Rhiannon took a breath. The desire she’d felt, the warmth, the connection, were distant memories. All she felt now was uncertainty. Fear. The cold, metallic tang was on her tongue. She was handling this wrong. She knew she was. But if Lukas would only listen to her, then he would understand.

He would accept, and he would be glad. She had to believe that.

‘I think it would be better said in private.’

She spoke in a low voice, but still heard the shocked indrawn breaths from the gossipy vultures around her.

‘You do?’ His voice was soft, musing, but his eyes were as hard as steel.

She kept saying the wrong thing. She saw it in the way he looked at her now, with derision and dislike. What had happened? She didn’t understand this world—its politics, its hidden agendas. She just wanted to tell him about his daughter.

‘Yes…it is important, I promise. You need to know…’ She trailed off uncertainly. She felt tension thrum in the air, in her body. In his.

There was a connection, but it wasn’t a good one.

It felt very bad.

‘I cannot imagine,’ Lukas replied in a voice of lethal quiet, ‘that you have anything to say to me that I need to know, Miss…?’

‘Davies—Rhiannon Davies. And please believe me—I do. I only need a moment of your time…’ And then a lifetime. But there would—please, God—be other opportunities to discuss their future. Annabel’s future.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have a moment…for you,’ Lukas said, his tone chillingly soft.

‘No…No…Just wait…’ She flung one hand out in appeal; it was ignored. ‘You don’t understand. Someone else is involved. We have a mutual friend.’ Her words came out stilted, strained. Awful. Why hadn’t she thought of a better way to handle this?

‘I don’t think we’ve ever met,’ Lukas said after a tiny pause. ‘And I doubt we have any mutual friends.’

They were from different worlds; it was glaringly obvious. He was accustomed to wealth, privilege, power—light years away from her small suburban existence in Wales.

He had power; she had nothing.

Except Annabel. The realisation gave her a much-needed boost of courage.

‘No, we haven’t met,’ she agreed, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. ‘But there is someone we both know—both care about. A friend…’ Although, according to Leanne, she and Lukas had been a lot more than friendly.

For a moment Rhiannon’s mind dwelt on that strangely unwelcome possibility—Lukas and Leanne, bodies entwined, fused. Lips, hips, shoulders, thighs. Passion created, enjoyed, shared. They’d made a child together.

She shook her head. She didn’t want to think about it. Hadn’t even asked Leanne about the details. A weekend of passion, Leanne had said with a sigh, before naming the father.

Take care of her for me. Don’t let her down.

Love her.

That was what this was about. That was why she had come.

Annabel needed love. Real love. The love of her father.

‘Someone we both care about?’ Lukas repeated, and this time Rhiannon heard more of the steel. The incredulity. Her heart rate sped up, doubled. She nodded.

‘Yes…And if you’d just give me a moment in private, I could explain. It would be…worth your while.’

He froze, and Rhiannon felt as if her heart had frozen as well. For a moment everything seemed suspended, still, that terrible moment before the storm hit and the lightning struck.

‘Worth my while?’ he repeated. It was a simple statement, yet it held a wealth of unpleasant meaning. Alarm prickled along Rhiannon’s spine, tingling up her nape as Lukas made eye contact with someone over her shoulder. Something was happening. Something bad.

He gave a brief, almost indiscernible nod, then his icy gaze snapped back to her—unyielding, unmerciful.

She suppressed a shiver.

Had she actually thought this was a gentle man?

‘I’m just trying to be polite,’ she explained. ‘By requesting some privacy—’

‘I can be polite,’ he replied with silky, lethal intent. ‘As a courtesy, I’m letting you know that you have five seconds before my security guards escort you from this room and this resort.’

Shock shot through her, followed by scathing disbelief and, worse, hurt. She should have expected this, but she hadn’t. After that first moment she’d thought he might be kind.

Different.

She’d believed what the tabloids said—the image of the man they exalted.

She was a fool.

‘You’re making a mistake.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Please…I don’t want anything from you—at least nothing that you wouldn’t be prepared to give—’ She grabbed his hand; he removed it with distaste.

‘Is that so? Because I’m prepared to give you nothing. Goodbye, Miss Davies.’

