Page 38 of The Greek Tycoon's Unwilling Wife

‘And why not? Don’t tell me that you’ve come back to say you’re sorry—that—’

‘Of course not!’

Becca’s total rejection of his challenge rang in her voice. How could he think that she had anything to apologise for? Andreas was the one who had declared to her face that he had only married her for sex.

‘I thought not.’

Andreas flung himself off the bed and stalked across the room to where the black swimming shorts he had discarded with such eagerness—and her willing help—such a short time before lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Snatching them up, he pulled them on, every rough, brusque movement speaking of hostility and aggression without a word needing to be spoken.

‘Much as I love the image of you curled up in my bed with only a sheet to cover you, I think I would prefer it if you put some clothes on,’ he flung into Becca’s ashen face. ‘I’d like to have this conversation without any unnecessary—distractions.’

‘I can’t.’

Becca couldn’t allow her thoughts to dwell on the idea that the sight of her naked body could still ‘distract’ Andreas. It wasn’t the effect she wanted to have on him. Or was it? Her body still sang from the sensual effect of his lovemaking—his attentions, she amended painfully. Her blood was still hot, her skin prickling with sensitivity so that just the feel of the finest cotton of the sheets against it was almost too much to bear. Her body ached in places, there were tiny bruised spots in others, but they were aches and bruises she didn’t mind at all.

Her nipples were still tender, and the intimate spots between her legs still pulsed faintly with the aftershocks of passion. The thought of having to pull on the close-fitting Lycra swimsuit was frankly unbearable.

‘The only thing I have to wear in here is that…’

An unwary wave of her arm towards where the lavender swimming costume lay in a similar state to his shorts let the sheet slip and she snatched it up again, clutching it to her as if it was a shield against those black, accusing eyes. She saw Andreas’ mouth twitch in an almost-smile of the darkest humour, and shivered when she realised how bleak and stony his eyes remained, no light in them at all.

‘In that case I prefer the sheet.’

No, he didn’t, Andreas told himself reprovingly. The sheet was almost as bad as nothing at all. The fine cotton lay lightly over the slender lines of her body, clinging to the curves of her hips, the rise and fall of her breasts, defining them in a way that made his throat dry. And even beneath the white material, the faint dark shadow between her thighs was visible, reminding him of the way those curls had felt against the most intimate, most sensual parts of his body. Just recalling it made the roar of blood thunder in his head so that he could barely think straight.

OK, admit it, he told himself, you don’t want to think at all. What he wanted was to throw himself down on the bed beside her, rip the sheet from her body and start to make love to her all over again. The taste of her lips, of her breasts was still in his mouth, her scent was on his skin, blending with his own into the most intoxicating perfume he had ever inhaled. It went straight to his head like the most potent ouzo, clouding it and making it spin.

When combined with the heat of pounding lust, it was a brutally lethal combination, making him feel as if his head was a volcano where red-hot lava was just pushing to the top, waiting to explode.

No. He needed to keep a grip on himself, on his temper. He had to think clearly. His body, his senses, might be thrilled to see Becca again but common sense warned him to tread very carefully. If she was back then it was for her own purposes, and he wanted to know just what they were before he made a foolish move.

Another foolish move. She’d already got under his guard once, while his brain was scrambled from the accident. He wasn’t going to let that happen again.

But just the sight of her made him so damn sexually hungry. After living for almost a year without her, he might have thought that he had forgotten the impact she had on his senses. But it seemed that she had only to walk back into his life and he was a slave to his libido like some horny adolescent in the throes of his first physical affair.

He might have thought that he’d have forgotten…Hah!

A harshly cynical laugh broke from him as he realised the bitter irony of what he had just thought. He’d spent the last months trying to force himself to forget that someone called Becca Ainsworth—Becca Petrakos legally, but very definitely not morally—had ever existed.

And failed miserably.

‘Andreas?’

Becca was watching him—nervously, he could almost swear. He had never realised that she was such a good actress. But sitting there like that, with the sheet twisted tightly round her, those beautiful blue eyes wide in a damnably perfect face, she looked the picture of innocence. So innocent that he could almost believe in her himself.

This was the Becca he’d tried to push from his mind. But then the accident had done that for him by wiping her from his memory, and in the time that he had been out of it she had walked back in, cool as could be. And lied through her teeth to him.

---