Page 11 of The Greek Tycoon's Unwilling Wife

She would run and run and she would never come back.

She should never have come back. Never, ever have come back to the island, to the villa—to the man she had once loved so deeply and so desperately.

What could have possessed her to even think that she could talk to him, persuade him to listen to her, to help her…?

She was almost at the top of the stairs when the word ‘help’ sounded in her thoughts again, stopping her dead, reminding her of the real reason why she was here. The reason she had forgotten.

Oh, how could she have forgotten Macy? And most of all, how could she have forgotten little Daisy?

Daisy was just a baby—and her life, her tiny, precious life, depended on the way that Becca acted now.

Without her help, Daisy would die. And Becca had promised that she would do anything she could—everything she could—to help.

Standing with her hand on the newel post, fingers clenching tight over the polished wood, Becca sighed, half turned, looked back at the still slightly open door into the bedroom from which she had just fled in a panic-stricken rush.

She had promised—and she would keep that promise, no matter what it took. She needed Andreas’ help and she would have to get that help, whatever she had to do to get it. She had no choice.

If the only way she could stay in the villa, the only way she could get close to Andreas and stay there until at last he remembered who she was and what she had asked of him—the money he had promised to provide—was to pretend to be the mistress that he believed her to be, then she was going to have to do it. She would play the part to the best of her ability and pray that it wouldn’t take too long for Andreas’ memory to return.

She had to—for Daisy’s sake.

Drawing in a long, ragged breath and letting it out again on a heartfelt sigh, she made herself place first one foot on the staircase and then another, straightening her shoulders, holding her chin up high as she headed downstairs.

CHAPTER THREE

ANDREAS turned up the power and the temperature on the shower so that it pounded down savagely onto the top of his head, thudding onto his skull, leaving him incapable of thinking.

At least that was the plan. But somehow, when he needed it most, the plan didn’t seem to be working.

He wanted to forget about the moments out in his bedroom when he had touched Becca.

When he had wanted to do so much more than touch. Certainly much more than fasten his hand around hers, or to stroke his fingers along the peachy softness of her cheek.

He had wanted to kiss her so badly. The hunger to take her lips with his had been like a nagging ache throughout his whole body, adding further discomfort to the already painful bruises that made his muscles throb, tugged at his ribs when he drew in his breath sharply. He wanted to hold her, caress her. He had felt his heart kick up, his blood pulse through his veins.

He had felt himself come alive for the first time in days.

In the days that he could remember anyway. The days that had registered in the void that had been his mind since he had come round from the unconsciousness that that car crash had put him into.

And for the first time since the accident he had felt like a man again, passionate and burning with a hot, hungry desire.

But a desire he really shouldn’t give in to.

‘Hell and damnation!’

Andreas swore viciously and reached up to change the temperature of the water yet again, shuddering as this time an icy blast thundered onto his soaked hair, his bare shoulders. A long cold shower was what he needed to cool the heat in his blood, the fire that threatened to destroy his ability to think at all.

Any desire he felt would be crazy, stupid—madness to act upon, no matter how strongly he felt it, how urgently it called to him to appease it. He didn’t need any further complications in his life. Things were already complex enough.

Wasn’t it bad enough that he couldn’t remember anything about the past twelve months? That anything he had learned about that year, and his accident, was something that he had had to take on trust, both in the hospital and since arriving home?

Home.

This time Andreas snapped off the shower completely and stepped out of the glass-walled stall, shaking his head like a big, angry dog, trying to drive away another flurry of unwanted thoughts that assailed and tormented him.

‘Home!’

He flung the word like a curse at his reflection in the huge, steamed-up mirror, scowling blackly into the dark blur of his eyes as he did so.

This was his home; he knew that at least. But from the moment that he’d arrived at the door, he had had the appalling feeling that something was very wrong. And that feeling had stayed with him as he’d walked through the house.

What he’d not been prepared for was the sheer wave of desolation that had overwhelmed him at just the thought of going into the obvious room, the master bedroom. There was no way he’d been prepared to admit to it, so he had turned instead and headed for the bedroom that was furthest away from it.

Which was why he had ended up in here.

Shaking his head again, he snatched up a towel and began to dry himself, his movements rough and almost aggressive as if he could wipe away the frustration of his lack of memory along with the water drops.

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