Modern Romance - The Best of the Year

She forced herself to keep looking at him even though she felt as if a knife was lacerating her insides. ‘I want more, Rafaele... Despite what I told you about my views on marriage I’ve always secretly hoped I’d meet someone and fall in love. I thought I could protect myself too, but I can’t...none of us can.’

* * *

Rafaele saw Sam backlit in her porch and even in such a domestic banal setting she’d never looked more beautiful. His heart splintered apart into pieces and he knew that he had no choice now but to step out and into the chasm of nothing—and possibly everything.

He walked into the middle of the hall and looked at Sam. And then very deliberately he got down on his knees in front of her. For a terrifying moment Rafaele felt the surge of the past threatening to rise up and strangle him, heard voices about to hound him, tell him he was no better than his father... But it didn’t happen. What he did feel was a heady feeling of peace for the first time in a long time.

Sam was looking at him, horrified. She quickly shut the door again and leant against it. ‘Rafaele, get up... What are you doing?’

Somehow Rafaele found the ability to speak. ‘This has been my nightmare scenario for so long, Sam, and I’m tired of it. The truth is that I want more too. I want it all. And I am willing to beg for it—just like my father. Except I know that this is different. I’m not him.’

Sam shook her head and Rafaele could see her eyes grow suspiciously bright.

Her voice sounded thick. ‘You don’t have to do this just to prove a point. Get up, Rafaele...’

He shook his head. The view from down here wasn’t bad at all, Rafaele realised. Prostrating himself in front of the woman he loved was something he’d do over and over again if he had to.

Almost gently now, he said, ‘Sam...don’t you realise it yet?’

She shook her head faintly. ‘Realise what?’

Rafaele took a deep breath. ‘That I am so madly and deeply and crazily in love with you that I’ve made a complete mess of everything...’

He looked down for a moment and then back up, steeling himself.

‘I know you don’t feel the same way...how could you when I’ve treated you so badly in the past? But... I truly hope that we might have enough to work with...and in time you might feel something. We have Milo...’

Sam just looked at him for a long moment, and then she whispered, ‘Did you just say you love me?’

Rafaele nodded, sensing her shock, feeling icicles of pain start to settle around his heart despite his brave words. Humiliation started to make his skin prickle. The demons weren’t so far away after all.

Sam closed her eyes and he heard her long, shuddering breath. When she opened them again they overflowed with tears.

‘Sam...’ he said hoarsely, and went to stand up.

But before he could move she’d launched herself at him and they landed in a tangle of limbs on the floor. The breath was knocked out of Rafaele’s chest for a second, and then he saw Sam’s face above his own, felt her tears splash onto his cheeks. And he couldn’t resist pulling her head down so that he could kiss her. Even in the midst of not knowing, he had to touch her.

The kiss was desperate and salty and wet, and then Sam drew back, breathing hard. She put her hands around his face and said again, ‘You love me?’

She was lying on his body, they touched at every point, and Rafaele could feel himself stirring to life. He nodded. ‘Yes. I love you, Sam. I want you in my life for ever...you and Milo. I want us to be a family. I can’t live without you. When you left last week...I died inside.’

A sob escaped Sam’s mouth and Rafaele felt her chest heaving against his.

Finally she managed to get out, ‘I love you, Rafaele. I fell for you four years ago, and when you let me go I thought I’d die...but then there was Milo...and I thought I’d stopped loving you and started hating you. But I hadn’t. I’ve always loved you and I will always love you.’

Rafaele sat up and Sam spread her legs around his hips so they faced each other. She sat in the cradle of his lap, where his erection was distractingly full, but he forced himself to look at her, sinking willingly into those grey depths and wondering how on earth he’d not let himself do this before now. It was the easiest thing.

His chest expanded as her words sank in and he felt a very fledgling burgeoning sense of trust take root within him and hold...

‘I fell for you too...but it was so terrifying that I ran. You got too close, Sam—closer than I’d ever let anyone get—and when I realised it I couldn’t handle it. Like a coward I left you alone to deal with your trauma...’

