Baby Out of the Blue: The Greek Tycoon's Pregnant Wife / Forgotten Mistress, Secret Love-Child / The Secret Baby Bargain

Baby Out of the Blue

The Greek Tycoon’s Pregnant Wife

Anne Mather

Forgotten Mistress, Secret Love-Child

Annie West

The Secret Baby Bargain

Melanie Milburne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Greek Tycoon’s Pregnant Wife

Anne Mather

ANNE MATHER says: ‘I’ve always wanted to write —which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. For years I wrote only for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested I send one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, more than one hundred and fifty books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what happened. I had written all through my childhood and into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid Gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! the trouble was, I never used to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published book, was the first book I’d actually completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, but that’s the way it was.

I now have two grown-up children, a son and daughter, and two adorable grandchildren, Abigail and Ben. My e-mail address is [email protected], and I’d be happy to hear from any of my readers.’

JANE let herself into her apartment and headed straight for the fridge. It might be empty of anything to eat, but she knew she’d left a half-pack of colas on the shelf. Pulling out one of the chilled cans, she flipped the tab and drank. Then, savouring its coolness on her tongue, she kicked off her shoes and walked back into the living area.

It was good to be home, she thought, looking round the large space that served as both living and dining room. She was glad now she’d had the builder knock down the wall that had once separated the two rooms. Together with a small service kitchen, her bedroom and the adjoining bathroom, it had been her home for the past five years.

She’d dropped her suitcase in the small entry hall and as she went to retrieve it, she saw the message light blinking on her answering machine. Her mother, she thought resignedly. Mrs Lang would be anxious to hear that her daughter had arrived home safely. Even though she was familiar with the internet and would no doubt have checked flight arrivals at Heathrow, she still needed the confirmation of Jane’s voice to assure her that all was well.

Sighing, Jane pressed the key to retrieve her messages and waited patiently for Mrs Lang’s recorded voice to speak. Her friends knew she was away, and all business calls would be routed to the gallery. So she was unprepared when a disturbingly familiar male voice spoke her name.

‘Jane? Jane, are you there? If you are, pick up, will you? Ineh poli simandiko.’ It’s important.

Jane sank down weakly onto the small ottoman she kept beside the phone. Despite her determination never to let Demetri Souvakis into her life again, she couldn’t deny that his rich dark voice with its distinctive accent still had the power to turn her weak at the knees.

But then, it wasn’t his voice that had made him a millionaire several times over before his twenty-fifth birthday. That had come from his heritage and his complete ruthlessness in business, she reminded herself, a ruthlessness that had somehow spilled over into his private life.

Jane expelled an unsteady breath now and was still trying to calm her racing pulse when a second message started. ‘It’s me, Jane,’ he said. ‘Your husband. Theos, I know you’re there. Don’t make me have to come looking for you. Can’t we at least deal with one another like civilised adults?’

That helped. The arrogance in his voice, the way he just assumed she’d be available whenever he chose to contact her. And how could he call himself her husband when for the past five years he hadn’t cared if she was dead or alive?

Her nails dug into her palms in her efforts to control the anger that swept through her, but that didn’t stop the painful memories from tearing her hard-won objectivity to shreds. How dared he contact her now as if he had some right to do so? As far as she was concerned, she’d cut him out of her life.

Well, almost.

She sighed. She remembered when she’d first encountered his father at the gallery where she’d worked in London. Leo Souvakis had been so charming, so polite. He’d explained that he was looking for a piece of sculpture to take back to Greece, a bronze, if possible, to match the other pieces he’d collected over the years.

Jane had only been working at the gallery for a short time, but already she’d begun to show an aptitude for recognising talent when she saw it. And the delicate sculpture of the goddess Diana by a virtually unknown artist seemed an appropriate choice to make.

Leo Souvakis had been delighted, both by the piece and by Jane, and they’d been discussing the relative merits of oriental pottery and porcelain when Demetri Souvakis had appeared…