His Greek Wedding Night Debt

by Michelle Smart

  ‘Your Scots accent is just so cute, everyone thinks so.’

  When they’re not thinking I’m sleeping my way to the top, Gwen thought, hiding her flash of bitterness behind a smile. As she had to virtually yell to make herself heard above the competing conversations, Gwen decided it required less effort to smile and nod rather than correct the woman’s mistake over her nationality, even though it felt as though she was betraying her Welsh roots.

  Not that anyone back home would have recognised her—the once awkward, intense swot with the glasses—in this place, she thought wryly, leaning in again to catch what Louise was saying.

  ‘Don’t look now but he hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he came in.’ Louise’s eyes widened as she tipped her head towards the smoky glass wall that screened the bar from the street. ‘I said don’t look!’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’ Gwen was not averse to the idea of romance, at the right time, but it wasn’t scheduled at this point in her life. Right now it came under the heading of a distraction she didn’t need. Still it was always good if someone appreciated the effort she had made with her appearance.

  Louise took a sip of her cocktail and sighed, leaning sideways to look over Gwen’s shoulder. ‘He really is totally...oh, my God!’ she yelped, before hissing, ‘He’s coming over, don’t panic.’

  Gwen heard his voice before she saw him, deep, with a light gravel underlying the velvet and an intriguing hint of an accent. It made the half-smile she was wearing in response to her friend’s antics quiver and fade as for some inexplicable reason a deep shiver that made her toes curl passed through her body.

  * * *

  It was that same voice that dragged Gwen away now from the New York bar and the exact moment when her five-year plan—My God, was I really that arrogant, or was I just incredibly young and naive?—had started falling apart. She was back to sitting in the school’s assembly hall where for some inexplicable reason Rio Bardales, billionaire heir to the Bardales empire, was holding his audience in the palm of his strong brown elegant hand. Gwen had a sudden unwelcome image of that hand, those tapering fingers sliding over pale skin...her skin... She gulped and blinked to clear the unwanted images dancing in her head.

  Everyone was clapping, except Gwen. She couldn’t have, even if she had wanted to. What she actually wanted, what every cell in her body was screaming at her to do, was to run as far away as she could.

  Her head turned fractionally from side to side in mute denial—this cannot be happening!

  ‘He looks like a film star.’ Ruth’s awed whisper brought the past back with a rush she had no defence against. She remembered thinking exactly the same thing that night in the stylish New York bar where they’d met. He’d been wearing a suit then too but it had looked as though he might have slept in it, yet he’d still looked absolutely gorgeous—how could he not? Even if you discounted his physical attributes—several inches over six feet tall; long-limbed without being in any way lanky; lean and muscular with broad shoulders and a natural athletic elegance—Rio’s strong-boned symmetrical features were arresting enough to be a conversation-stopper. His eyes, dark and almond-shaped, were almost black, framed by dense long lashes and set beneath strongly defined flyaway brows, his carved cheekbones sharp enough to cut, and his square chin had the hint of a cleft, but it was his beautifully cut, overtly sensual mouth that did the most damage to her nervous system.

  Gwen felt dizzy as the image from the past was overlaid by one of the man standing on the stage, his words just sounds that had a physical effect on her, sending successive shivers over the surface of her suddenly too warm skin.

  She felt as though everyone must see what was happening, that they were all staring at her, but crazily they were completely oblivious. Now they were laughing, an appreciative ripple of sound that wafted like a breeze through the vaulted room—Rio was being amusing, entertaining. She knew full well, though, that he could get a lot more entertaining than this, especially when there was skin-to-skin contact involved.

  Jaw clenched, lips compressed over the cry trying to escape her lips, she closed her eyes and thought, Do not go there, Gwen... But too late—she was already remembering that first shock of feeling skin-to-skin contact after he had unfastened her bra for the first time and, holding her eyes, had pulled her hard against his chest...

  * * *

  The myriad impressions made her dizzy: the warmth of his skin, the clean salty tang she’d breathed in, the tingling of intense pleasure as her hardened nipples pressed into the barrier of his naked, muscled chest.

  His eyes didn’t leave hers for one moment, the hot desire burning in them making her limbs go boneless, silencing the voice telling her she needed to explain to him that she didn’t have a clue what she was doing. It had seemed a matter of simple politeness only a few minutes ago, but now she found herself thinking in a hazy way what did it actually matter...?