Sam smoothed his jaw with a tender hand. She looked at him, her eyes wounded. ‘I punished you...in the most heinous way. You were right. I was hurt and upset, heartbroken that you didn’t want me... I kept Milo from you, and you didn’t deserve that.’

Rafaele tucked some hair behind Sam’s ear. He was very serious. ‘I understand why you did it. You sensed my reluctance, Sam, my need to escape. But it wasn’t from you, it was from myself... You never really left me. You haunted me.’

Sam’s eyes flashed. ‘Not enough to stop you going to bed with another woman almost immediately.’

Rafaele struggled to comprehend, and then he recalled her accusing him of being with another woman a week after he’d left. He shook his head and smiled wryly, knowing that she was going to demand every inch of him for the rest of his life and not wanting it any other way.

‘Would it help you to know that, despite appearances to the contrary I didn’t sleep with anyone for a year after you left?’ He grimaced. ‘I couldn’t...perform.’

Sam’s eyes widened with obvious feminine satisfaction. ‘You were impotent?’

Rafaele scowled. ‘I’m not impotent.’

Sam wriggled on his lap, feeling for herself just how potent he was. ‘You’re not impotent with me.’

Rafaele groaned softly, his hands touching her face, thumb pressing her lower lip. ‘I could never be impotent with you. I just have to look at you and I’m turned on.’

Sounding serious, Sam said, ‘Me too...’

‘Sam...that night when I tied you up...’

A dark flush highlighted those cheekbones and something inside Sam melted anew at seeing him so unlike his usual confident, cocky self. He was avoiding her eye and she tipped his chin towards her.

‘I liked it...’ she whispered, blushing.

‘But you cried afterwards...’

Her eyes softened. ‘Because I had just realised how much I still loved you. I felt so vulnerable, and I thought you were still punishing me for Milo.’

Rafaele groaned. ‘I was angry, but it was because you were under my skin again and I didn’t want you there. You brought up too many feelings, made me feel out of control...so I needed to control you.’

A wicked glint came into Sam’s eyes. ‘We can call it quits if you let me tie you up next time.’

Sam felt Rafaele’s body jerk underneath hers.

He quirked a brow at her. ‘Bridie has Milo...’

Needing no further encouragement, Sam scrambled inelegantly off Rafaele’s lap and stood up. She looked down at him and held out a hand. Rafaele felt his heart squeeze so much that it hurt. The symbolism of the moment was huge as he put his hand in Sam’s to let her help him up, but just before he came up all the way, he stopped on one knee.

‘Wait...there’s one more thing.’

Rafaele’s heart beat fast at the way Sam bit her lip. He gripped her hand like a lifeline and with his other hand pulled out the small but precious cargo from his pocket.

He held up the vintage diamond ring and looked at her. ‘Samantha, will you marry me? Because I love you more than life itself—you and Milo.’

She looked at the ring and her eyes glittered again with the onset of fresh tears. ‘It’s beautiful...’

He could see the final struggle in her face, the fear of believing that this was real...but then she smiled and it bathed him in a warmth he’d never known before.

‘Yes, I’ll marry you, Rafaele.’

She held out her hand and it trembled.

With a none too steady hand himself, Rafaele pushed the sparkling ring onto her finger. And then, with his other hand still in her firm grip, she pulled him up out of the painful past and into a brighter future.

A month later...

Sam took a deep breath and started her walk down the aisle of the small church in the grounds of Rafaele’s Milan palazzo. Umberto was giving her away and he wasn’t even using his cane. He was walking taller and stronger almost every day...especially on the days when Bridie was around...

Milo walked ahead of them in a suit, throwing rose petals with chaotic random abandon. He’d look back every now and then with a huge smile and Sam would have to prompt him to keep going. The small church was filled with people, but Sam was oblivious. She saw only the tall figure of the man waiting for her at the top of the aisle. And then he turned around, as if unable to help himself, and he smiled. Sam smiled back.

Umberto handed her over with due deference and then Rafaele was claiming her, pulling her into him. The priest’s words washed over and through Sam. She would never have said she was a religious person, but something in the ritual seemed to complete the process she and Rafaele had embarked on a month before, cleansing away any vague residual painful pieces of the past.

