Robyn Donald - Powerful Greek, Housekeeper Wife

‘Tell me you forgot me,’ he ordered, his voice harsh.

‘No.’ The admission came out like a sigh, softly languorous, silken with need and longing.

At last, she thought with a relief so intense it blocked out everything but delight. At last.

She had been waiting for this ever since—ever since she’d seen him standing in the doorway.

Waiting for Luke.

The shock of realisation sent a rush of sensation through her, tightening her breasts and heating the pit of her stomach. For a few stunned seconds she stayed immobile, until the reality of everything hit her in an elemental, all-consuming flood, weakening her knees so that she swayed into him.

He understood the silent surrender, bending his head so she felt the soft whisper of his words against her sensitised lips. ‘Good. Because I could not forget you.’

THE GREEK TYCOONS

Legends are made of men like these!

Modern™ Romance is proud to introduce you to…the all-new Greek tycoons

Modern-day magnates,

as gorgeous and god-like

as their mythological ancestors,

they put the ‘man’ into romance!

This month:

POWERFUL GREEK, HOUSEKEEPER WIFEby Robyn Donald

Can a maid conquer the heart of a Greek tycoon?

by

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ROBYN DONALDcan’t remember not being able to read, and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand. Growing up fed her habit. As well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers. So much so that one day she decided to write one herself. Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading—although infinitely more challenging—and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon she felt she’d arrived home. She still lives in a small town in Northland, with her family close by, using the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers, and complicated by a determined Corgi called Buster, who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.

Recent titles by the same author:

BROODING BILLIONAIRE, IMPOVERISHED PRINCESS

THE VIRGIN AND HIS MAJESTY

RICH, RUTHLESS AND SECRETLY ROYAL *

*part of the Self-Made Millionaires series

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IONA GUTHRIE bit back an unladylike expletive and tore off her wet smock, wrinkling her nose at the disgusting stickiness of the liquid that oozed down her front and soaked her to the skin.

‘ Now what?’ she demanded of the universe, heading for the elegant little powder room close by the entrance of the penthouse. ‘First the vacuum system dies, then the laundry loses the special linen, probably produced by diamond-decorated silkworms. Now this—ugh! I’m beginning to believe this penthouse is haunted by a demon. So what’s next? An earthquake? A waterspout?’

She pushed back the thick strand of straight ash-blonde hair that had come adrift from her businesslike ponytail, and opened the door. Grimacing, she slung the smock over a towel rail and began to wriggle free of her bra. The scent of the roses in the exquisitely arranged vase permeated the luxurious little room, calming her down a little.

How the other half—no, make that the upper point zero zero zero one per cent—live, she thought, glancing at the flowers.

Fortunately the billionaire businessman for whom the penthouse had been prepared wasn’t due to arrive for several hours yet.

And she’d almost finished the checklist. Iona made a mental note to tell the manager of the apartment complex that the maid needed supervision; one of the hand basins in the master bedroom suite had had a hair in it. She’d picked up the detergent bottle to clean it, only to discover that the lid hadn’t been put on properly.

The view from the window was enough to soothe anyone, even a detergent-soaked lifestyle organiser. Relaxing into the promise of a sunny weekend, Auckland city hummed peacefully below. A warm spring sun beamed down, highlighting the white wakes of pleasure boats on the harbour and gilding islands that faded into the distance.

Iona expelled another long breath and finally managed to shrug free of the loathsomely sticky bra, glancing at her watch when a muted ting from the communications system warned her that the private lift was on its way up.

Good for you, Angie. Dead on time. Her cousin, who was also her boss, was collecting her for the next job, a barbecue one of her clients had suddenly decided to hold that evening.

Her bra landed on the towel rail next to her soggy smock. Pulling a face at her half-naked reflection, she extracted a handful of tissues from her bag before turning on the elegant Italian tap.

She heard the big outer doors slide back, and called out, ‘Come on in,’ as she began to mop the residue of the detergent from her skin.

A moment later she sensed Angie’s presence. Dabbing distastefully at her bare breasts, she said, ‘I won’t be long.’

‘You’d damned well better not be.’

Iona froze. Not Angie— definitely not Angie.

Deep, slightly accented, very much male—a voice chilled by a contempt that sent slivers of ice jostling down her spine.

And familiar…oh, so familiar. That voice still haunted her dreams.

Her head jerked up. In the mirror her stunned gaze met eyes like a lion’s—tawny and arrogantly disdainful in a bold masculine face.

A man straight out of a Greek fable.

Or a Tahitian fantasy…

A shocked sound tore from Iona’s throat when she registered the starkly classic beauty of his features. She swallowed, then croaked, ‘Luke?’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Luke Michelakis asked in a voice so cold it froze her brain.

Hot colour washed up from her naked breasts as she grabbed at the discarded smock and wrapped it around her, only to see her bra slither onto the floor. ‘I was—I’m checking the place over,’ she muttered. She dragged in a jagged breath and demanded, ‘Why are you here?’

‘I’m staying here,’ he said icily.

‘You are?’ she blurted, heart pounding so heavily in her chest she was afraid he might hear it. Indignation sharpened her tone. ‘Well, you’re not due for another five hours!’

Black brows lifted. For a disturbing few seconds he let his unreadable gaze roam her face, then he stooped, picked up the bra and held it out to her, skin-coloured cotton dangling from a long-fingered olive hand.

‘Th-thank you.’ She snatched the offending scrap of material and tried to regain some shred of dignity. ‘Please go.’