Page 15 of The Heir Affair (Claimed by a Greek #1)

She tired quickly, a single tear seeping over her lid as her breathing became ragged and her struggles ceased.

‘Let me go,’ she said wearily. ‘I—I won’t punch you… Even though I want to.’

The last of his temper faded, as the ludicrousness of her promise occurred to him. She didn’t even reach his collarbone and was half his weight despite her pregnancy.

‘That is a good choice,’ he murmured, stroking her wrists with his thumbs before he was forced to do as she asked and release her. ‘You would have broken your hand on my jaw.’

She stared up at him through moist lashes and let out an unsteady breath. ‘Fair point,’ she said, the wary concession almost as disturbing to his equilibrium as the defeated expression.

He had not intended to bully her. Or break her.

He tensed against the brutal—and far too persuasive—urge to run his tongue over the lush bow on her top lip, then delve into her mouth again, capturing the heady sobs that had kept him awake—and aroused—most of the night.

Perhaps his own sleepless night was responsible for his inability to control his temper and manage her angry reaction.

Was he required to apologise now? When he had only been acting in her best interests? And how did he do that, when he had not apologised to anyone since he was a boy?

He was still puzzling over how to proceed when she let out a sob of surprise—or was that distress? And pressed her palms to her rounded belly.

‘Poppy?’ Panic ripped through him as he took her arm. ‘Is something wrong?’

She was trembling, breathing too fast, cradling her belly.

Had they harmed their child? With their pointless argument?

‘Is it the baby?’ he rasped as guilt clawed at his throat. He couldn’t see her face. Why wasn’t she saying anything? ‘Should I call an air ambulance?’

Poppy raised her head, finally registering the fear in Xander’s voice over the leap of joy inside her—from the distinctive tickle of sensation in her belly.

An air ambulance? What?

Her confusion cleared as she noticed the visible pulse in his neck, and the ashen pallor beneath the tanned skin. But before she could respond she felt the little kick again, deep in her abdomen. And grinned.

‘No… It’s…’ She couldn’t seem to formulate the right response or process the conflicting emotions bombarding her.

She’d been so furious with him. His arrogance, his high-handedness, his innate ability to dismiss her feelings and ride roughshod over her choices without a qualm had triggered memories of living in her father and stepmother’s home.

She’d always known she was an inconvenience to Daniel Brown, the man who had fathered her but had never had any real interest in her life.

Because he’d run off almost as soon as her mum had told him she was pregnant and had a whole other family by the time Poppy had been forced to go and live with him at fourteen—because he was the only relative she had.

She hadn’t been able to get out of that expensive house in Islington fast enough—which had never been her home.

Not like the ramshackle but cosy cottage in Kent where she and her mum had lived, and which had been boarded up ever since her mum’s death, because Poppy didn’t want to sell it, but nor did she want to live there again with all the memories.

Her father had never been cruel, never been deliberately unkind, he’d insisted on paying for an expensive private school for her—even after she’d told him she’d be much more at home at the local comprehensive.

But his indifference to her, and the inability of him and his new wife, Sarah, to hide the fact their two kids—her half-siblings, Jacob and Ellie—were their pride and joy, and Poppy an afterthought, had made her feel so alone and insignificant as she’d tried to navigate the horrendous grief.

As soon as Poppy had turned eighteen, she’d secured a place at university, got a bursary and a student loan, and declared herself financially independent by working nights and weekends while doing her degree.

Her father had continued to check up on her occasionally, out of duty. But she’d ignored the messages, and eventually he’d stopped calling. She hadn’t seen any of them since.

Maybe she didn’t have any blood relatives who she was close to and who cared about her. And thanks to her nomadic existence since college, she hadn’t kept in close touch with any of her friends. But the most important thing was she had herself. And now she had this baby.

She was strong, she was smart, and her independence mattered, because her ability to make decisions for herself meant no one got to make her feel less than ever again.

And in one fell swoop, he’d tried to make her feel like a burden again.

Her fury ebbed away though at the stricken look on his face. And the panic in those cool blue eyes.

However arrogant and entitled and autocratic this man was—which was a lot—he was also emotionally invested in this baby’s well-being. Or he wouldn’t look so terrified.