Before Rhiannon could form a reply, one last appeal, a hand clamped none too gently on her arm.

‘This way, miss.’

He was kicking her out! Humiliated fury washed through her in sickening waves as the security guard tugged her firmly from her stool. She stumbled to her feet, threw a hand out to the bar to steady herself.

Lukas Petrakides watched impassively with cool grey eyes.

Rhiannon hated him then.

‘You can’t do this,’ she said in a furious whisper, and he raised one eyebrow.

‘Then you don’t know me very well.’

‘I don’t want to know you! I want to talk to you!’

The guard was tugging her backwards, and Rhiannon was forced to follow him, stumbling, while a murmur of curious whispers and titters followed her, surrounded her in a mocking chorus.

Lukas watched, arms folded, eyes hard, expression flat.

This was her last chance. Her only hope.

‘You have a baby!’ she shouted, and was rewarded with a ripple of shocked murmurs in the crowd and a look of stunned disbelief on Lukas’s face before she was pulled through the doorway and out of sight.

CHAPTER TWO

YOUhave a baby.

Lukas barely registered the din of speculative gossip that rang out around him. Someone spoke to him, an excited jabber. He merely shrugged before forcing himself to reply politely.

You have a baby.

Absurd. Impossible. The woman was a liar.

He knew that—knew she was just another common blackmailer, a petty thief looking for a handout.

He’d seen them, dealt with them before. He’d recognised the patter as soon as she’d started, the female flattery disguising the threat underneath.

Mutual friends. Something he needed to hear.

Hardly.

He just didn’t understand why he felt so disappointed.

Last night, when he’d seen her on the beach, he’d felt a connection. And then when she’d shown up at the reception, met his gaze, walked towards him with a smile that was tender, uncertain and yet filled with promise, he’d felt it again. Deep, real, alive.

False. All he’d felt was cheap, easy desire. Lust masquerading as need.

His disappointment was no more than he deserved for giving in to desire for something—someone—for even a moment.

Wanting was weakness. Desire was dangerous. He’d seen the shameful results, lived with them every day.

He had responsibilities, duties, and those were what counted. What mattered.

Nothing else did.

Nothing else could.

He knew the drill: his guards would take her to a discreet office kept for just this purpose, make her sign a gagging order, and show her the door.

He’d never see her again.

Yet suddenly he wanted to know. Needed to know just what her game was—what information she pretended to have, what she hoped to get.

Then he’d forget her completely.

‘Excuse me…Pardon…’ He repeated the phrase in several languages as the crowd mingled and jostled for his attention, moving past everyone with firm decision.

He pushed through the double doors, strode down the corridor towards the lobby.

What had she expected? That he would believe her dirty little tale and cut her a cheque? He shook his head slowly, disbelief and fury pouring through him, scalding his soul.

Had she been planning her little manoeuvre last night, on the beach? Was there someone else involved? Some man waiting greedily back in their hotel room?

Or was she playing another game? Selling her story to a tabloid? The gossip rags had so little dirt to dish on him, it wouldn’t surprise him if they were paying people to make it up.

He strode into the lobby, heard the flutter of greeting from an army of receptionists and ignored them, making for the small office, its door discreetly tucked behind a potted palm in one corner of the spacious room.

He paused outside the door, listening. Waiting to hear what ridiculous tale she would spin.

‘I don’t want money!’ He heard her furious denial, shook his head. What was she playing for? A bigger bribe?

‘Sign this statement, Miss Davies.’ Tony, one of his two security guards, spoke with weary patience. ‘By signing it you agree not to sell or disclose any information regarding Mr Petrakides, the Petrakides family, or Petrakides Properties. Then you will leave this resort. Petrakides Properties will pay for one night’s accommodation in a local hotel as redress. Your belongings will be sent there this evening.’

Lukas heard the silence through the door, felt her incredulity, her fury, her fear. His hand rested on the knob.

‘That’s not possible.’ Her voice was a whisper, with a thread of steel through its core.

‘It is in every way possible,’ Tony replied flatly. ‘And as soon as you sign the statement, it will be put into effect.’

‘I’ll sign the statement,’ Rhiannon replied with barely a waver. ‘But you cannot throw me out of this resort. There is a baby in my hotel room, and that child belongs to Lukas Petrakides!’

