
they’re red-hot and ruthless!
International Billionaires coming in 2009
The Prince’s Waitress Wife by Sarah Morgan, February.
At the Argentinean Billionaire’s Bidding by India Grey, March.
The French Tycoon’s Pregnant Mistress by Abby Green, April.
The Ruthless Billionaire’s Virgin by Susan Stephens, May.
The Italian Count’s Defiant Bride by Catherine George, June.
The Sheikh’s Love-Child by Kate Hewitt, July.
Blackmailed into the Greek Tycoon’s Bed by Carol Marinelli, August.
The Virgin Secretary’s Impossible Boss by Carole Mortimer, September.
8 volumes in all to collect!
Carol Marinelli recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title, and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as ‘writer’. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation, and after chewing her pen for a moment Carol put down the truth—writing. The third question asked—What are your hobbies? Well, not wanting to look obsessed—or, worse still, boring—she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered ‘swimming and tennis’. But, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!
Carol also writes for Medical™ Romance—her latest Medical™ Romance is emotional, dramatic, and stars a drop-dead gorgeous doctor! EMERGENCY: WIFE LOST AND FOUND On sale now!
Don’t miss Carol Marinelli’s book
THE DESERT KING’S HOUSEKEEPER BRIDE
out in December 2009
part of THE ROYAL HOUSE OF KAREDES
Dear Reader
When I was growing up, rugby caused a few good-natured arguments in our family. My parents were born in Scotland and lived where their daughters were born in England. Which for me had its advantages when it was Scotland v England—I could never lose.
I cry easily, and the national anthems always set me off. It is such a huge part of the theatre of rugby—whether it’s the All Blacks doing the Haka, or the English crowd singing along to ‘God Save the Queen’ I get goosebumps every time.
When my dad suddenly died I raced home from Australia, where I now live, back to England. I can remember just before it was time for me to return to Australia going to the police club, where my dad had been a proud member, and as we walked in the Scottish Rugby Team were there—loud and proud on the large television screen, singing the national anthem at the (then) Five Nations Series. We were all trying not to look at each other in case we really started crying, but my brother-in-law finally spoke and said, ‘This isn’t just a coincidence.’
So—rugby still gives me goosebumps, and I still love to watch. And I still cheer for either England or Scotland—only now both Australia and Italy have been added to the mix.
No wonder I love it—I almost can’t lose!
Happy reading
Carol Marinelli x
PS—Did I mention the sexy men and those muscular thighs…?
BLACKMAILED
INTO THE GREEK
TYCOON’S BED
BY
CAROL MARINELLI
For Dad
With love always
Carol xxxxx
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS her assumption, rather than her arrogance, that first caught Xante’s attention.
Wintry London skies were dark, and a rapid-fire of rain had scattered most of the people off the pavements. Even though it was midday, the cars that pulled into the plush forecourt of his hotel had their headlamps on and their wipers swishing furiously. A few braved the weather; coats overhead, they ran back from lunch to their work or their next meeting, while the organised or more seasoned Londoners opened umbrellas and carried on chatting into their phones. Only a select few took refuge in the forecourt of Xante Rossi’s Twickenham hotel.
Xante owned several hotels—they were part of his impressive portfolio—but rarely was the man himself to be found standing in their foyers, checking that everything was in order. He had staff to take care of those details. But today was different. Xante had a particular soft spot for his Twickenham establishment—it allowed him to indulge his passion for rugby. Today the England rugby team was arriving for an official function which was being held to raise serious money for charity. Serious money. The crème de la crème of high society would be attending the charity auction tonight that would be held at the end of dinner and would prove an opportunity for the rich to publicly display their wealth under the guise of it being for a good cause.
Xante liked all sports, but—unusually, perhaps, for a Greek—rugby was his passion. He loved the noble game; the blood, sweat and toil that made the game great. Philotimia was a sense of honour so vital to his people that it was written into the Greek legal code, and for Xante the great game of rugby represented philotimia perfectly.
Once the players were all here at his hotel they would train and travel as a team, but for now they were trickling in from across the country, and Xante had already greeted several, including the captain. It was natural that he wanted to be here to personally welcome the team—and it was natural, for entirely different reasons, that he noticed the willowy blonde arrive in the foyer. Svelte and tall, she’d have captured and held any man’s attention, and she was holding Xante’s now.
It was the way she shrugged off her coat—not with arrogance, just with the assumption that someone would catch it—that told him she was well heeled.
He had chosen his staff well. Albert, his chief concierge, moved quickly, realising that the bell boy had failed to notice her rich aura, and he caught the coat in an impressive move. Then, without a backward glance, the woman walked into the foyer.
Only then did she hesitate.
Taking in her surrounds, green eyes darting, she fleetingly looked a fraction lost, and only then did Xante fathom that she wasn’t a guest.
The hotel was practically in lockdown. Xante had brought in many extra staff to ensure that his important guests’ privacy was respected. Fans would remain outside, and journalists, however heavily disguised, were at this moment being politely turned away. But this woman, seemingly without prearrangement, had waived scrutiny and waltzed in as if she owned the place.
Certain people did not require a passport, Xante knew, and this lady appeared to be one of them.
She was strolling around the foyer, looking at the artwork on display, presumably waiting to meet someone. Xante’s head was full of questions, which