The Greek Tycoon's Defiant Bride

Her aunt had asked her to go on and clear out Imogen’s house. By then, Maribel had had her own apartment, although she had often stayed with her cousin to look after her. In fact, during that last year, all Maribel’s free time had gone into watching over her troubled relative. After the funeral, Maribel had felt bereft, and when she’d reached the house she’d found it in a mess: Imogen’s sisters had already sacked her wardrobe and rummaged through every cupboard, taking what they wanted, leaving Maribel to tidy up and dispose of what was left. Maribel had wandered round the silent house and, when she’d come on some old photos, had cried unashamedly while allowing herself to remember the good times.

Leonidas’ arrival had been a total bolt from the blue.

‘I knew you would be here. You’re the only one who genuinely cared about Imo.’ Sombre and magnificent in his black suit and overcoat, Leonidas skimmed a knuckle gently across Maribel’s tear-streaked cheek and frowned down at her in reproof. ‘You feel like ice.’

‘I left my coat at my aunt’s and the house is cold.’

With a ceremonial flourish, Leonidas removed his coat and draped it round her shoulders. He signalled one of the men stationed by the limo and addressed him in Greek. While she hovered in bewilderment, the gas fire in the front room was lit.

‘You should have a brandy.’

‘The drinks cabinet was cleaned out a long time ago.’

Leonidas issued another instruction. Within ten minutes she was sipping a brandy and warming up inside and out. She was further disconcerted when he began talking about the first time Imogen introduced him to her. He was the only person who seemed to understand the depth of her attachment to her cousin.

‘Why are you here?’ Maribel finally asked.

‘I don’t know.’

And Maribel saw that he didn’t recognise or understand the grief and sense of regret that had prompted him to come to Imogen’s house and talk about the past. His incomprehension of his own emotions somehow pierced her to the heart that day.

‘It was an impulse,’ he finally added. ‘You were very upset at the funeral.’

Afterwards, she told herself that the brandy she’d drunk went straight to her head. Of course, there’d also been the exhilaration of Leonidas’ full attention and the delight of almost drowning in the sensuality of his kiss. How they’d got upstairs to the guest room that had once been hers, she could not recall. Nothing had seemed to matter but the moment. For a few brief hours she had discovered a happiness more intense than any she had ever known. But the next morning she’d felt terrifyingly scared and oversensitive. His mocking request for breakfast, as though they had shared only the most casual encounter, had hurt like salt in a wound. But had she learnt even then?

No, she had raced out to buy food, as there had been nothing to eat in the entire house. But it had been a foggy morning and, before she’d even reached the supermarket, someone had rammed their car into the back of hers and she’d been injured. It had been hours before she’d recovered consciousness in a hospital bed.

Two days later, Maribel was wakened by the doorbell.

Assuming it was a special postal delivery, she sighed and got up. The phone started ringing as she opened the door. It was a shock when a bunch of people she had never seen before began running across the lawn towards her shouting and waving cameras. She slammed the door shut again so fast she bashed a microphone being extended towards her.

Her mind blank with shock, she snatched up the phone.

‘It’s Ginny. My sister phoned me. There’s a front-page story on you and Elias in The Globe!’

‘Oh, no!’ Maribel stared in horror at a man peering in through the living-room window at her. She flew over to close the curtains. ‘There’s a crowd of people in the garden. They must be reporters.’

‘I’m coming over. You can’t possibly bring Elias to me this morning.’

Someone was knocking on the back door. Every window seemed to have a face at it. She ran around frantically closing curtains and blinds. The phone rang again. It was a well-known female journalist asking if Maribel wanted to sell her story for a substantial cash payment.

‘I mean, from what I can see,’ the woman commented cheekily, ‘Leonidas Pallis isn’t exactly keeping you in the luxury you deserve.’

That call was followed by another of a similar ilk, and then she unplugged the phone. Elias had climbed out of his cot and seated himself at the top of the stairs to await a storm of maternal protest over his athletic achievement. Big dark brown eyes alight with curiosity, he watched his mother race about instead in a panic. A hand rapped on the narrow window beside the front door. Maribel ignored it, but nerves were making her feel nauseous. The hubbub outside her quiet and peaceful home horrified her. Mouse would be having a panic attack in his kennel with all those strangers around.