  Why shouldn’t her embarrassing inexperience remain on a need-to-know basis? After all, he’d not twigged yet so why should it matter? She could suddenly see all the advantages of sleeping with a stranger: you didn’t owe them anything, including explanations... Ironic, really, when this was precisely what he pointed out to her a few days later in a frigid voice filled with icy contempt she would never, ever forget...even though she had tried.

  ‘I owe you nothing, certainly not explanations. We had sex; we are not in a relationship.’

  The brutal words carried the impact of a sledgehammer, each individual scornful syllable adding fresh layers of hurt as she clutched his shirt around her. Unable to match his marvellous unselfconscious attitude to nudity, she had pulled it on to walk to the bathroom, and it retained the scent of his skin but it didn’t give her a warm feeling of intimacy; she felt mortified and stupid and very, very cold.

  She lifted her chin, struggling to salvage a tiny shred of pride. ‘I... I didn’t think we were.’ It wasn’t totally a lie; she knew that a few nights of passion did not add up to a relationship. It nearly hadn’t even made it this far after he’d found out he was her first lover and hadn’t exactly been thrilled about it, and he’d been quite clear then that this was not the start of anything; it was just casual fun he was offering.

  Pride and the determination not to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she had just begun to believe that they’d developed a deeper connection made her stand her ground rather than run away. She felt stupid even imagining for a moment that when he’d told her she was the best sex he’d ever had, it meant he thought she was different and what they had was worth more than a quick fling. It was easy to see now that it had all been wishful thinking on her part.

  Maybe he’d known anyway because in case she’d missed the point he drove it home with brutal honesty.

  ‘We are not exclusive, you and I. You do not have the right to interrogate me.’

  The chill in his eyes, the hauteur in his body language, the expressive curl of his lip did not require the addition of the snap of his fingers to tell her she was being dismissed, not just from his bed or this room, but from his life.

  ‘Who I sleep with...and, let me tell you, it is never knowingly anyone who would rifle through my private correspondence...is none of your concern.’

  She tried to defend herself, tell him that wasn’t what she’d been doing, she really did, but she failed. Basically, because the bottom line was that it was true she had read his letter, but not intentionally. She’d picked up the incriminating piece of paper off the floor along with the pile of other correspondence that had landed on the carpet when she had caught it with her elbow. She was unable to replicate the precision of the neat stack but, tongue caught between her teeth, she had been making an effort to do so when the letterhead had caught her eye. She had scanned a sentence before she had realised what she was doing and...she really should have stopped; that was why she knew the guilt had been shining in her eyes when he’d caught her
in the act.

  She had considered pretending she hadn’t read it, but it would have looked foolish.

  As it turned out that wasn’t even an option as the awkward words just blurted out of her mouth in the face of his accusatory glare.

  ‘I only said, “So you have a child...” I didn’t know, that’s all. Are you and the mother together?’ She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘You’re not...not married, are you?’

  He arched a brow. ‘Would it have mattered to you if I were?’

  She wanted to slap him then, and she had never struck anyone in her life, she couldn’t even crush a spider, but it took all her control to keep her clenched hand at her side, refusing to rise to the insulting provocation.

  ‘What is his name?’ There was no reason he shouldn’t have a child, several children, in fact, and no reason either that he should have mentioned it to her...because he had made it quite clear that what they were enjoying had a shelf life. She was the one who had decided something had changed—and now it had.

  He was the sort of man whose response to the news that he was a father was to demand a DNA test; he was the sort of man who, when asked his son’s name by her, replied that he couldn’t remember! The irony was that she’d learnt more in the last twenty seconds about this man than she had in three whole days...or, rather, nights.

  He arched a dark brow and regarded her with frozen distaste. She had caught glimpses of the hauteur before but had never been on the blighting, chilly receiving end of it.

  ‘What business is it of yours if I have a child?’ His voice carried no expression but it didn’t need to as his eyes said it all.

  ‘None at all,’ she agreed as the paper in her fingers that outlined in black and white a DNA match fluttered to the floor. ‘So it confirms you’re a father, so what? It takes more than a piece of paper to become one of those, doesn’t it? Paternity has very little to do with being a father—that’s all about a lifetime commitment, not just donating your genes—so I really hope this kid has someone else in his life who doesn’t need proof that they’re related to him, and someone who actually remembers his name.’

  With a sneer of contempt that was aimed as much at herself as at him, she gathered her dignity around her as she removed his shirt and, with a grimace of distaste, she dropped it on the floor before she walked away with her head held high.

  Copyright © 2020 by Kim Lawrence

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  ISBN: 9781488059377

  His Greek Wedding Night Debt

  Copyright © 2020 by Michelle Smart

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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