She hated the kind of people functions such as the one on the yacht attracted: women in desperate search of a rich husband, and if he happened to be ninety and so frail he could drop dead at any minute, so much the better; men who drank too much and felt their wealth and importance entitled them to paw any women who caught their fancy. She’d fended off dozens in her time, revolted by their excesses, enraged by their arrogance and condescension. She was not impressed by their studiously acquired tans, their expensively capped teeth, their hair implants. She had nothing but contempt for their boastful swaggering. Did they think what showed on the surface defined who they really were? Did they ever look at her and see past the glamorous veneer to the person underneath—one with a working brain and a heart that felt hurt and embarrassment just as keenly as anyone else?

      But Dimitrios Giannakis was different. Slightly aloof and rather amused by the jostling for attention, the artificial laughter, the superficial conversation, he appeared content to socialize mostly within his own exclusive circle of friends and acquaintances. Yet when called upon to mingle, he did so with grace and charm. An acknowledged billionaire in his own right, he was rumored to be enigmatic, reserved, powerful and, when occasion called for it, utterly ruthless.

      Not a man to lock horns with, from all accounts, but definitely one to admire from a distance for his cosmopolitan sophistication, his wit and, yes, his extraordinary male beauty to which even she, accustomed as she was to the most handsome of the species, was not immune.

      He stood a good head taller than anyone else on board. Had a cleft in his chin, eyelashes an inch long and a mouth designed to stir a woman to outrageous fantasies. By mid-afternoon, his square, clean-cut jaw was dusted with a five-o’clock shadow. His high, patrician cheekbones were surely the legacy of some royal ancestor.

      Below the neck he was no less impressive. His body, whether clad in an elegant dinner jacket or swimming trunks that defied gravity and clung to his lean hips by sheer willpower was, in a word, perfection. Strong, lean, sleekly muscled and, like his rare smile, dauntingly sexy, it epitomized masculine virility at its most potent.

      She caught his attention when she sat across from him at dinner on the verandah deck, on the fifth night. Between courses, a few couples danced under the stars. Cecily sat at another table, engrossed in the leader of a rock band who was busy plying her with flattery and probably too much alcohol, but Carter was keeping an eye on her.

      Not in the least interested in the latest celebrity gossip among those remaining at her own table, Brianna had smothered a yawn and glanced up to find Dimitrios’s amused gaze fixed on her face.

      “Do I take it,” he murmured, his English so fluent only a trace of accent betrayed his Greek heritage, “that you find the conversation less than enthralling?”

      “Oh, dear!” she said ruefully. “Does it show?”

      “I’m afraid so.” He rose and extended his hand. “Allow me to come to the rescue.”

      She’d have liked to say she wasn’t in such dire straits that she couldn’t rescue herself, but hypnotized by his faint smile and the hint of dark mystery in his eyes, she responded without a moment’s hesitation. Docile as a lamb, she placed her hand in his.

      Love at first sight? Until she met Dimitrios Giannakis, she hadn’t believed in it. Fifteen minutes in his arms, with her body pressed close to his and his breath ruffling her hair, and she decided differently.

      And paid a terrible price for doing so.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE private clinic where she was to meet with Noelle Manning was in Kifissia, a northern suburb of Athens, just over half an hour’s drive west of Rafina. The road wound over Mount Penteli, a fairly sparsely populated area of pine-scented forests, with the occasional very grand house interspersed among acreages whose little old cottages were as much a part of the landscape as the grape vines and olive trees planted on the land. Traffic was light, consisting mostly of agricultural vehicles, although once the Mercedes passed a truck carrying massive slabs of marble.

      Set in spacious grounds on a quiet crescent high above the city, the clinic rose sleek and white against a backdrop of leafy green trees and brilliant blue sky. A receptionist in the lobby took her name and spoke briefly into an intercom. Within minutes Brianna was escorted to Noelle’s consulting room on the second floor, where the doctor wasted no time getting down to business.

      For the next hour she outlined the various stages of testing a potential donor to determine if she fulfilled all the requirements for a traditional bone marrow harvest, explaining each step with the succinct clarity of a true expert in her field.

      “Naturally, we’ve combed the international registry of unrelated donors hoping to find a perfect tissue match, but so far we’ve unfortunately come up empty-handed,” she concluded. “And since time is very much of the essence in Poppy’s case, we’re faced with settling for what we call an alternative donor such as a parent, who offers a half match. Poppy’s mother is deceased—”

      “Yes, but what about Dimitrios?”

      “He’s