There was only now and the future, and the heavy weight of the wedding band on her finger, and Rafaele bending to kiss her with such a look of reverence on his face that she could have wept. In fact she did weep, and he wiped her tears away with his fingers.

Later, as they danced at their reception, which had been set up in a marquee in the grounds of the palazzo, Rafaele said, ‘Have I told you yet how beautiful you look?’

Sam smiled. ‘About a hundred times, but I don’t mind.’

And Sam felt beautiful, truly, for the first time in her life. Even though her dress was simple and her hair hadn’t been styled by a professional and she’d done her own make-up. She felt confident, and sexy, and most importantly loved.

Milo appeared at their feet and Rafaele lifted him up and that was how they finished their wedding dance—in a circle of love, the three of them.

Over in a corner of the marquee stood Alexio Christakos, Rafaele’s half-brother. He’d been best man, done his duty and given his speech, made everyone laugh. Made the women giggle and look at him covetously. Even now they surrounded him, waiting for their moment to strike, for the slightest gesture of encouragement.

Alexio grimaced. He was starting to feel claustrophobic. Hell. Who was he kidding? He’d been feeling claustrophobic on his brother’s behalf ever since Rafaele had told him that he was getting married and had a son!

He shook his head again and grimaced when he saw Rafaele kiss his bride for the umpteenth time. Alexio looked at her. He guessed she was pretty enough, in a subtle and unassuming way, but he couldn’t see how she made Rafaele turn almost feral whenever another man came close. Even Alexio had been sent none too subtle hands-off signals from the moment he’d met her.

Alexio wondered how it was possible that Rafaele couldn’t see that she must be marrying him only for his security and wealth. Had he become so duped by good sex that he’d forgotten one of the most important lessons they’d learnt from their dear departed mother? That a woman’s main aim in life was to feather her nest and seek the security of a rich man?

Alexio mentally saluted his brother and wished him well. He told himself he’d try not to say I told you so when it all fell apart. Mind you, he had to concede the kid was cute. His nephew. He’d actually had quite an entertaining time with him earlier, when he’d looked after him for a bit between the wedding and the reception. Still... He shuddered lightly. He had no intention of embarking on that path any time soon, if ever...

Alexio stopped focusing on his brother and his new wife and son for a minute and took in the crowd around him. From nearby, a gorgeous brunette caught his eye. She was tall and lissom, with curves in all the right places. She looked at him with sexy confidence and smiled the smile of a practised seductress.

Alexio felt his body stir, his blood move southwards. It wasn’t the most compelling spark of attraction he’d ever felt...but when was the last time that had happened...? Alexio ignored that voice and smiled back. When he saw the light of triumph in her eyes at catching the attention of the most eligible bachelor in the room, Alexio forced down the feeling of emptiness inside him and moved towards her.

* * * * *

Read on for an extract from SECURING THE GREEK’S LEGACY by Julia James.

CHAPTER ONE

ANATOLE TELONIDIS STARED bleakly across the large, expensively furnished lounge of the penthouse apartment in the most fashionable part of Athens. It was still as untidy as it had been when his young cousin Marcos Petranakos had last walked out of it a few short nightmare weeks ago, straight to his death.

When their mutual grandfather, Timon Petranakos, had phoned his older grandson he had been distraught. ‘Anatole, he’s dead! Marcos, my beloved Marcos—he’s dead!’ the old man had cried out.

Smashed to pieces at twenty-five, driving far too fast in the lethal supercar that had been Timon’s own present to Marcos, given in the wake of their grandfather’s recent diagnosis with cancer.

The death of his favourite grandson, whom he had spoiled lavishly since Marcos had lost his parents as a teenager, had been a devastating blow. Timon had since refused all treatment for his cancer, longing now only for his own death.

Anatole could understand his grandfather’s devastation, his mind-numbing grief. But the fallout from Marcos’s tragic death would affect more lives than their own family’s. With no direct heir now to the vast Petranakos Corporation, the company would pass to an obscure Petranakos relative whose business inexperience would surely, in these parlous economic times, lead inevitably to the company’s collapse and the loss of thousands of jobs, adding to the country’s sky-high unemployment levels.