Lukas’s hand tightened on the knob as shock and outrage battled for precedence. Had the lying slut actually brought a baby as proof? Used an innocent child in her despicable scheme? It was vile. He should have her arrested, prosecuted…

The Petrakides family’s policy, however, was to remove any instigators as quickly and quietly as possible. Prosecution, in this case, was not an option.

For a brief moment Lukas imagined his father’s reaction when the tabloids printed the story about his so-called child. He knew someone at the party would dish the goods.

His mouth tightened; his heart hardened. She wasn’t worth the trouble she’d put him to.

‘If that is so,’ Lukas’s security guard said after a tiny, tense pause, ‘then I will escort you to your hotel room to collect this child. Then you will go.’

There was a silence. When her voice came out, however, it shocked him. It was small and sad and defeated.

‘You have this all wrong,’ Rhiannon said. ‘I don’t want to blackmail anyone—least of all Lukas Petrakides. I simply have reason to believe his daughter is in my care, and I thought he should know that…know her.’ This last came out in a sorry, aching whisper that created an answering throb in Lukas’s midsection. His gut, not his heart.

She was sincere, even if she was mistaken. Or she was a phenomenal actress. He forced himself not to care. Then he shook his head slowly. She had to be acting, faking. How on earth she could possibly believe she had his child when he had never seen her before—what could she be playing at?

Still he paused. Wondered. Wanted to know.

And he realised with damning weakness—need—that he wanted to see her again.

He turned the knob.

Rhiannon choked back a scream of frustration and defeat. This had gone so horribly, horribly wrong. No one believed her; no one even cared.

From Lukas Petrakides down, all she’d come up against were blank walls of indifference, unconcern. They didn’t care what she had to say, what truth there might be to her tale.

They wanted her gone.

‘I don’t want money,’ she repeated, for what felt like the hundredth time. ‘I just want a moment alone with Mr Petrakides to explain. That’s all.’

‘So you’ve said before, Miss Davies,’ the guard told her in a bored voice, clearly unimpressed.

‘Then why don’t you believe me?’ Rhiannon snapped, but the security guard had gone silent, his gaze on the door.

She turned, her breath coming out in a sudden, surprised rush when she saw Lukas Petrakides standing there. He leaned against the doorframe, one hand thrust into the pocket of his dark grey trousers, the other braced against the wall.

She hadn’t heard him come in, yet how could she ever have been unaware of his presence? He filled the space, took the air. She sucked in a much needed breath, tried to gather her scattered wits and courage.

Lukas flicked her with a cool, impassive gaze even as he addressed the guards.

‘I’ll deal with this.’

The two men filed out of the room without a word.

Rhiannon watched, sickened by the blatant display of power. Abuse of power. Lukas was a man who expected obedience—total, absolute, unquestioning.

She was so out of her depth, over her head, and it scared her.

Yet this was Annabel’s father.

They were alone in the small room, and she was conscious of her own ragged breathing, her pounding heart. His eyes flicked over her in cool and clearly unimpressed assessment.

‘You have a child in your hotel room?’ he asked in a detached voice, as if it were of little interest.

‘Yes…yours.’

‘I see.’ His smile was cold, mocking, a parody. ‘When did we conceive this child, I wonder?’

Shock drenched her in icy, humiliating waves as she realised the assumption he’d so easily—and obviously—made. He really did think she was a liar. ‘Annabel’s not mine!’

‘Annabel. A girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘Whose child is she, then? Besides mine, of course.’

‘Leanne Weston. You…you met her at a club in London, took her to Naxos.’ She felt silly repeating information he must already know—but perhaps he needed clarification? Perhaps, despite his reputation, there had been women? Many women.

The thought made her stomach roil unpleasantly.

He raised his eyebrows in surprised interest. ‘I did? Ah, yes. Naxos. Beautiful place. Did we have fun?’

Rhiannon gritted her teeth. ‘I couldn’t say, but from Leanne’s description you were certainly busy!’

‘And why is she not here herself?’ Lukas questioned silkily. ‘I’d recognise her, of course. Perhaps I’d even recall our dirty little weekend. Or would you prefer that I do not see the woman who supposedly bore my child? Maybe I wouldn’t recognise her after all?’ The derisive lilt to his voice made Rhiannon grit her teeth.

