Page 29 of The Heir Affair (Claimed by a Greek #1)

She turned to stare at the dress, her nerves settling, despite the fact the whisper of jewelled silk was insanely revealing—the skinny straps and the panels of material that draped seductively over her breasts making it impossible to wear a bra.

Imagining Xander’s reaction when he saw her in it, though, made the ripple of sensation become a flood.

She wanted to look and feel amazing when she told him she loved him.

The only problem would be getting the words out before he jumped her.

She grinned. But once they’d taken the edge off, she wasn’t nervous any more about the conversation they needed to have afterwards because, frankly, afterglow should never be underestimated as a means of getting a man like Xander to see reason.

The sea breeze caught the hem of the floaty dress as Dimitrios helped Poppy out of the Jeep onto the path leading to the cove.

‘Efcharistó,’ she said in her rudimentary Greek. The older man smiled and nodded, then climbed into the Jeep and drove back up the track.

As the vehicle disappeared through the trees, she stepped onto a hessian runner that had been placed on top of the sand. Her excitement increased as she headed through the line of olive trees to the cove. Seriously? He’d had a carpet put down to accommodate her heels?

The temperature had been in the high twenties Celsius all day even though it was early October and was still unseasonably warm as the sun set.

Warm enough that she had chosen to leave the villa without a wrap.

But now she felt exposed in the beautiful dress, her emotions as naked as her flesh.

Perhaps because she’d spent the past hour, as Amara did incredible things with her hair and make-up, going over and over in her head how Xander might react when she told him how she felt about him.

Maybe she shouldn’t tell him yet, after all?

Because what had felt validating and exciting earlier now felt like a bit too much.

Was it still too soon to feel this way? Would he think she was asking for the same commitment from him?

She didn’t want to put too much pressure on him, and how would her revelation play out in the context of the much more pragmatic conversation they needed to have about where she was going to live and how she was going to support herself?

Because while she had to accept his help in some respects—and she’d come to terms with that—she didn’t want him trying to take control of her future again.

Or treating her independence like an inconvenience.

Anticipation flooded through her system, though, on a wave of emotion when she stepped past the last olive tree shielding the beach.

Xander stood by a table on a platform, built in the same location as the sofa where they’d made love so furiously when they’d first arrived two weeks ago.

The lit torches beside the platform illuminated the shadows on his face cast by the setting sun when he swung round, as if he’d sensed her arrival.

He took her breath away. His tailored linen suit clung to the muscular physique she had come to know so well.

A light breeze caught his hair, ruffling the dark waves as he strode towards her.

The purpose in his stride triggered a wave of need as his gaze swept over her, landing on the mound of her pregnancy.

Her nipples had tightened into painful peaks to stand proud against the sheer fabric by the time he reached her.

The new tangle of nerves unravelled. This was Xander, the man she loved. Of course it wasn’t too soon to tell him, how could it be, when she trusted him now?

Instead of dragging her into his arms for the fierce kiss she was anticipating, he cupped her cheek, his touch oddly restrained. She leaned into the caress and forced down her disappointment.

That he was treating her with reverence, with tenderness, was a good thing.

‘You are so beautiful, Poppy Brown,’ he murmured, before placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, then releasing her. Grasping her trembling fingers in his, he led her back across the sand, towards the table. ‘Come, we must eat. We have much to discuss.’

Hope blossomed under her breastbone.

Was he finally ready to discuss their future, too? She had been right to wait. He was being restrained so they could get this done before they jumped each other.

It was all good.

As they stepped onto the platform, she noticed the table draped in a white cloth had been laid with fine china, silver cutlery and crystal glasses while all her favourite cold dishes were displayed on gold serving platters, which gleamed orange in the dying light.

His thoughtfulness made her heart swell. He’d made an effort to make their last night here extra special. And that had to mean something too. Didn’t it?

Pulling out her chair, Xander waited for her to be seated, before taking the seat opposite her. He lifted a bottle of chilled champagne from the ice bucket by the table and poured some into the crystal flute in front of her before filling his own.

