Page 2 of The Greek Tycoon's Unwilling Wife

She barely heard his thanks or the roar of the car’s engine as it swung out into the road and set off down the hill again. Her gaze had gone back to the big, carved wooden door before her and her thoughts to the night, a year ago, when she had crept away from this place like a beaten dog, with her tail well and truly between her legs.

‘You’ll come crawling to me before I ever even think of you…’

The brutal words echoed again and again inside her mind, making her head ache, and her thoughts blur. She had come crawling to him in desperation, because only desperation could drive her to fulfil his prediction, make the callous words come true when she had vowed that it was the last thing on earth that she would ever want. And she was desperate.

But desperation wasn’t why she was here.

The terrible news about her baby niece had driven her to write that letter to Andreas, expecting only ever to receive the curtest of replies from him—if in fact he replied at all. She hoped for, prayed for a cheque that would help them out of the terrible fix they were in—a cheque that she had promised him that she would pay back if it was the last thing she did. But she had definitely not dared to hope for anything else.

Certainly she hadn’t dared to hope that he would actually see her, or speak to her. Let her put her case in person.

And of course he hadn’t.

The formal letter had come almost by return of post.

She was asked to meet with his lawyer. To state exactly why she needed the money and on what terms. And when he had the details then Mr Petrakos would consider her request.

She had been still reeling from the curt coldness of the single typewritten sheet when the telephone had rung.

‘Andreas…’

For the first time in almost twelve months Rebecca had let his name slip past her lips, whispering it aloud in the still, hot air, silent except for the buzz of insects amongst the flowers.

She hadn’t even been able to say it when she had heard the unknown, accented voice at the other end of the phone ask to speak to Mrs Petrakos. In fact it had taken the space of several stunned heartbeats to even remember that Mrs Petrakos was her own name. She had gone back to using her maiden name after the brutally abrupt end to her marriage and had tried in all ways possible to put the fact that she had ever been Rebecca Petrakos, however briefly, out of her mind for good.

‘Come on, Rebecca, do something!’

She spoke the words out loud, striving to push herself into action instead of standing there, foolishly, frozen to the spot. She seemed incapable of movement now that she was actually here.

She’d moved fast enough when she’d finally absorbed the phone message from Andreas’ PA. Just to know that her husband had had an accident had been bad enough. At the words ‘car crash’, her blood had run cold, making her shiver in shock as the terrible truth hit home.

A devastating crash. His car brakes had failed and he’d gone off the road, into a tree. He was lucky to still be alive. But he had escaped, though badly battered and bruised—and now he was asking for her.

Asking for her.

As they had done back home, those words now pushed Rebecca into action, taking her towards the door, her hand lifting to tug at the ornate bell pull that hung beside it, hearing the sound jangle loudly deep inside the house.

Andreas had been asking for her, the voice at the other end of the phone had said. Did she think she could come to Greece? Would it be possible for her to come to see him?

Becca hadn’t needed to think. There had been no doubt at all in her mind and she had given her answer even before she had time to consider whether it was wise or not. But the truth was she didn’t care.

Andreas had been in a crash, he was hurt—injured—and he was asking for her. She had barely put the phone down before she had dashed upstairs to start packing.

Of course, the journey to Greece had given her too much time to think. Time to go over and over and over the conversation in her head and find all sorts of possible things to worry about and fret over.

What had happened in the accident and how badly hurt was Andreas? Why did he want to speak to her when for almost a year he had kept his distance, maintaining a total silence, with no contact at all, apart from that single stiffly formal letter that she knew he had got his secretary to write and had simply scrawled his name at the bottom of?

But it had been enough to know that Andreas had asked for her. And there was no way she was going to turn her back on him.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she barely noticed the big door swing open and jumped, startled, when a voice exclaimed in surprise.

‘Kyria Petrakos!’

It was Medora, the elderly housekeeper who Andreas had said was the closest he had ever had to a mother. Medora, who had been the one person she had spoken to on that terrible day she had spent at the villa, before Andreas had so unceremoniously thrown her out. The one person who had had a smile for her then and still had now, it seemed.

‘Welcome! Come in! The master will be so happy to see you.’

Would he? a little, niggling voice questioned in the back of Becca’s thoughts. Would Andreas truly be glad to see her? She had started out on this journey so determined and full of confidence, but somehow along the way all of that courage had seeped away.

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