Blackmailed Into The Greek Tycoon's Bed. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Dear Reader

      When I was growing up, rugby caused a few good-natured arguments in our family. My parents were born in Scotland and lived where their daughters were born in England. Which for me had its advantages when it was Scotland v England—I could never lose.

      I cry easily, and the national anthems always set me off. It is such a huge part of the theatre of rugby—whether it’s the All Blacks doing the Haka, or the English crowd singing along to ‘God Save the Queen’ I get goosebumps every time.

      When my dad suddenly died I raced home from Australia, where I now live, back to England. I can remember just before it was time for me to return to Australia going to the police club, where my dad had been a proud member, and as we walked in the Scottish Rugby Team were there—loud and proud on the large television screen, singing the national anthem at the (then) Five Nations Series. We were all trying not to look at each other in case we really started crying, but my brother-in-law finally spoke and said, ‘This isn’t just a coincidence.’

      So—rugby still gives me goosebumps, and I still love to watch. And I still cheer for either England or Scotland—only now both Australia and Italy have been added to the mix.

      No wonder I love it—I almost can’t lose!

      Happy reading

       Carol Marinelli x

      PS—Did I mention the sexy men and those muscular thighs…?

      BLACKMAILED

       INTO THE GREEK

       TYCOON’S BED

      BY

      CAROL MARINELLI

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Dad

       With love always

       Carol xxxxx

      CHAPTER ONE

      IT WAS her assumption, rather than her arrogance, that first caught Xante’s attention.

      Wintry London skies were dark, and a rapid-fire of rain had scattered most of the people off the pavements. Even though it was midday, the cars that pulled into the plush forecourt of his hotel had their headlamps on and their wipers swishing furiously. A few braved the weather; coats overhead, they ran back from lunch to their work or their next meeting, while the organised or more seasoned Londoners opened umbrellas and carried on chatting into their phones. Only a select few took refuge in the forecourt of Xante Rossi’s Twickenham hotel.

      Xante owned several hotels—they were part of his impressive portfolio—but rarely was the man himself to be found standing in their foyers, checking that everything was in order. He had staff to take care of those details. But today was different. Xante had a particular soft spot for his Twickenham establishment—it allowed him to indulge his passion for rugby. Today the England rugby team was arriving for an official function which was being held to raise serious money for charity. Serious money. The crème de la crème of high society would be attending the charity auction tonight that would be held at the end of dinner and would prove an opportunity for the rich to publicly display their wealth under the guise of it being for a good cause.

      Xante liked all sports, but—unusually, perhaps, for a Greek—rugby was his passion. He loved the noble game; the blood, sweat and toil that made the game great. Philotimia was a sense of honour so vital to his people that it was written into the Greek legal code, and for Xante the great game of rugby represented philotimia perfectly.

      Once the players were all here at his hotel they would train and travel as a team, but for now they were trickling in from across the country, and Xante had already greeted several, including the captain. It was natural that he wanted to be here to personally welcome the team—and it was natural, for entirely different reasons, that he noticed the willowy blonde arrive in the foyer. Svelte and tall, she’d have captured and held any man’s attention, and she was holding Xante’s now.

      It was the way she shrugged off her coat—not with arrogance, just with the assumption that someone would catch it—that told him she was well heeled.

      He had chosen his staff well. Albert, his chief concierge, moved quickly, realising that the bell boy had failed to notice her rich aura, and he caught the coat in an impressive move. Then, without a backward glance, the woman walked into the foyer.

      Only then did she hesitate.

      Taking in her surrounds, green eyes darting, she fleetingly looked a fraction lost, and only then did Xante fathom that she wasn’t a guest.

      The hotel was practically in lockdown. Xante had brought in many extra staff to ensure that his important guests’ privacy was respected. Fans would remain outside, and journalists, however heavily disguised, were at this moment being politely turned away. But this woman, seemingly without prearrangement, had waived scrutiny and waltzed in as if she owned the place.

      Certain people did not require a passport, Xante knew, and this lady appeared to be one of them.

      She was strolling around the foyer, looking at the artwork on display, presumably waiting to meet someone. Xante’s head was full of questions, which