‘If Leanne were able to be here, I hope she would be,’ she said, her nerves taut, fraying, ready to split apart. ‘Although after your weekend affair she was pragmatic enough to realise it was over. You never gave her your phone number, or attempted to contact her.’ Frustration rose within her, clamoured into a silent howl in her throat. ‘But this is nonsense to talk like this. I don’t care about what you did with Leanne in Naxos. What I care about is your daughter, and I should think that’s what you would care about too.’

‘Ah, yes, my daughter. This Annabel.’ He folded his arms, smiled with the stealthy confidence of a predator. And Rhiannon was the prey. ‘You brought her here? To the hotel?’

‘Yes…’

‘I suppose you thought the added embarrassment of an actual child on the premises would increase your pay-off?’

‘My what?’ Rhiannon shook her head. Did he still think she wanted to blackmail him? Was that what this horrible little interrogation was about? ‘I don’t want your money,’ she said tightly. ‘As I’ve said before. I just wanted you to know.’

‘How kind of you. So now that I know, we can say goodbye. Correct?’ His cool eyes suddenly blazed silver with challenge; Rhiannon felt a hollow pit open inside her—a pit to drown in.

She’d come to France to find not just Lukas Petrakides, but a man who would love Annabel openly, wholly, unconditionally.

The way fathers did.

The way they were supposed to.

She should have realised what a fantasy that was.

‘I thought you were a man of responsibility,’ she said in a choked whisper. ‘A man of honour.’

Lukas stilled, his eyes darkening dangerously. ‘I am. That is precisely why I’m not going to pay you to keep silent about your little brat!’

‘Your brat, if you choose to use such terms,’ Rhiannon flashed, wounded to her core by his nasty words, his brutal assessment. He was talking about his own child. She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand how a man like you—a man like the papers claim you are—cannot care one iota for your own flesh and blood. I thought…’ She shook her head slowly, realisation dawning with painful intensity and awareness.

‘You thought what?’ he demanded flatly, and she looked up at him with wide, guileless eyes.

‘I thought it would be different because she was yours.’ It came out as a wretched whisper, a confession. An aching realisation that a dream she’d cherished and clung to for so long was in fact false. Rhiannon didn’t know what hurt more—the current reality or the faded memory. Annabel’s past or her own. ‘I thought you would care.’

He stared at her for a moment, his mouth tightening in impatience. ‘But you know, Miss Davies, that this is a fabrication. I don’t know who dreamed up your sordid little scheme—whether it was you or your suspiciously absent friend Leanne—but we both know I did not father the child that is in your hotel room.’

Rhiannon stared at him in disbelief. ‘But you…you said you were in Naxos!’

‘I may have visited my family’s resort in Naxos,’ he agreed with stinging clarity. ‘But I did not take your friend—or any other woman there—and I certainly did not father a child.’

‘But Leanne said—’

‘She lied. As you are lying.’

‘No.’ Rhiannon shook her head. ‘No. She didn’t lie. And neither did I. She was so certain…she spoke of you so warmly…’

He made a sound of impatient disgust. ‘I’m flattered.’

‘But how do you know? How can you be sure?’ She gulped down her own uncertainties, the fears clamouring within her, threatening to spill over in a scream of denial, of desperation. Everything had been turned upside down by this revelation.

Rhiannon had never doubted Leanne’s word. Never. There had been no reason to—no reason for her friend to lie. Now she wondered if she should have questioned. Doubted. If Leanne, for some inexplicable reason, had lied. It would be a terrible deception. And for what purpose?

But, no…When Leanne had named Lukas Petrakides as the father of her child she’d been so certain, so…appreciative. Wistful. The memory, for Leanne, had been sweet. There had been nothing calculating or deceptive about her explanation—and why should there have been?

She’d been dying.

‘How do I know?’ Lukas raised one eyebrow, as if daring her to make him answer such a question.

‘I mean…’ Rhiannon felt humiliating colour flood her face. ‘There must have been women…’ She assumed, despite his unsullied reputation, that there still were women. There were always women. Attractive, wealthy, discreet, willing to give and receive pleasure—satisfy a need.

