Umberto handed her over with due deference and then Rafaele was claiming her, pulling her into him. The priest’s words washed over and through Sam. She would never have said she was a religious person, but something in the ritual seemed to complete the process she and Rafaele had embarked on a month before, cleansing away any vague residual painful pieces of the past.
There was only now and the future, and the heavy weight of the wedding band on her finger, and Rafaele bending to kiss her with such a look of reverence on his face that she could have wept. In fact she did weep, and he wiped her tears away with his fingers.
Later, as they danced at their reception, which had been set up in a marquee in the grounds of the palazzo, Rafaele said, ‘Have I told you yet how beautiful you look?’
Sam smiled. ‘About a hundred times, but I don’t mind.’
And Sam felt beautiful, truly, for the first time in her life. Even though her dress was simple and her hair hadn’t been styled by a professional and she’d done her own make-up. She felt confident, and sexy, and most importantly loved.
Milo appeared at their feet and Rafaele lifted him up and that was how they finished their wedding dance—in a circle of love, the three of them.
Over in a corner of the marquee stood Alexio Christakos, Rafaele’s half-brother. He’d been best man, done his duty and given his speech, made everyone laugh. Made the women giggle and look at him covetously. Even now they surrounded him, waiting for their moment to strike, for the slightest gesture of encouragement.
Alexio grimaced. He was starting to feel claustrophobic. Hell. Who was he kidding? He’d been feeling claustrophobic on his brother’s behalf ever since Rafaele had told him that he was getting married and had a son!
He shook his head again and grimaced when he saw Rafaele kiss his bride for the umpteenth time. Alexio looked at her. He guessed she was pretty enough, in a subtle and unassuming way, but he couldn’t see how she made Rafaele turn almost feral whenever another man came close. Even Alexio had been sent none too subtle hands-off signals from the moment he’d met her.
Alexio wondered how it was possible that Rafaele couldn’t see that she must be marrying him only for his security and wealth. Had he become so duped by good sex that he’d forgotten one of the most important lessons they’d learnt from their dear departed mother? That a woman’s main aim in life was to feather her nest and seek the security of a rich man?
Alexio mentally saluted his brother and wished him well. He told himself he’d try not to say I told you so when it all fell apart. Mind you, he had to concede the kid was cute. His nephew. He’d actually had quite an entertaining time with him earlier, when he’d looked after him for a bit between the wedding and the reception. Still... He shuddered lightly. He had no intention of embarking on that path any time soon, if ever...
Alexio stopped focusing on his brother and his new wife and son for a minute and took in the crowd around him. From nearby, a gorgeous brunette caught his eye. She was tall and lissom, with curves in all the right places. She looked at him with sexy confidence and smiled the smile of a practised seductress.
Alexio felt his body stir, his blood move southwards. It wasn’t the most compelling spark of attraction he’d ever felt...but when was the last time that had happened...? Alexio ignored that voice and smiled back. When he saw the light of triumph in her eyes at catching the attention of the most eligible bachelor in the room, Alexio forced down the feeling of emptiness inside him and moved towards her.
* * * * *
Read on for an extract from SECURING THE GREEK’S LEGACY by Julia James.
CHAPTER ONE
ANATOLE TELONIDIS STARED bleakly across the large, expensively furnished lounge of the penthouse apartment in the most fashionable part of Athens. It was still as untidy as it had been when his young cousin Marcos Petranakos had last walked out of it a few short nightmare weeks ago, straight to his death.
When their mutual grandfather, Timon Petranakos, had phoned his older grandson he had been distraught. ‘Anatole, he’s dead! Marcos, my beloved Marcos—he’s dead!’ the old man had cried out.
Smashed to pieces at twenty-five, driving far too fast in the lethal supercar that had been Timon’s own present to Marcos, given in the wake of their grandfather’s recent diagnosis with cancer.
The death of his favourite grandson, whom he had spoiled lavishly since Marcos had lost his parents as a teenager, had been a devastating blow. Timon had since refused all treatment for his cancer, longing now only for his own death.
Anatole could understand his grandfather’s devastation, his mind-numbing grief. But the fallout from Marcos’s tragic death would affect more lives than their own family’s. With no direct heir now to the vast Petranakos Corporation, the company would pass to an obscure Petranakos relative whose business inexperience would surely, in these parlous economic times, lead inevitably to the company’s collapse and the loss of thousands of jobs, adding to the country’s sky-high unemployment levels.
Though Anatole had his own late father’s business empire to run—which he did with tireless efficiency and a pressing sense of responsibility—he knew that, had Marcos lived, he could have instilled a similar sense of responsibility into his hedonistic young cousin, guiding him effectively. But the new heir—middle-aged, self-important and conceited—was resistant to any such guidance.
Frustration with the fate awaiting the Petranakos Corporation—and its hapless workforce—Anatole started on the grim process of sorting out his young cousin’s possessions. Bleakly, he began his sombre task.
Paperwork was the first essential. As he located Marcos’s desk and set about methodically sorting out its jumbled contents a familiar ripple of irritation went through him. Marcos had been the least organised person he’d known—receipts, bills and personal correspondence were all muddled up, demonstrating just how uninterested Marcos had been in anything other than having a good time. Fast cars, high living and an endless procession of highly temporary females had been his favoured lifestyle. Unlike Anatole himself. Running the Telonidis businesses kept him too occupied for anything more than occasional relationships, usually with busy, high-powered businesswomen he worked with in the world of finance.
Frustration bit at Anatole.
If only Marcos had married! Then there might have been a son to inherit from Timon! I’d have kept the Petranakos Corporation safe for him until the child grew up!
But to the fun-seeking Marcos marriage would have been anathema! Girls had been for casual relationships only. There’d be time later for getting married, he’d always said.
But there was to be no later...
Grim-faced, his honed features starkly etched, Anatole went on sorting through the papers in his cousin’s desk. Official in one pile, personal in another. The latter pile was not large—not in this age of texting and the internet—but one drawer revealed a batch of three or four envelopes addressed to Marcos in cursive Roman script with a London postmark and UK stamps. Only one had been opened.
Anatole frowned. The lilac-coloured envelopes and the large, looping script suggested a female writer. Though Marcos’s dramatic death had been splashed across the Greek tabloids, a British girlfriend might not have heard of it. It might be necessary, Anatole thought reluctantly, for him to let her know of Marcos’s fate. That said, he realised as he glanced at the envelopes’ postmarks, none of these was dated more recently than nine months ago. Whoever she was, the affair—or whatever it had been—was clearly long over.
With a swift impatience to be done with the whole