Page 2 of The Heir Affair (Claimed by a Greek #1)

Her walk? That was Poppy’s walk, too. Fluid and sensual and so unconsciously seductive it made the heat swell in his groin. The visceral reaction swept through him, turning the nagging arousal at the memory of her in his arms, which had been dogging him for months, into a tidal wave of need.

He strode through the crowds as she disappeared into the restaurant, then jogged past the ma?tre d’ standing by a lectern. The man shouted in French, asking if he wanted a table. He waved him off, breaking into a run.

Once inside, he spotted the girl standing at the far end of the bar, her back to him as she collected drinks on a tray.

‘Poppy,’ he shouted.

The girl’s head whipped round, responding to her name.

Joy exploded in his chest as the need shocked him.

Those eyes, that face. It was her. He wasn’t going mad.

But as he got closer, a brutal blush suffused her whole face, highlighting the freckles across her nose, which he knew she also had across her breasts, because he had massaged suncream into her pale cleavage that day.

But as she turned towards him, depositing the tray back on the bar with a clash of glasses, his greedy gaze swept down her figure.

His steps faltered. And he blinked, exhilaration turning to shock, then confusion, then another blast of hunger.

A compact bulge distended her apron where he had once been able to span her flat, narrow waist with a single hand.

He reached her at last, but it felt as if he were walking through waist-high water now, his movements jerky and sluggish as he tried to make sense of all the warring reactions going off inside his head.

‘Alex…’ she murmured, using the name he had given her that day. The name only she had ever used. ‘Hello,’ she murmured. But she didn’t look surprised to see him any more.

Just shocked he had found her here.

He grasped her upper arm, unable to stop himself from touching her again—still not entirely convinced she was real. She trembled, her instinctive response echoing in his groin, but then she tried to tug her arm loose.

‘We can’t speak now, Mr Caras,’ she said, her voice carefully devoid of emotion. Her gaze flat and direct. ‘I’m on shift.’

Mr Caras?

So, she knew who he was. Had she always known? The cynicism that had deserted him for months—every time he thought of that sultry spring day and her—twisted the joy at seeing her again into something bitter and jarring.

That would be the cynicism—the survival instinct he had relied on for years, ever since he was a street kid scavenging for scraps in Athens to feed himself and his brother—that she had suspended that day, with her artless response to his kisses, his touch, his caresses and the confidences they’d shared.

Then the heartfelt words she had whispered after they’d made love—which had made him question everything in his life before her—slammed into him, again.

‘You know what, Alex. I’ve never hated anyone. But I wish I could meet the man who used his wealth and privilege to turn Parádeisos’ unspoilt natural beauty into his private pleasure dome. I’d love to be able to tell him what a selfish bastard I think he is. Wouldn’t you?’

He’d laughed with her then, but his laugh had been forced and hollow, because he’d been wincing inside, knowing what had started as a small lie to see where their day—and their extraordinary chemistry—might lead had suddenly become an enormous, insurmountable one.

The sweat had still been drying on his skin from their lovemaking, after spending four hours together so full of surprises he was sure he’d discovered genuine joy for the first time in his life.

But as he’d lain on his own bed—which she’d thought belonged to someone else—still steeped in afterglow, her words, edged with sadness and derision, had echoed in the soft sea breeze, damning him.

And he’d found himself questioning the ruthless ambition that had stopped him from seeing the island she loved as anything more than a good investment opportunity—a place to build a luxury pleasure dome.

But worse had been the realisation he could never tell her he was the man who owned the house she thought they had sneaked into, or she would hate him, too.

But as his real name echoed on her lips now, he suddenly understood that might have been an illusion. That while he’d struggled for months to suppress the yearning to find her and call off his planned engagement, she had never been who she had pretended to be either.

Had she played him? Had he been a sap to believe she was really that artless, captivating, rebellious free spirit? The bright, sweet girl who considered love to be more valuable than money. And true beauty to be something you couldn’t buy…?

His temper surged, becoming a mix of fury and suspicion and anger at the shame she’d caused him, in that moment. But right alongside it was the possessive urge to stake his claim on her again—here, now, for ever—even though she might have lied to him all those months ago.

But then his gaze snagged on her belly again—and the only question that mattered broke from his dry lips.

‘Is it mine?’ he demanded.

Flags of colour slashed across her cheeks, but all he heard in her tone was the sting of regret—not the satisfaction he had expected—when she whispered, ‘Yes.’