‘Ah.’ His smile was mocking, bittersweet. ‘But there you’re wrong, Miss Davies. There have been no women. Not for two years.’

His face remained impassive even as Rhiannon gaped in shock. She wasn’t sure why she should find this so surprising; she hadn’t slept with anyone in the last two years. Or, for that matter, ever.

Lukas Petrakides, however, exuded raw strength, powerful virility. The idea that he’d gone without women—without sex—for such a length of time seemed ludicrous. Impossible.

Men like him thrived on passion…needed it. Didn’t they?

Was Lukas really different? Was he gay? The thought was absurd. Cold, then…? Although there seemed nothing cold about him.

Was he just incredibly restrained?

After her mind had stopped whirling she realised with cold, stark clarity just what this meant.

Annabel couldn’t possibly be Lukas’s child.

She’d come here for nothing.

‘Are you…sure?’ she asked, her voice a rusty croak. Yet she knew what an inane question it was—just as she knew he was telling the truth. In some bizarre, inexplicable way, she trusted him. Trusted his word.

‘I don’t forget such things. If there was any possibility of course I would have a paternity test taken. If the child were indeed mine I would care for it. Naturally.’

Rhiannon shook her head. She didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to consider the utter waste of her travelling to France, spending far more money than she ever should have on a hotel and, worse, losing any hope of a better life for Annabel.

Lukas Petrakides was not Annabel’s father. Rhiannon stared, her mind forming one impossible denial after another. She wanted to cry. To cry for Annabel, for herself.

For lost dreams of the father-daughter reunion she’d been dreaming of for years.

It was never going to happen.

But she wasn’t going to cry.

‘I’m sorry your little charade didn’t pay off,’ Lukas said with a cold smile. ‘But at least you can be thankful that I won’t press charges. You and your…prop will vacate the premises within the next fifteen minutes.’

‘My prop?’ Rhiannon repeated blankly, before she realised he was talking about a person. A child. Annabel. ‘You still think this is a blackmail attempt?’ She shook her head, surprised at the rush of relief that Annabel would not be tied to a man who thought so little of her, of humanity. ‘Why can’t you believe I came here with your interests—Annabel’s interests—at heart? I didn’t come for money, Mr Petrakides. I came to find Annabel a father.’

‘Charming.’ Lukas’s eyes were flat, cold and hard. ‘Since you didn’t, you can leave.’

Rhiannon knew he didn’t believe her, and she forced herself not to care. She didn’t need to impress Lukas Petrakides; she was out of his life, and so was Annabel.

Yet it still hurt.

She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. ‘Fine. I’m sorry I wasted your time.’

Lukas jerked his head in the semblance of a nod. Rhiannon forced herself to continue, even though she didn’t want to accept anything from this man…to need anything from him.

‘You mentioned another hotel as redress? Could I have the details, please?’ Colour scorched her cheeks. If she’d had any money left she wouldn’t have asked, but she was desperate, and they needed a place to stay until their flight tomorrow.

‘The information will be at the front desk by the time you leave.’

‘Thank you.’ Stiff with dignity, her legs trembling, she walked out of the room. Lukas’s eyes seemed to burn into her back.

She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She was stronger than that. Tougher. In all the years of loneliness, disappointment, and grief, her eyes had remained dry. They would remain so now.

Lukas watched her go, his lips twisting in a mocking smile. She’d given up quite easily when she realised he wasn’t playing ball. She was obviously an amateur at the blackmail game—as was this mysterious Leanne.

Had they honestly thought they could pin something on him—him, Lukas Petrakides? That he would bow to their outrageous demands?

Something pricked him, pricked his conscience, and he realised with a jolt of uncomfortable surprise what it was. Guilt.

Why should he feel guilty?

Because she so obviously didn’t want your money. She hadn’t actually asked for a single euro.

Had he assumed the worst?

He shook his head. The baby wasn’t his, and the friend Leanne had to have been lying. She’d have to know she hadn’t slept with him!

And yet…what if Rhiannon hadn’t known?

What if she’d been duped?

Lukas hesitated; he didn’t like uncertainty. He didn’t like not knowing.

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