Bound By My Scandalous Pregnancy / Redemption Of The Untamed Italian. Clare Connelly

      Despite his doom-filled decree, he didn’t move.

      In the hours I’d been stuck in his opulent penthouse, one question had persistently swarmed my mind—why did a man whose every breath and expression spelled out his masculine potency and unapologetic virility need to store a sperm sample?

      Eventually, curiosity had got the better of me. And the internet had been breathlessly efficient in providing high-resolution digital answers.

      ‘Is this to be a staring contest?’ he mused now, in a bone-dry tone tinged with that note I’d mistaken for bleakness earlier when I delivered my news. ‘You’re attempting to hypnotise me into reversing my verdict, perhaps?’

      ‘What if I am?’ I parried. If he was about to throw me to the wolves, what did I have to lose?

      One corner of his mouth twitched with stark amusement. But then his face settled into a hard mask. My heart lurched. With every breath I wished I could go back, take my time, pay better attention—even with Mr Donnelly’s unpleasant presence hovering over me.

      But it was too late.

      The damage had been done.

      Neo Xenakis took another step closer, bringing that hard-packed body brimming with tensile, barely leashed power into my space. I wanted to step back, flatten myself against the glass wall, but that would exhibit a weakness I couldn’t afford to show.

      The internet had supplied ample examples of his shark-like business savvy too. This was a man who relished challenge. He’d never step into the arena with a weaker opponent, and the inevitable victory of his trouncing bigger targets was all the sweeter for it.

      Was that why I didn’t look away?

      Was that why I even dared to clench my jaw and all but urge him to do his worst?

      Because I wanted him to conquer me?

      White-hot sensation flashed through me, made my nape tingle and my body blaze with the same anticipation I’d felt earlier, even before I knew that he’d entered the room. That misplaced illicit thrill that had ratcheted higher when I turned around to find him watching me with those hooded eyes containing an indecipherable gleam.

      Here it was again, eating me alive when all I needed to do was hold my tongue and continue to demonstrate appropriate contrition.

      For how long, though? And then what?

      He’d given his verdict. Clemency was off the table. And yet, despite what he’d said about throwing me to the wolves, he seemed in the mood to play with me. Seemed perfectly content to indulge in the staring contest he’d ridiculed moments ago.

      ‘Would it work?’ I asked.

      Dear God. Be quiet, Sadie. Just shut—

      To my eternal shame, my stomach chose that pithy moment to announce its intense hunger.

      Neo Xenakis’s gaze dropped to my belly at the unladylike growl, then returned to mine with a dark frown. ‘When was the last time you ate?’

      I shrugged. ‘I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter.’

      ‘It matters if I wish to enjoy my evening drink without your digestive system providing accompanying acoustics.’

      Heat burned my face. ‘I…I had a coffee this morning.’

      His frown deepened. ‘That’s all you’ve had all day? It’s six in the evening.’

      ‘I know what time it is, Mr Xenakis.’

      He raised a brow at my crisp tone. I wasn’t about to admit I’d gone into the office with hopes of snagging a stray Danish left over from the early-morning client meeting, only to be confronted by an incandescent Mr Donnelly before I could satisfy my raging hunger. After that, fear and panic had eroded my appetite. Until now, evidently.

      Neo Xenakis regarded me with quiet intensity, weighing his decision for a terse moment. Then his lips flattened. ‘Far be it from me to send a criminal to the gallows on an empty stomach. Shall I instruct my chef to set another place for dinner, or are you in a hurry to face your crimes?’ he drawled.

       Bite your tongue, Sadie!

      ‘That depends. Do you intend to torture me for the rest of the evening by recounting just how your wolves are going to tear me apart?’

      ‘You think you know what torture is?’ he asked, with a veil of deadly calm that didn’t fool me for a second.

      I’d inconvenienced him, angered him by necessitating a return trip to the clinic to make a second deposit, when he’d much rather be occupied with other things. Like dating another supermodel.

      And he wasn’t in a mood to let it go.

      ‘There are only so many times I can say I’m sorry. It’s clear you’re not going to forgive me or tell me what I can do to make this right. Right now I’m failing to see how joining you for dinner improves my circumstances.’

      ‘It could simply be an act of further character exploration on my part. To tell me which way I should lean in the punishment scales. Unlike you, I don’t wish to undertake that task on an empty stomach. But, of course, your options are very much yours to take.’

      Oh, how cunning of him. That insidious need to surrender to his will swept over me. I resisted by squaring my shoulders. ‘Then I guess that’s fine. If that’s the only way to progress this…discussion.’

      The merest hint of a smile twitched his lips. Then, seeming almost stunned by the action, he scowled.

      Not the most enthusiastic response I’d ever had to meal-sharing, but I imagined under the circumstances a beggar couldn’t be a chooser.

      For another short second he stared at me, as if debating the wisdom of his offer. Then abruptly he crossed the vast, magnificently decorated living room to a dainty-legged console table, picked up a phone and relayed a message in rapid-fire Greek.

      Finished, he set his glass down. ‘Come.’

      The command was quiet, but powerful enough to propel me forward. I told myself I couldn’t object because I’d agreed to dine with him. And because I owed Neo Xenakis a few non-confrontational gestures.

      Thinking he was leading me to the large, antique-filled dining room I’d spotted earlier during my brief and tentative search for the bathroom, I followed him in surprise into a kitchen fit for the world’s most exacting chef.

      Every imaginable gadget gleamed in polished splendour atop marble surfaces. On a large centre island, silverware gleamed under strategically suspended ceiling lights. Even the elevated stools looked too expensive for such a mundane activity as sitting.

      But when he pulled one back and waited with tight expectancy, I swallowed the unnerving sensation that I was tangling with a supremely affluent and powerful man.

      To the stout, rouge-faced chef who entered, I gave a quick smile. With a deferential nod, he started to uncover silver dishes.

      Glorious smells hit my nostrils, and I stared at the mouth-watering array.

      Exquisitely prepared Greek meze dishes were laid out next to an old-fashioned English shepherd’s pie. I didn’t fool myself into thinking this consideration had been made because I was joining him on such short notice. If the internet was right, Neo Xenakis was a man of extensive tastes and larger-than-life appetites.

      Why that reminder triggered another wave of heat through my system I refused to consider as, with a few words, Neo Xenakis dismissed the chef and reached for the bottle of red wine that stood an arm’s length away.

      Seeing the label, I felt my eyes widen. Once upon a time, before he’d pulled the rug from beneath our feet with his stark betrayal, my father had been as much of a wine enthusiast as my mother was a magazine fanatic.