‘That is just so—so old-fashioned and possessively Greek!’ Mia frowned at him.
‘But you love me to be old-fashioned and possessive.’
‘I also think you should know that over there—’ she pointed to another rail packed with clothes ‘—is another Jessica Rabbit dress, as you call it, just waiting for me to put on if you don’t watch your step!’
Caught like a rat in a trap, Mia watched his smile disappear and his eyes narrow to scan the indicated rail. ‘I will burn it.’
‘Before or after you see me wearing it?’
He took a minute to think about that, then he responded with a lusty growl, ‘Afterwards. Private viewing.’ He captured her already kiss-blushed lips.
‘So what are you planning to wear?’ he demanded long minutes later.
‘You,’ Mia whispered. ‘Later,’ she added in a soft invitation. ‘In our bed, where it is my solemn duty to keep scaring your nightmares away.’
Nikos could have taken objection to her remarking on the nightmares, but he no longer hid anything from this beautiful creature he had won as his wife. It was healthier to keep everything—good or bad—right out there in the open.
‘You know, I believed my life was all mapped out,’ he confided softly. ‘No U-turns, no diversions, just me in absolute control of me. Then I met you,’ he husked. ‘I did not want love. I did not want commitment. I did not want to pass on my family genes to another generation. Or to watch my children’s disappointment in me grow each time I did not come up to scratch as a father. Now I want it all.’ His fingers framed her upturned face, his eyes so dark Mia smiled because she just loved to drown in them. ‘I want the marriage, the commitment and the children. I want you to love me. I need you to love me. It’s crazy, frightening.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Mia promised. Then, to lighten the sudden intense atmosphere, she begged, ‘Just one more tiny kiss before I go and dress.’
Flat black eyebrows rose in disdain. ‘I don’t do tiny,’ Nikos drawled arrogantly.
Sharon Kendrick started story-telling at the age of eleven and has never really stopped. She likes to write fast-paced, feel-good romances with heroes who are so sexy they’ll make your toes curl!
Born in west London, she now lives in the beautiful city of Winchester, where she can see the cathedral from her window (but only if she stands on tip-toe). She has two children, Celia and Patrick, and her passions include music, books, cooking and eating – and drifting off into wonderful daydreams while she works out new plots!
To my Uncle Aidan – a great thinker, wit and musician – who could charm the birds from the trees. A great man all round. Miss you.
Chapter One
EVEN the brilliant Mediterranean sunshine couldn’t lighten her mood.
With a stab of frustration, Kat pushed the spill of dark hair away from her eyes and leaned back against the soft leather seat of the limousine. A week had passed, but the memories of that night were still vivid. A night when accusations—and counter-accusations—had spun through the air like the blade of a helicopter. And another guilty family secret had reared its ugly head.
If only…
If only it hadn’t happened at the glittering Balfour Charity Ball—where half the world’s press had been camped outside, waiting for an almighty scoop. Briefly, Kat closed her eyes. Bet they couldn’t believe their luck.
Last year’s ball had been bad enough—when she had made a humiliating fool of herself in front of the arrogant Spaniard, Carlos Guerrero—but at least nobody except her father had witnessed it. This time had been worse—with her twin sisters announcing the news that their beloved sister Zoe had been sired by another man and was not a true Balfour after all.
Scenting blood—the paparazzi had been baying around the fabulous family mansion for days—and once again the Balfour name had been splashed all over the papers. Those words Kat had become so used to, whenever her family’s name was mentioned, were once again the hot topic of the day. Words that still had the power to wound, no matter how many times she’d heard them.
Scandal.
Shame.
Secrets.
And the truth was that, yes, the Balfours were brimming with all of those things—and more. But just because they were rich, didn’t mean they were impervious to pain or hurt. Prick them, and they bled—just like everybody else. Nobody saw that, of course, and nobody ever would—well, certainly not in Kat’s case. She allowed herself a grim smile. Because the moment you showed hurt, you made yourself vulnerable—and vulnerability was the most dangerous thing of all. Didn’t she know that better than anyone?
She stared out of the car window, reminding herself how she’d coped with the latest indignity. The same way that she always coped. She’d cut loose and run from the family estate. Not far, it was true—only as far as London—where she had booked into a hotel, using a fake name and a vast pair of sunglasses to hide behind. Until her father had rung her yesterday morning offering her an ‘opportunity.’
Why had she felt a momentary wave of suspicion? Was it because that although Oscar was her true blood father, he had never been close to her heart in the same way as her beloved stepfather, Victor? Kat blinked back the tears which sprang to her eyes and replaced them with the defiant expression she had perfected. She wasn’t going to think about her stepfather, or the past. She just wasn’t. Because that way lay madness and regret and all those other painful emotions which she fought like crazy to keep at bay.
Nonetheless, her voice had been wary as she’d replied, ‘What kind of opportunity, Daddy?’
There had been a pause. Had she imagined the unfamiliar steely quality which had entered his voice? ‘The kind of opportunity which should be seized,’ he said flatly. ‘Didn’t you tell me at the ball the other night that you were bored with your life, Kat?’
Had she said that? In a moment of weakness, had she been stupid enough to let on to the patriarch of the Balfour clan that a stream of loneliness as deep as a river seemed to be coursing through her veins?
‘Did I?’
‘Indeed you did. So why not grab at the opportunity for a change of scene and a change of air. How does a boat trip round the Mediterranean sound?’
It sounded exactly what she needed. Some good sea air and the chance to escape. And even though her father had tantalisingly refused to give her any more details, Kat knew it would be a treat. Because despite the impatience Oscar occasionally felt towards his daughters, deep down he loved nothing more than to lavish life’s extravagances on them.
Which was why she was now reclining in the back of a luxury limousine, heading for the glamorous port of Antibes, while outside the brilliant Provençal sun beat down on all the wealthy holidaymakers. The glittering sea was shaded brilliant colours of cobalt and azure and the port was crammed with the biggest motor yachts you would find anywhere in the world. But that was the south of France for you—all glamour and glitz and buckets of money.
With a slickness perfected by years of practice, Kat pushed away her troubled thoughts as the limo slid to a halt next to a line of beautiful, bobbing yachts.
‘There it is, miss,’ said the driver, pointing to the biggest boat of all—where a couple of white-uniformed crew members were moving purposefully around the deck.
Suddenly, her mood was forgotten as Kat stared up at the most amazing-looking yacht she’d ever seen. With its long, aerodynamic shape and pointed prow, it rose up out of the water like some dazzling seabird. She could see a polished wooden deck and the turquoise glimmer of a swimming pool—as