‘It’s okay, Alex,’ she said, forgetting to use his correct name, but suddenly not caring any more about the deceit, the lies.

Maybe they were completely incompatible as individuals.

Maybe he wasn’t and had never been her ‘Alex’.

But what they did have now, which they hadn’t had then, was a shared purpose—to keep their baby safe.

Something she had resisted acknowledging up to now—because she didn’t want to risk letting Xander Caras anywhere near her heart again.

Was that the real reason she didn’t want to accept his money? Not because she wanted to maintain her financial independence, but because she was terrified she still had feelings for the man she had met on the beach that day? The man who had intrigued and excited her?

Grow up, Poppy, and face the truth. That man never existed.

‘It’s okay. I just felt the baby properly kick,’ she said.

His brows lowered, but his expression remained tense. ‘Is this dangerous?’ he asked, concern still shadowing his eyes.

‘No. It’s all good,’ she said, unable to control the quick grin. ‘It’s exciting.’

She’d felt the flutters and a squirming sensation before, but had never been sure if she’d been imagining them. But these were proper kicks inside her, making the sense of connection so strong.

Going with instinct, because he still looked unsure, she grasped his large hand. ‘Here, see if you can feel it too.’ She pressed his palm to her tummy bulge. ‘I think we must have woken up junior with our shouting.’

His gaze locked on hers, the flicker of emotions—guilt and shock—unguarded.

That morning’s hazy half-formed dream came back to her.

The vivid recollection of when she’d asked him about his scars—and for a moment the feeling of connection had been so vivid.

The sense she’d touched a part of him he guarded zealously, but which he had let her see for a moment.

Once again, the wary expression disappeared almost as quickly as it had come, but she knew she hadn’t imagined it this time.

He swallowed. ‘Does it hurt?’

She shook her head. Strangely thankful when his gaze dropped to her belly, where her hand still held his much larger one.

Her heart jumped into her throat, and seemed to pulse between her thighs, as he rubbed his palm across the silk caressing the spot where their baby grew.

The kicks had stopped. But she couldn’t seem to swallow past the huge surge of emotion, and the rush of heat, when his eyes met hers again.

‘I cannot feel it,’ he said, but despite the shadow of disappointment she could also see the desire, reflected in his eyes. Volatile and intense. The spot between her thighs clenched and ached.

She eased her hand off his, suddenly brutally aware of how naked she was beneath the thin silk—and the warm weight of his palm. Her nipples throbbed in time with the heartbeat between her thighs.

She hadn’t even stopped to put panties on before charging out here to confront him.

Did he know her sex ached? Could he smell the slick heat building between her thighs? Could he sense the swollen weight of her breasts, the engorged oversensitive nipples, begging for his touch?

She blinked slowly, the charged atmosphere making her forget everything but how close he was. The tantalising scent of soap and sea clung to him. All she could hear was the rough murmur of his breathing, the ragged sound of her own.

His hand skimmed down. He bunched the silky fabric in his fist and tugged her to him, until her body was moulded against the hard contours of his, making her brutally aware of the thick ridge—so strident, so insistent—rising to press against her bump.

Why couldn’t she push him away? Why did her arms feel weighted to her sides, her body languid, her mind dazed, her throat so tight she couldn’t speak, couldn’t seem to swallow down the raw lump of need?

His hands rose, caressing her sides, cupping her heavy breasts, his thumbs rolling over her swollen nipples, proprietorial, possessive, but also so sure, so certain.

Her staggered breathing became deafening, her back arching into his touch, as if she were a cat, desperate to be petted.

He cradled her cheeks, and lifted her face to his, trapping her in the heated purpose of his gaze.

He lowered his head, the scent of orange juice on his breath—and the sultry perfume of the moisture now damping her thighs—invaded her senses when his words whispered across her lips.

‘I am sorry, Poppy, for upsetting you. Upsetting our baby.’

His words sounded rusty, his voice strained, as if he was not used to apologising to anyone… But still she could hear what it was costing him, not to command, but to compromise.

‘But I will not risk your safety,’ he added. ‘You cannot return to Galicos. It is not safe for you or the baby there any more.’