Playboys: The Greek Tycoon's Disobedient Bride / The Ruthless Magnate's Virgin Mistress / The Spanish Billionaire's Pregnant Wife. LYNNE GRAHAM

lifted her right off her feet.

      ‘Put me down!’ Ophelia shouted at the top of her voice, feeling remarkably foolish with her legs dangling.

      ‘Not until you cool off.’ Arms outstretched as he held her back from him, Lysander studied her with icy self-containment.

      ‘You’re behaving like a bully!’ Ophelia snapped furiously across the narrow divide that separated them.

      ‘You assaulted me,’ Lysander drawled, lush ebony lashes low above eyes that were blaze-bronze.

      Ophelia was thoroughly disconcerted by that reminder. She collided with his smouldering gaze and it was as if all the air that there was to breathe had suddenly burned up in the atmosphere. Warmth curled through her in an enervating surge that scared her. ‘I’m calm,’ she framed, taken aback by a physical response that even rage couldn’t suppress.

      Lysander lowered her to the floor again with exaggerated care. Anger was storming around like a caged animal inside him. He had planned to confine the marriage to one tiny compartment of his life and now that convenient arrangement was no longer possible. Even worse, he would have to maintain the pretence for the benefit of his family. ‘The grounds are crawling with paparazzi,’ he imparted.

      ‘Papa-what? Oh, those photographers that chase celebrities,’ Ophelia mumbled, her brows having pleated in momentary mystification. ‘What are they doing here? Oh, right, they followed you down from London—’

      His scorching eyes were welded to her. ‘No. Try again.’

      ‘Try what?’

      ‘Acting dumb. So far you’re not being very convincing.’

      ‘What are you trying to insinuate?’ Ophelia took the opportunity to snake past him with the agility of an eel. ‘Well, I’m not listening to one more nonsensical word!’

      As Ophelia thrust open the door of her bedroom Lysander closed a hand like a steel manacle round her narrow wrist.

      ‘Tomorrow the newspapers will be full of the story of our marriage,’ he breathed in a wrathful undertone.

      Wide-eyed, Ophelia turned back to look at him, his imprisoning hold forgotten. ‘Did they find out about the two wills as well?’

      ‘No. Only that we got married today, which is more than sufficient.’

      ‘But how did it get out? I mean, we’ve taken such care—’

      Lysander studied her with sizzling force. ‘Stamitos, my head of security, already has a suspect and it isn’t anyone in my employ. The story was leaked by someone who knew the score. The woman who lives in the gatehouse—your friend …’

      ‘Pamela Arnold? What’s she got to do with this?’

      ‘She has a brother who works on a tabloid newspaper.’

      ‘Yes, but she hardly ever sees him.’ But dismay at that reminder had frozen Ophelia to the spot and she had paled. Although she had sworn her friend to secrecy, she was painfully aware that Pamela had found the entire wedding scenario, not to mention Lysander’s wealth, hugely exciting. Nobody loved to talk more than Pamela. Could her friend have accidentally let information slip in the wrong quarter?

      ‘By tomorrow morning the whole world will know that I have taken a wife.’

      ‘I really don’t think the whole world is likely to be that interested.’ An uneasy conscience, however, ensured that Ophelia’s comeback was less feisty than usual. Then her thoughts were sidetracked by the startling discovery that her bedroom looked unfamiliar—the bed had been stripped andher possessions were no longer in view. ‘Where have my things gone?’

      ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘Half my stuff has vanished from my room!’

      ‘Wives don’t sleep on the other side of the house.’

      Her hackles came up, since nobody had consulted her on what she assumed to be a move to another bedroom. ‘I’m not a wife.’

      ‘You are now and it’s obvious that the status of being my wife is what you wanted all along.’ His lean, tanned face granite hard, Lysander turned her back to him. ‘Clearly you planned the maximum possible exposure for our marriage in the media.’

      Ophelia discovered that she was fighting a very irrational urge to giggle. Just at that instant she didn’t feel she could have planned her way out of an open space. The alcohol she had imbibed had gone straight to her head, for she had had nothing to eat since breakfast. ‘You’re so distrustful—of course I didn’t plan it! Why would I have wanted people to know about this crazy arrangement?’

      ‘So that you could become my wife in reality.’

      ‘In reality? Meaning?’ Ophelia queried as he strode down the passage, trailing her willy-nilly in his wake.

      Lysander swung into the Long Gallery. ‘Plan B is about to go into operation.’

      ‘Plan B? Where on earth are you taking me?’

      Lysander thrust wide the door of Madrigal Court’s principal bedroom. The huge room had not been used by Ophelia’s family, who had found the Victorian wing at the back of the house easier to heat. Now a fire leapt and glowed in the giant grate below the stone chimneypiece, sending shadows snaking and flickering over the oak-panelled walls.

      A fabulous four-poster bed, wholly in keeping with the feudal splendour of the new décor, sat centre stage.

      Ophelia had never been the slightest bit domesticated. She was untouched by any desire to rearrange the furniture or shop for new curtains, but she had occasionally been conscious of a wistful yearning for her surroundings to be warmer, more comfortable and inviting. Now she stared in astonishment at the imposing bed, draped in flamboyant golden fabric.

      ‘Your employees have contrived the most amazing transformation. I’ve been so busy in the garden I haven’t had the chance to keep up with all the improvements.’ Her smooth brow indented. ‘Why did you bring me in here?’

      ‘This is our room.’

      ‘Our … room?’

      Lysander shot Ophelia a long, lingering appraisal that made her skin prickle. ‘The marital bedroom.’

      ‘We don’t have a marital bedroom because, well … what would we do with one?’ An uneasy laugh was wrenched from Ophelia, who was recalling his crack about the sort of boots he liked a woman to wear. She really didn’t like his sense of humour.

      ‘All the usual things, glikia mou,’ Lysander murmured lazily. ‘Not much else to do at this season in the country and at least it would keep us warm.’

      ‘Let me get this straight … you are expecting me to share a room with you?’ Ophelia gasped.

      Grim amusement gripped Lysander. She was amazingly good at acting the naïve country girl while simultaneously contriving to look quite extraordinarily beautiful. ‘Even if our marriage had remained our secret we would still have had to share a room when I was here. How else could we ever have pretended that it was a normal marriage?’

      Ophelia was bemused. ‘But I had no idea you were expecting me to share a room with you!’

      ‘We have an agreement.’

      ‘Yes, but everything has changed now—’

      ‘Only the will. You are still my wife and, since that is no longer a secret, we are much more married than I ever expected to be,’ Lysander delineated with cold emphasis.

      Discomfited pink winged across her cheeks. ‘Yes, I appreciate that.’

      Lifting a lean, elegant hand, Lysander skimmed the troubled pout of her upper lip with a careless fingertip. ‘Do you?’

      Her colour fluctuated and her tummy turned a somersault. The deeper note in his rich dark