Though Anatole had his own late father’s business empire to run—which he did with tireless efficiency and a pressing sense of responsibility—he knew that, had Marcos lived, he could have instilled a similar sense of responsibility into his hedonistic young cousin, guiding him effectively. But the new heir—middle-aged, self-important and conceited—was resistant to any such guidance.

Frustration with the fate awaiting the Petranakos Corporation—and its hapless workforce—Anatole started on the grim process of sorting out his young cousin’s possessions. Bleakly, he began his sombre task.

Paperwork was the first essential. As he located Marcos’s desk and set about methodically sorting out its jumbled contents a familiar ripple of irritation went through him. Marcos had been the least organised person he’d known—receipts, bills and personal correspondence were all muddled up, demonstrating just how uninterested Marcos had been in anything other than having a good time. Fast cars, high living and an endless procession of highly temporary females had been his favoured lifestyle. Unlike Anatole himself. Running the Telonidis businesses kept him too occupied for anything more than occasional relationships, usually with busy, high-powered businesswomen he worked with in the world of finance.

Frustration bit at Anatole.

If only Marcos had married! Then there might have been a son to inherit from Timon! I’d have kept the Petranakos Corporation safe for him until the child grew up!

But to the fun-seeking Marcos marriage would have been anathema! Girls had been for casual relationships only. There’d be time later for getting married, he’d always said.

But there was to be no later...

Grim-faced, his honed features starkly etched, Anatole went on sorting through the papers in his cousin’s desk. Official in one pile, personal in another. The latter pile was not large—not in this age of texting and the internet—but one drawer revealed a batch of three or four envelopes addressed to Marcos in cursive Roman script with a London postmark and UK stamps. Only one had been opened.

Anatole frowned. The lilac-coloured envelopes and the large, looping script suggested a female writer. Though Marcos’s dramatic death had been splashed across the Greek tabloids, a British girlfriend might not have heard of it. It might be necessary, Anatole thought reluctantly, for him to let her know of Marcos’s fate. That said, he realised as he glanced at the envelopes’ postmarks, none of these was dated more recently than nine months ago. Whoever she was, the affair—or whatever it had been—was clearly long over.

With a swift impatience to be done with the whole grim business of sorting through Marcos’s personal effects Anatole took the folded single piece of paper from the one envelope that was open. He flicked open the note and started to read the English writing.

And as he did he froze completely...

* * *

Lyn made her way out of the lecture hall and sighed. It was no good, she would far rather be studying history! But accountancy would enable her to earn a decent living in the future and that was essential—especially if she were to persuade the authorities that she was capable of raising a child on her own: her beloved Georgy. But for now, while she was still waiting so anxiously to learn if she could adopt him, she was only allowed to be his foster carer. She knew the welfare authorities would prefer for him to be adopted by one of the many childless couples anxious to adopt a healthy baby, but Lyn was determined that no one would take Georgy from her! No one!

It didn’t matter how much of a struggle it was to keep at her studies while looking after a baby as well, especially with money so short—she would manage somehow! A familiar regret swept over her: if only she’d gone to college sooner and already had her qualifications. But she hadn’t been able to go straight from school because she’d had to stay home and look after Lindy. She hadn’t been able to leave her young teenage sister to the indifference and neglect which was all her mother had offered. But when Lindy had left school herself and gone to London, to live with a girlfriend and get a job, her mother had been taken ill, her lungs and liver finally giving in after decades of abuse from smoking and alcohol, and there had been no one else to look after her except Lyn.

And now there was Georgy...

‘Lyn Brandon?’

It was one of the university’s admin staff.

‘Someone’s asking to see you,’ the woman said briskly, and pointed to one of the offices across the corridor.

Frowning, Lyn walked inside.

And stopped dead.

Standing by the window, silhouetted by the fading light, was an imposing, dark-suited figure. Tall, wearing a black cashmere overcoat with a black cashmere scarf hooked around the strong column of his neck, the man had a natural Mediterranean tan that, along with his raven-dark hair, instantly told Lyn that he was not English. Just as the planes and features of his face told her that he was jaw-droppingly good-looking.

It was a face, though, that was staring at her with a mouth set in a tight line—as though he were seeing someone he had not expected. A frown creased his brow.

