The Giannakis Bride. Catherine Spencer

Dimitrios stood in profile just outside a pair of French doors standing open to the night, a glass of amber liquid cradled in his hand, and Brianna’s first thought on seeing him was that she’d overdressed for the occasion.

      He wore a long-sleeved white shirt but no tie, and his trousers, though beautifully tailored, were light gray, his shoes Italian leather loafers. She, on the other hand, had put on the only dinner dress she’d brought with her. Of black silk jersey, which traveled well and took up almost no room in a suitcase, it draped softly over one shoulder, left the other one bare, and fell almost to her ankles. Platinum hoops studded with tiny diamonds swung from her ears and she’d pinned up her hair in a sophisticated swirl on top of her head. That, in combination with the three-inch heels of her strappy black sandals, left her standing close to six feet tall. Even so, when he crossed the room to greet her, he loomed over her by a good three inches, and she had to tilt her head to meet his dark gaze.

      She thought she was prepared. That nothing he said or did could touch her. That she could withstand anything he threw at her—his scorn, his hostility—and that they would bounce off the hard shell of her indifference and return to him a hundredfold. But seeing him again flung her head-first back into that painful abyss of longing she’d fought so desperately to overcome.

      He was still so lean and hard and sexy that her mouth ran dry at the sight of him. She’d forgotten how big he was, how his thick black hair curled a little, no matter how severely he tried to tame it. She’d forgotten how beautiful he was, and how his mouth curved in a half smile when he was amused and trying not to show it. She’d forgotten how it felt to be the woman who was the object of his attention.

      “Well, Brianna, I never thought so much time would pass before we met again, nor that it would be under such trying circumstances,” he said, shaking her hand.

      The last time she’d seen him—apart from a fleeting encounter at Cecily’s funeral—he’d held her in his arms and begged her to stay the night with him in his stateroom. He’d been naked, his aroused flesh, hot and urgent, pressed against her, even though they’d made love as recently as fifteen minutes earlier. It had taken every last ounce of willpower for her to leave him.

      It took even more to feel his fingers close so impersonally around hers now, and not tremble from the contact, brief though it had been. “I hope I got here in time.”

      “For dinner? Yes. We won’t sit down to eat for a few minutes yet.”

      “That’s not what I meant, Dimitrios. I was referring to your little girl. How is she?”

      “Poppy’s condition remains unchanged.” He turned to where various decanters stood on a side table alongside a silver ice bucket containing an open bottle of champagne. “May I offer you something to drink?”

      “I don’t know,” she said. “Am I allowed alcohol?”

      She hoped she was. Normally not much of a drinker—an occasional glass of wine was her limit—just then she was rattled enough to latch on to anything that might fortify her.

      “Let’s ask the expert,” he said, and flung an inquiring glance over his shoulder. “What do you think, Doctor? May she have a little champagne?”

      Footsteps, light as a dancer’s, fell into the silence following his question, and a moment later the figure of a woman somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties appeared from the shadows of the moon-washed terrace beyond the French doors. “I don’t see why not. A glass or two of wine isn’t going to make any difference one way or the other.”

      “Glahss,” she’d said, her well-modulated voice overlaid with a distinctly English accent.

      Approaching Dimitrios, she held out her own empty crystal flute. “In fact, I wouldn’t mind a refill myself, if you’re offering. Might as well take advantage of a night off. It doesn’t happen often enough to go uncelebrated.”

      Blond, petite and elegant in a pencil-slim black skirt and pale-pink blouse, she barely reached Dimitrios’s shoulder. Beside her, Brianna felt like an Amazon.

      Dimitrios cupped her elbow and favored her with a smile so warm, it was a wonder the woman didn’t melt on the spot. “My dear lady, you may have as many refills as you please.” Then, managing to tear his attention away long enough to spare Brianna a cursory glance, supplied, “This is Doctor Noelle Manning, Brianna. She’s the head of the transplant team looking after my daughter. I decided it was a good idea for you to meet her as soon as possible, since she’s obviously much better able than I am to answer any questions you might have. And this,” he continued, swinging his gaze back to the diminutive Noelle with all due speed, “is my late wife’s sister, Brianna Connelly. You might have heard of her.”

      He made it sound as if Brianna topped the FBI’s Most Wanted list, but if Noelle Manning noticed, she chose not to comment.

      “Both heard of and seen in all my favorite magazines. Hers is not a face easily forgotten.” The doctor smiled and extended her delicate little hand. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how pleased I am to meet you, or how much is riding on your decision to come here.”

      In the course of her career, Brianna had met more than a few dukes, princesses, reigning monarchs and celebrities. None had left her feeling as tongue-tied and awkward as this tiny, self-assured woman. “Thank you,” she managed, trying not to stumble over her reply. “I hope I’ll be able to help.”

      “We’ll find out soon enough.”

      “When will you begin the tests?”

      “We’ll give you a few days to recover from your journey, then get started.” She steered Brianna to a couch beside the fireplace, took a seat on the one across from it and, tilting her head, asked, “How much do you know about the procedure, Brianna?”

      “About as much as I know about my niece’s illness, which is next to nothing.”

      “Brianna has other priorities,” Dimitrios remarked, pouring the champagne. “Aplastic anemia and bone marrow transplants don’t fall within her range of interests.”

      “How would you know?” Brianna shot back, the barely concealed contempt she’d noted in his voice cutting as sharply as a knife sliding between her ribs.

      He sauntered over to hand them their drinks, then dropped down on the couch next to Noelle Manning, close enough that his knee almost touched hers. “I know my daughter will turn three in another month, and this will be the first time you’ve met her.”

      “And I explained the reason for that when you phoned.”

      “I know only what you choose to tell me.”

      “I think we all understand that time has a habit of slipping away from us,” Noelle interrupted smoothly. “What matters is that you’re here now, Brianna, and Dimitrios is very grateful for that.” She pinned him with a forthright stare. “Isn’t that right, Dimitrios?”

      “Yes,” he admitted, looking a little shamefaced. “You’re our last hope, Brianna.”

      “Well, not quite,” Noelle amended. “There’s always the chance of an anonymous donor being found, but that could take a very long time, and Poppy…”

      She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. Her meaning was clear enough. Time wasn’t on Poppy’s side.

      “I’m quite willing to begin the tests tomorrow,” Brianna said. “In fact, I’d prefer to. Surely the sooner we get started, the better?”

      Noelle shook her head. “Donating bone marrow isn’t exactly a walk in the park, Brianna, and it would be unprofessional of me, if not criminally negligent, to allow you to go ahead without first making sure you have a thorough understanding of all that’s involved.”

      “If it’s a matter of money—”

      “It has nothing to do with money,” Dimitrios cut in sharply. “Your expenses will be covered.”

      “But