The Greek Tycoon's Convenient Bride. Kate Hewitt
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now—as you have told me yourself. You are her legal guardian aren’t you? For the moment.’
For the moment. Panic fluttered through her insides, left her weak and afraid. ‘Yes, I am. But I’m under no obligation…’
Lukas waved this empty threat aside with scathing contempt. ‘Do not think to outmanoeuvre or outrank me, Miss Davies. I don’t care what the law says. If Annabel is related to me, I will be the one deciding what place you may have in her life…if any. Is that understood?’
Rhiannon blinked in shock at the cold assessment. If any? ‘I’m her guardian…You can’t—’
‘If you didn’t want to start this,’ Lukas informed her with soft menace, ‘you shouldn’t have come. No one would have been any the wiser.’
‘I came,’ Rhiannon replied jerkily, ‘because it was my responsibility to find her true family—’
‘So let me fulfil my responsibility,’ Lukas interjected with cold finality. ‘Until her future is decided, you will remain.’
And then she would be dismissed. The thought frightened her. It hurt, and she hadn’t expected it to.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Rhiannon knew there was no point in arguing, no use in being angry. He had the power, the money, and the expensive legal team to enforce whatever he wished; she had nothing. She didn’t even know what her rights were, hadn’t even checked. After all, it wasn’t supposed to have turned out like this.
‘Fine. I’ll stay…but on my terms. Annabel is still in my care, and nothing has been proved yet.’
‘Indeed. In the meantime, you can move to a better room. A private suite.’
Rhiannon stared at him. It was a generous offer, but it was also a way to control her. Imprison her. ‘I’m not moving rooms.’
‘You must. You would be more comfortable, and so would the child. Besides, there is more privacy. Here—’ he motioned to the expanse of beach ‘—anyone could come along. Photographers included.’
‘Photographers?’ Rhiannon repeated blankly, only to have him stare at her in disbelief.
‘Paparazzi. Since you have so publicly announced that I have a child, the tabloid press are no doubt starting to swarm, clamouring for a photo or statement. I’d prefer for you—and the child—to be removed from such things.’
Rhiannon nodded jerkily, her mind whirling, becoming numb. ‘All right.’
A cry pierced the stillness of the late afternoon, and Lukas jerked in surprise at the sound. Rhiannon hurried inside.
Annabel was sitting up in her cot, her hair matted sweatily to her flushed face, arms held up in helpless appeal.
Rhiannon scooped her up, breathed in her baby scent. It was becoming familiar, she realised. It was becoming dear.
Annabel’s arms crept around her neck, held on. She nestled her chubby face in the curve of Rhiannon’s shoulder and something in her splintered, fell apart to reveal the raw, aching need underneath.
She wanted this child.
She wanted to love her…and to be loved back.
She’d tried to hold the tide of emotions back, but they came anyway.
And now it looked as if Lukas Petrakides wasn’t going to let that happen.
She turned, aware of his presence in the doorway. The fading sunlight outlined him in bronze, touching his hair with gold.
There was a look of fierce longing in his eyes, something deep and primal, before he noted tonelessly, ‘She likes you.’
‘We’re starting to bond,’ Rhiannon admitted cautiously. ‘It’s only been two weeks.’
‘Two weeks? When did Leanne die?’
‘Tuesday.’
Lukas stared at her in surprise, a frown marring the perfection of his features, putting a crease in his forehead. ‘Four days ago?’
Rhiannon’s hands stroked Annabel’s back, her arms curling protectively around her warm little body. ‘Yes. She only showed up on my doorstep a little over two weeks ago, and she died ten days later. Annabel has been in my sole care since then.’
‘So there’s been no time to formally adopt her?’ Lukas surmised.
Rhiannon’s arms tightened so that Annabel let out a squeal of protest.
‘No, but Leanne did make me Annabel’s legal guardian. I have the papers to prove it. It satisfied the immigration authorities, so it should be enough for you.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Annabel is mine.’
‘If you wanted her to be,’ Lukas said quietly. ‘Somehow I don’t think you do.’
Hurt and fury rippled through her at his brutal assessment. ‘You’re making assumptions,’ she replied through gritted teeth. ‘Annabel needs her bottle. So you’ll have to excuse me.’
She turned away, escaped to the bathroom, where she’d rinsed out Annabel’s army of bottles. She set the baby in her car seat and with shaking fingers measured out the powdered formula.
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