‘Miss Brandon?’ He said her name, his voice accented, as if he did not quite believe it.

Dark eyes flicked over her and Lyn felt two spots of colour mount in her cheeks. Immediately she became conscious of the way her hair was caught back in a stringy ponytail. She had not a scrap of make-up on, and her clothes were serviceable rather than fashionable.

Then suddenly, overriding that painful consciousness, there came a jolt of realisation as to just who this clearly foreign man must be—could only be...

The Mediterranean looks, the expensive clothes, the sleekly groomed looks, the whole aura of wealth about him... She felt her stomach constrict, filling with instinctive fear.

Across the narrow room Anatole caught the flash of alarm and wondered at it, but not nearly as much as he was wondering whether he had, after all, really tracked down the woman he’d been so urgently seeking ever since reading that letter in Marcos’s apartment—the woman who, so his investigators had discovered, had most definitely given birth to a baby boy...

Is he Marcos’s son? The question was burning in hope. Because if Marcos had had a son then it changed everything. Everything!

If, by a miracle, Marcos had a son, then Anatole had to find him and bring him home to Greece, so that Timon, who was fading with every passing day, could find instead a last blessing from the cruel fate that had taken so much from him.

And it was not just for his grandfather that a son of Marcos’s would be a blessing, either, Anatole knew. This would persuade Timon to change his will, to acknowledge that his beloved Marcos had had a son to whom he could now leave the Petranakos Corporation. Infant though he was, Anatole would guard the child’s inheritance, keep it safe and prosperous for him—and save the livelihoods of all its employees.

Tracking down the author of the letters had led him first to a council house in the south of the country and then, through information given to his detectives by neighbours, to this northern college, where he’d been told the young woman he was so urgently seeking—Linda Brandon—had recently moved.

But as his eyes rested now on the woman he was addressing he felt doubt fill him. This was the woman he’d trekked to this grim, rainswept northern town to find in a race against time for his stricken grandfather? Marcos wouldn’t even have looked twice at her—let alone taken her to his bed!

‘Are you Miss Brandon?’ he asked, his voice sharper now.

He saw her swallow and nod jerkily. Saw, too, that her entire body had tensed.

‘I am Anatole Telonidis,’ he announced. His voice sounded clipped, but his mission was a painful one—and an urgent one. ‘I am here on behalf of my cousin, Marcos Petranakos, with whom I believe you are...’ he sought the right phrase ‘...acquainted.’

Even as he said it his eyes flicked over her again doubtfully. Even putting aside her unprepossessing appearance, Marcos’s taste had been for curvy blondes—not thin brunettes. But her reaction told him that she must indeed be the person he was looking for so urgently—she had instantly recognised Marcos’s name.

And not favourably...

Her expression had changed. Hardened. ‘So he couldn’t even be bothered to come himself!’ she retorted scornfully.

If she’d sought to hit home with her accusation she’d failed. The man who’d declared himself Marcos Petranakos’s cousin stilled. In the dark eyes a flash of deep emotion showed and Lyn saw his face stiffen.

‘The situation is not as you suppose,’ he said.

It was as if, she realised, he was picking his words carefully.

He paused a moment, as if steeling himself to speak, then said, ‘I must talk to you. But the matter is...difficult.’

Lyn shook her head violently. She could feel the adrenaline running through her body. ‘No, it’s not difficult at all!’ she retorted. ‘Whatever message you’ve been sent to deliver by your cousin, you needn’t bother! Georgy—his son!—is fine without him. Absolutely fine!’

She saw emotion flash in his dark eyes again, saw the shadow behind it. Out of nowhere a chill went through her.

‘There is something I must tell you,’ Anatole Telonidis was saying. His voice was grim, and bleak, as if he were forcing the words out.

Lyn’s hands clenched. ‘There is nothing you can say that I care about—!’ she began.

But his deep, sombre voice cut right through hers. ‘My cousin is dead.’

There was silence. Complete silence. Wordlessly, Anatole cursed himself for his blunt outburst. But it had been impossible to hear her hostility, her scorn, when Marcos lay dead in his grave...

‘Dead?’ Lyn’s voice was hollow with shock.