Mediterranean Seduction. Кэрол Мортимер
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long and deep into her fisherman’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Iannis said with satisfaction, taking hold of her hands and kissing each finger in turn, ‘because it seems shares in the Kiriakos shipping line have reached an all-time high. No,’ he warned, when Charlotte tensed in his arms and stared into his eyes for confirmation. ‘You cannot change your mind now you know I have not lost the Kiriakos fortune. You have already given me your word.’
‘But you made me think—’
‘Let’s just call it good business practice,’ he murmured, cutting across her protest firmly. ‘And I haven’t deceived you, Charlotte, in any way. The news that I ground myself by returning to my roots has been so well received it seems I must continue to fish,’ he said wryly, ‘for the good of my business as well as my soul. So,’ he said, dropping a kiss on her mouth, ‘I’ll ask you again, just so that there can be no misunderstanding. Will you marry me, Charlotte Clare—regardless of my occupation?’
‘As long as you are always Iannis Kiriakos the fisherman of Iskos for me,’ Charlotte agreed softly, ‘I will.’
‘Is it really just six short days since we met?’ Iannis murmured, staring deep into Charlotte’s eyes.
‘Seven,’ Charlotte corrected him. ‘I saw you first on Tuesday.’
‘So long,’ Iannis teased, smiling into her eyes. ‘You saw me on Tuesday, we met on Wednesday, and now, the following Monday, you agree to marry me—would you describe yourself as a fast woman?’
‘No—just someone who can keep up with you,’ Charlotte warned him, feeling happiness flood through her.
‘So much has happened in so short a time,’ Iannis said tenderly, brushing some strands of hair from her face. ‘You have turned my world around in a week, Charlotte Clare.’
‘And you mine, Iannis Kiriakos.’
‘It seems that even a man who appears to have everything in the eyes of the world has nothing until he knows the value of love,’ Iannis observed wryly, and, drawing Charlotte back into the safe harbour of his arms, he kissed her.
‘MAMA, Mama!’
Charlotte looked up fondly as the small dark-haired boy erupted out of the kitchen at the taverna, with Mikos hot on his heels.
‘Papa!’ the child cried, plucking at Iannis’s hand, where it had been resting on the swell of Charlotte’s stomach. ‘Listen to me, Papa,’ Manos Kiriakos insisted, putting his face very close to his father’s as Iannis swung him onto his lap. ‘I have something very important to tell you.’
‘Hasn’t Mikos fed you enough yet?’ Iannis murmured, dropping a kiss on his young son’s head and winking at Mikos, who had just arrived breathless and flustered at their table.
‘This is really important, Papa,’ Manos said seriously. ‘Mikos wants to take me fishing tomorrow. He says I can be a fisherman one day, like him. What do you say, Papa?’ he demanded excitedly. ‘Can I go?’
‘All true Greeks are fishermen at heart,’ Iannis agreed, planting a kiss on his son’s glossy black curls. ‘What does your mother say?’
Charlotte’s gaze met with her husband’s dark enquiring stare across the table, and she smiled deep into his eyes before she answered. ‘Yes, you can go, Manos,’ she said, reaching out to clasp the hands of her husband and her firstborn. ‘I have always had the greatest respect for the fishermen of Iskos. In my eyes they are, without doubt, the very best of men.’
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I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.
I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.
These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.
We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
IT HAD rained in the night, and when Enrique stepped out onto his balcony at six o’clock the morning air brought a feathering of goosebumps over his flesh.
Of course it was very early, too early for the pale thread of the rising sun to give any warmth to the day. He should still be in his bed—or rather in Sanchia’s bed, as she had expected—instead of standing here, brooding over something that alone could bring an unwelcome thinning of his blood.
His long fingers curled impatiently over the iron railing. It was still much warmer here, even at this ungodly hour of the morning, than it had been in England, he recalled, not altogether wisely. Despite the fact that early June in Andalusia meant blue skies and long days of hot sunshine, London had been cool and overcast while he was there, making him glad to be boarding the plane to come back home.
Only to find that letter waiting for him…
He scowled. He didn’t want to think about that now. He’d spent far too many hours thinking about it already and it was all too easy to allow his anger to overtake his common sense. The realisation that, if his father hadn’t been so ill, the letter would have been delivered to him filled him with outrage. It was only because Julio de Montoya was in the hospital in Seville that the letter had lain unopened on his desk until Enrique’s return the day before.
His hands tightened on the railing, his fingertips brushing the petals