Betrothed: To the People's Prince. Marion Lennox

      CHAPTER ONE

      INTO her crowd of beautiful people came…Nikos.

      She was taking a last visual sweep of the room, noting descriptions for tomorrow’s fashion column.

      The men were almost uniformly in black—black T-shirts, black jeans and designer stubble. The women were Audrey Hepburn clones. Cinched waists, wide skirts and pearls. The fifties look was now.

      There was little eating. Cinched waists and ‘body slimmers’ didn’t allow for snacking, the waiters were sparse and it wasn’t cool to graze.

      Nikos was holding a beer, and as the waiter passed with a tray of tiny caviar-loaded blinis he snagged four. He tipped one into his mouth, then turned back to search the room.

      For her.

      After all these years, he could still stop her world.

      She’d forgotten to breathe. It was important to breathe. She took a too-big sip of her too-dry Martini and it went down the wrong way.

      Uh-oh. If it wasn’t cool to eat, it was even more uncool to choke.

      But help was at hand. Smooth and fast as a panther, Nikos moved through the crowd to be by her side in an instant. He took her drink, slapped her back with just the right amount of force, and then calmly waited for her to recover.

      Nikos.

      She could faint, she thought wildly. An ambulance could take her away and she’d be in a nice, safe emergency room. Safe from the man she’d walked away from almost ten years ago.

      But fainting took skills she didn’t have. No one seemed about to call for help. No one seemed more than politely interested that she was choking.

      Except Nikos.

      She didn’t remember him as this big. And this…gorgeous? He was wearing faded blue jeans instead of the designer black that was de rigueur in this crowd. His shirt was worn white cotton, missing the top two buttons. He had an ancient leather jacket slung over his arm.

      The fashion editor part of her was appreciative. Nice.

      More than nice. Nikos.

      She coughed on, more than she needed to, trying desperately to give herself space. His dark hair was curly, unruly and a bit too long. His brown-black eyes were crinkled at the edges, weathered from a life at sea. Among this crowd of fake tans, his was undeniably real. His whole body was weathered by his work.

      Nikos. Fisherman.

      Her childhood love.

      He’d grown from a gorgeous boy into a…what? She didn’t have words to describe it. She was the fashion editor of one of the world’s leading glossies, and she was lost for words.

      Words were what she needed. She had to think of something to say. Anything. Almost every eye in the room was on them now. She couldn’t retreat to choking again.

      ‘You want your drink back?’ His tone was neutrally amused. Deeper than last time she’d heard him. A bit gravelly, with a gorgeous Greek accent.

      Sexy as hell.

      He was balancing his beer, her Martini and his three remaining blinis. He’d used his spare hand to thump her.

      He was large and capable and…

      Nikos.

      Now she’d stopped choking, the crowd had turned their attention to him. Well, why wouldn’t they? The models, designers, media and buyers were openly interested. Maybe more than interested. Their concentrated attention contained more than a hint of lust.

      ‘You going to live?’ Nikos asked mildly, and she thought about it. She might. If he went away.

      ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘Looking for you.’

      ‘It’s invitation only.’

      ‘Yep,’ he said, as if that hadn’t even crossed his mind as something to bother about. How had he done it? People would kill for an invitation to this launch. He’d simply walked in.

      ‘You look cute,’ he said, raking her from head to toe.

      Right. She’d gone to some trouble with her outfit. Her tiny red skirt was clinging in the right places, she’d managed to make her unruly black curls stay in a knot that was almost sophisticated, but in this crowd of fashion extremists she knew she disappeared.

      ‘Go away,’ she said, and he shook his head.

      ‘I can’t do that, Princess.’

      ‘Don’t call me that.’

      ‘It’s what you are.’

      ‘Please, Nikos, not here.’

      ‘Whatever,’ he said easily. ‘But we need to talk. Phones don’t