The Greek Tycoon's Convenient Bride

His fans, Rhiannon thought wryly. For since learning the name of Annabel’s father, she’d researched the man and come up with some information. Although reclusive, Lukas Petrakides was adored by the Greek public and press alike—considered broodingly handsome, unfailingly polite, stunningly charismatic.

Rhiannon smiled at the thought. Surely the magazines had to be making some of that up?

They had to make something up, for Lukas Petrakides was notorious for not providing gossip for the rumour mill. Unlike other Mediterranean tycoons, he didn’t appear in public with the latest model or starlet on his arm. His only escort was one of his three older sisters. Photographs were rare. He didn’t party, didn’t drink, didn’t dance.

Didn’t do much of anything, it seemed, except work.

Considering such a reputation, Rhiannon couldn’t quite dismiss the faint sense of disbelief that Lukas Petrakides had, at least on one occasion, put aside his own responsibilities for a weekend of no-strings romance. Sex.

One person had cracked his armour and found if not his heart then his libido.

Leanne…And the result of that union was back in her hotel room.

Rhiannon dragged in a shuddering breath, needing the air, the courage. She hadn’t been able to formulate a plan beyond the basic: book two nights’ accommodation at the Petra Resort, attend the reception, find Lukas Petrakides.

And then…?

Her mind skittered frantically, in time with her rapid pulse, even as her heart provided the answer.

And then he’ll want her. He’ll love her, he’ll take her into his home, his heart. They’ll be a family, happy, loving, perfect. The End.

Rhiannon’s mouth twisted in painful acknowledgement of this fairy tale. Life didn’t work that way. It hadn’t for her.

But surely it could for Annabel?

She knew Lukas was a man of responsibility; the tabloids held him up as a paragon. It was his shining reputation for integrity, honour, and an unfailing sense of duty that had made the decision for Rhiannon.

This was a man who could—and she prayed would—take on the mantle of fatherhood without a qualm or quiver. A man who would welcome his daughter with open arms.

She finally came to a pair of double doors, guarded by two impassive-looking security guards who asked for her room number.

One of them scanned a list. ‘Name?’

‘Rhiannon Davies.’ Her heart pounded but at least her voice sounded calm.

The guard nodded brusquely, and Rhiannon was given entry. She slipped between the doors, taking in the diamond-spangled crowd with a sinking heart.

She didn’t fit in here, and it was obvious. This was a party for the rich and famous, or at least the socially savvy. Not her. Never her.

She scanned the room, a blush rising to her cheeks as she caught the curious stares, the scornful looks. She knew her outfit was inexpensive, but it was hardly tawdry or inappropriate. Yet Rhiannon felt as if she was standing there naked by the way a few well-heeled, skimpily clad society she-devils were looking at her.

For heaven’s sake, they were wearing fewer clothes than she was. She lifted her chin, stiffened her spine. She didn’t care what anyone thought about her; all that mattered was getting to Lukas.

Telling him about Annabel.

She scanned the room again, took a few steps inside. And saw him.

Once her gaze fastened on his form, she wondered how she could have missed him for a moment. He was tall—taller than most men—dressed in an elegant grey suit, perfectly cut, moulding to his powerful shoulders and trim hips. He leaned against the bar, a drink in one hand, although Rhiannon saw it was virtually untouched.

She saw his suave smile, imagined she could hear his dry chuckle across the room, watched his graceful movements. And still the thought sprang unbidden into her mind.

He’s unhappy. He’s lonely.

She shook her head slightly; the idea was ridiculous. Who could be either lonely or unhappy with the crème of society jostling for his attention, for one word from those sculpted lips?

She almost laughed at herself; Lukas Petrakides was every bit as handsome as the tabloids claimed he was. She had expected to be intimidated; she hadn’t expected to be affected.

Squaring her shoulders, Rhiannon waded into the expensive fray. She walked towards the bar, stopping a few feet before the man himself.

Uncertainty washed over her with the scent of expensive, cloying perfume from the women jostling her, queuing for Lukas’s attention. She hadn’t considered the crowds, the difficulty in approaching him. She should have.

She nibbled at her lip as she considered her options. She wanted to speak in private, but she doubted a man like Lukas Petrakides would consider a request for a private conversation from a person like her—plain, poor, socially irrelevant.

Still, there wasn’t much else she could do. This was why she had come. Phone calls and letters could be ignored, dismissed. Face to face it would be more difficult for him to ignore or deny…if she was able to speak to him at all.

She was just about to take a step forward when he turned. Saw her. Looked at her almost as if he recognised her…knew her. And she felt a sudden penetrating flash of awareness come over her like a shiver, a shock—as if she knew him. Impossible. Ridiculous.

Still, the expression in his eyes dried her mouth, her words. Her thoughts. His eyes had been described in the tabloids as grey, but Rhiannon decided that they were silver, the colour of a rain-washed river. A small, tender smile quirked his mouth upwards.

He raised an eyebrow, gestured to the space next to him at the bar even as a matron droned on in French at his other side.

Rhiannon’s pulse kicked into gear and a strange new sensation flooded through her—pleasant, fizzy, limb-weakening.

Desire.

All it had taken was one smile, one look from those piercing eyes, one tiny glimmer of tenderness, and she was hooked. Caught.

Was she that desperate? That obvious?

Yet she couldn’t deny the connection that seemed to pulse between them across the crowded room, as present and real as if a wire stretched between them, drawing her to him.

She walked towards him, towards the heat flaring in his gaze, as if it were a place she had always meant to go. To be.

He watched, a faint smile curving those exquisite lips, lighting his eyes.

Then she stumbled, caught herself on the bar. Her slick palms curled around cool marble. She heard the low titter of speculative, jealous voices from around her, a mocking wave of sound, and felt a humiliating blush crawl up her throat and colour her face.

Just as well, she told herself. Her clumsiness had broken the spell he’d cast over her, the magic he’d woven. This wasn’t about her; it was about Annabel.

She turned to Lukas, and saw in his eyes an expression of gentle amusement.

‘Ça va?’ he asked, and Rhiannon tried to smile.

‘Ummm…ça va bien.’ Her rusty schoolgirl French to the rescue, she thought wryly.

But it obviously didn’t impress him, for he smiled slightly and said, ‘You’re English.’

‘Welsh, actually,’ she admitted. ‘I did a GCSE in French, but it’s been a while.’