‘I know that you are avoiding alcohol because of the baby,’ he said as he lifted his glass. ‘But a small toast to celebrate will not do any harm.’

‘Yes, I’m sure one sip won’t be a problem.’ She raised her own glass. Hope and anticipation thundered against her ribs as she clinked her flute to his, then took a swallow of the dry, bubbly champagne.

‘So what did you want to discuss?’ she asked as casually as she could.

His sensual lips stretched into an indulgent smile. ‘Us.’

The single word shot through her like gold dust, illuminating all the secret corners of her heart that she had kept in the shadows for so long.

‘And our wedding, tomorrow morning,’ he added.

The sparkle of desire in his eyes was so intoxicating, the planes and angles of his face bathed in silvery moonlight so breathtakingly hot, and the bubble of hope pressing against her ribs so huge, it took her a moment to register the words.

‘Our wh-what ?’ she said as her flute dropped to the table, and the giddy excitement became sharp and discordant.

Had she heard that correctly?

He placed his own flute back on the pristine tablecloth and gave a heavy sigh, before reaching across the table to clasp her trembling fingers and squeeze.

‘Do not look so shocked, Poppy. Surely you know this is the only solution for us, for our baby.’

Her whole hand started to tremble, so many conflicting emotions rushing through her—hope, excitement, panic, fear—she wasn’t sure how to process any of them.

Of course, she wanted to be with him, so much.

She loved him. And she wanted her baby to have a father who was present and involved in its life, the way her father had never been, and never wanted to be.

And even in the short space of time they had been together here, she had seen so many facets to this man that she adored.

Not just his ability to give her pleasure beyond her wildest dreams, but his playfulness, his purpose, his protectiveness, even that fierce possessiveness whenever he held her late at night, or talked about their baby.

The truth was his focussed attention had always been intoxicating and validating.

But marriage ? Tomorrow morning !

It felt like way too much, way too soon, when he hadn’t even been willing to discuss where she would live up to now.

Plus, was it even a proposal? Because he hadn’t exactly asked her, he’d told her, making the wedding sound like a fait accompli—the decision already made, without her input—the patient demand reminding her of the day her mother died, when her father had appeared and taken all her choices away from her.

‘I didn’t know you wanted to marry me,’ she said.

Even saying it out loud felt scary. But why did it? He wanted to make a commitment, the ultimate commitment, to her and the baby. Shouldn’t that make her feel good? Instead of terrified?

He nodded. ‘Well, now you do.’ He tugged her hand back, lifted her fingers to his lips, to buzz a kiss across her knuckles.

The familiar shiver of sensation reached into her sex, pulsing, persuasive, but the instant, unstoppable arousal felt scary now too.

Because it was stopping her from thinking clearly.

She tugged her fingers free and buried her hand in her lap. The warm breeze off the water did nothing to soften the knot of anxiety forming like a fist in her chest.

‘But why do you want to marry me?’ Would he tell her now, the words she needed to hear to make this less terrifying?

Perhaps that was the real problem, not that he seemed so certain about marriage, but that it felt as if there were so many more steps they needed to take—together—before they could possibly make such a huge commitment.

He frowned, as if the question made no sense. Then let out a harsh laugh.

‘Poppy, you are having my child. And you fascinate and excite me, beyond measure. Is this not enough?’ he asked, but his tone was flat and devoid of emotion.

As if her objections were a problem that needed to be managed, rather than the conversation about their future that she had been anticipating.

But what about love?

The thought echoed in her head, but she didn’t want to sound too needy, because she already felt too exposed, so she settled for something a bit more pragmatic: ‘No, that’s not enough, not for a marriage,’ she managed.

His brows rose, but then a muscle in his cheek tensed, reminding her of the man she had met almost three weeks ago, who had stormed into Serge’s restaurant and demanded she leave with him.

‘Perhaps the wedding gift I have for you will persuade you…’ he said, before reaching into his jacket.

He pulled out an envelope and handed it to her across the table.