His Love-Child: The Greek Tycoon's Love-Child / The Spaniard's Love-Child / The Millionaire's Love-Child. JACQUELINE BAIRD
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could wait…
Casually leaning back against a marble pillar, he studied her with hot dark eyes. The years had been good to her; she had barely changed at all. Her figure a little fuller perhaps, but she was still sex on legs. The eager faces of the male reporter and photographer proved it, he thought angrily as his glance skidded over them.
The fact that she was a successful crime writer surprised him, and then with a wry smile he thought again. Emma had called her The Mole, not just because of her name, but because she was quiet and always had her head buried in a book. Perhaps it was not that unusual that she would choose to write, but as a man—now that was unusual.
The book he had read, A Class Act Murder, had appealed to him because the plot had been strong and had tested the intelligence of the reader. The writing style of the author was full of vigour and passion. The passion of Willow he could personally vouch for, and as for the intrigue, well, she had certainly fooled him the first time they had met.
For a moment the sudden camera flash blinded Willow and she was completely unaware of the tall, dark-haired man’s silent scrutiny of her as she exited the lift.
‘What was that for?’ she asked Louise, blinking furiously. ‘I thought the man at the lunch was the official photographer from the Crime Writers’ Review.’
Louise chuckled. ‘Yes, but the fact that J. W. Paxton is actually a woman, and the fact that Carlavitch is interested in buying the film rights, make it a much bigger story. Obviously, the news has already reached the nationals.’ Louise grinned up at Willow. ‘And let’s face it, Willow, you are pretty gorgeous.’
‘I wish I’d stayed a man,’ Willow muttered darkly, walking by Louise’s side towards the shallow flight of stairs that led down to the reception.
‘Hold it there, Willow,’ the photographer shouted, and the two women halted a couple of steps from the foyer.
Straightening her slender shoulders, Willow flicked a tendril of black hair from her cheek and tried to appear relaxed. She wished she had not left the jacket that matched the mint-green dress she was wearing in her room. She was suddenly terribly conscious that the heart-shaped neckline revealed more of the upper curve of her breasts than she was happy with. The rest of the dress fitted smoothly over her shapely figure but the skirt ended two inches too far above her knee for Willow’s liking. Living in Devon, and, until recently, undecided whether to attend the awards ceremony, it was the best thing she’d been able to find to wear at the last minute.
Her hair had started the day severely tied back with a matching silk scarf but had now begun to escape, tendrils softly curling around her face and her elegant neck. Hot and flushed from the excitement and the attention, she still managed to stand tall and face the numerous questions the reporter fired at her.
Louise raised her voice. ‘Right, that is enough, gentlemen, we have a very important meeting at five so—’
‘One more shot, Willow, please,’ the photographer shouted. ‘How about this time with your hair loose and leaning forward over the stair rail, with a hand on your hip?’ he suggested with a cheeky grin.
Willow blushed scarlet and, laughing, said, ‘No way.’ She was a writer not a pin-up and her initial pleasure in actually winning the award was now fast diminishing. It suddenly dawned on her that it probably wasn’t the best idea in the world to have her picture featured in the national press. One never knew who might see it, and she valued her privacy above all else. She lifted her hand and brushed past the pushy photographer, and froze.
A head taller than every other man in the hotel, he wore a pale grey suit that fitted his broad shoulders to perfection and loosely followed the line of his great torso. He moved with a lithe grace for such a big man, and he was moving towards her… Theo Kadros… She could hardly believe her own eyes. Frozen in shock, she simply stared. A ghost from the past—but unfortunately all too real. It was Theo.
His black hair was streaked with silver now and if anything he was more stunningly handsome, more powerfully masculine than she had ever allowed herself to remember. His eyes gleamed black as night and were fringed with thick curling lashes that any woman would kill for. Willow now noticed that his eyes were fixed on her, with a disturbing intensity. She silently groaned. Seeing Theo again was all she needed at this point to turn what little shred of delight she had in winning the award to dust. But even so she could not tear her eyes away from his. It was a replay of the first time they’d met—she was dumbstruck.
‘I think Miss Blain has answered enough of your questions.’ Theo’s strong hand quickly curved around her elbow, and Willow found herself being marched across the foyer and straight into a large office.
‘You.’ Willow finally found her voice, and glanced wildly around—they were in the manager’s office! ‘We can’t come in here,’ she said inanely.
‘We can when I own the hotel,’ Theo Kadros declared arrogantly. Turning to the startled manager, he said, ‘Get out there and get rid of those two news hounds. Reassure Miss Blain’s publisher that she won’t be a minute, and shut the door behind you when you leave.’
‘No,’ Willow said shakily. This could not be happening to her. Wide blue eyes fixed in horror now on his hard, handsome face, she felt a slither of fear slowly trickling down her spine.
She had convinced herself over the past nine years that she would never see Theo Kadros again. Now standing in front of him she wondered what the odds were of them bumping into each other like this. Probably astronomical! This had to be the most disastrous coincidence of all time, and instantly Willow realised the consequences could be catastrophic.
It was so unfair; at her moment of triumph, Theo Kadros had appeared like a spectre at the feast. What kind of rotten luck was that? she silently screamed. Tearing her gaze from his, she looked around her, terrified he would see the fear and turmoil she knew must be reflected in her eyes.
At their first meeting she had taken one look at him and been utterly entranced by his masculine beauty. Even now, looking back, she inwardly cringed with embarrassment at how very young and innocent she had been.
It had been an unhappy time in her life. Her mother and father had both been in the Foreign Office. Her father had died in an accident in Africa when she was a baby and she did not really remember him. But her mother had continued with her career in the Foreign Office. Willow had spent most of her childhood with her grandmother in Devon. During the holidays Willow would visit her mother at whichever embassy she was attached to, and at the age of twelve she had been sent to boarding-school.
Unfortunately Willow’s grandmother had died three months before her eighteenth birthday, and she had been on her way to spend the summer holiday with her mother in India. Alone in London for the first time, and supposedly protected by close friends of her mum, she had been no match for the sophisticated seduction skills of Theo Kadros.
With her only experience of life garnered from books, and her head stuffed full of romantic teenage fantasies, Willow had been instantly mesmerised by the wondrous gleam in his deep dark eyes. And for the first time in her life she had suffered the full force of a man’s overwhelming sensual attraction and had been totally captivated. It had been no contest—Willow had surrendered on the spot. She’d fallen head over heels in love with him, and then fallen into bed with him, and had spent a dream-like night making wild, passionate love.
No, not love, sex… Willow instantly amended. She had discovered the true meaning of her Quaker grandmother’s many dire warnings about men and sex and their lack of respect the morning after.
Like a besotted fool she had believed Theo when he’d asked her to spend the weekend with him, so they could get to know each other better. She had watched him fall asleep and then returned to her room and packed. Later, feeling every inch a real woman, she had slipped downstairs to ring her mother to tell her of her change of plan. Her head had been full of love and happy ever after. But before she’d had a chance to call the telephone in the hall had rang.
Politely answering, she had listened in numb disbelief as a woman