Bedded for Pleasure, Purchased for Pregnancy. Carol Marinelli

was dangerous.

      Bad and dangerous—yet irresistible.

      It was nearly 2:00 a.m. by the time they all got to bed, and Emma was exhausted.

      Peeling off her dress, only in reverence to its price tag did she bother to hang it over a chair in the study. And apart from a lethargic brush of her teeth, the rest of her nighttime routine went to pot. Climbing into the trundle bed in the study, Emma listened to the familiar sounds of the family home—her father coughing, the stairs creaking as her parents went to bed, the bark of a possum in a tree outside. It should have been soothing and familiar, and she was so tired she should have been asleep in a matter of seconds, but she was too aware that Zarios was in situ—that tonight he lay in her bed.

      How she wished she were there!

      Every creak of the floorboards, every turn of a tap, had her staring into the darkness at the door, terrified that he’d come in.

      And she was shamefully, bitterly disappointed when he didn’t.

      CHAPTER THREE

      EMMA didn’t know what to do.

      The sun wasn’t up yet, and the silence of dawn was attempting to soothe her as Emma strode along the beach, her head racing at a thousand miles an hour after an angst-riddled sleepless night.

      Damn Zarios for being so irresistible.

      And damn her for being so willing.

      Anyone might have seen him kissing her and pressing himself into her last night. If the lights had come on even a second earlier… Emma simultaneously cringed and soared at the memory, viewing it as if through parted fingers, wanting to see it, yet horribly embarrassed all the same.

      He was a playboy, Emma told herself, walking quickly now. A bored playboy, stuck at a party he probably hadn’t wanted to attend. A restless, oversexed male who’d been looking for diversion, for amusement—and she’d provided it.

      Well, no more.

      He’d be gone after breakfast and that would be the last she’d see of him.

      Unless he called her!

      Still, it wasn’t just Zarios and his potent sex appeal that had her head spinning as she strode angrily through the still dawn. Damn Jake, too, for ruining her father’s birthday for her.

      If only her parents knew.

      If only they knew the thin ice he perpetually skated on. Oh, their parents had helped Jake out a couple of times—when the stockmarket had supposedly taken a tumble, and when the twins were first born and Beth had been hospitalised with depression—but unbeknown to them she, too, had helped. Emma swallowed down the flutter of unease at the thought of the credit card account she had opened to bail him out, the personal loan she had taken… Each time Jake had promised he’d pay her back; each time he had sworn it would be the last…

      …and each time he had lied.

      Emma stared out at the grey morning, willing the sun to come up and shed some light on what she should do.

      She didn’t have the sort of money Jake needed.

      Possibly she could get an extension on her mortgage. She’d always been so careful. She had lived frugally throughout her student years, even managing to set some money aside from casual jobs, and her father had found her a modest flat near where she rented the gallery—a flat that had increased in value. But her paintings weren’t doing so well. She was still too new, too little known. Because of helping Jake she’d had to cut back on advertising, had had to forgo the promotional nights at her gallery that might draw in the customers.

      Emma gulped. Why should she help him? If she gave him this money Emma knew that she’d never see it again—which should make saying no incredibly simple. Only… She could almost feel the sting of her mother slapping her cheek all those years ago when, after another of Jake’s so-called cries for help, Emma had voiced the same question. Why couldn’t he cope?

      ‘He’s ill, Emma!’

      Closing her eyes, she could see her mother’s lips—pale, furious lips that had been spitting at the edges as she spoke. The slap had been less shocking than the fury that had accompanied it—her mother had been appalled at the question her seventeen-year-old daughter had raised.

      ‘You should try and be more understanding!’

      That had been their sole conversation regarding Jake’s illness—no discussion, no acknowledgement. The memories of those black days had been filed and tucked away, by unspoken rule never to be opened.

      But, try as her mother might, the lid was peeping open.

      And, try as Emma might, this time she might not be able to stop it.

      To swim alone on a deserted beach that was still draped in darkness broke every safety rule that had been ingrained into Emma from the moment she could walk and had toddled on little fat legs to the water she adored. Only Emma truly wasn’t thinking—her mind was solely consumed with her brother and his problems. As Emma stripped down to her bra and panties all she sought in that moment was a clear head—a break from her frantic thoughts.

      The water was delicious—refreshingly cold as she plunged in. There was nothing better than swimming in the ocean—the weightlessness, the pull of the waves, the invigorating feel of salt water on her skin and the bliss of escape. Here, Emma knew, she was just a speck in the scheme of things, and the vastness of the ocean soothed her mind, her panic abating as her body tired.

      She had swum a long way out.

      The first fingers of fear tightened around her heart as Emma stared back at the grey beach, her legs moving as she attempted to tread water, and at that moment terror seized her. She could see rocks moving alongside her even though she was trying to stay still, and felt the very real force of a seemingly benign ocean as it rapidly pulled away her from the shore.

      She was caught in a rip. A fast-moving channel of current that ran perpendicular to the beach. She knew not to fight it—knew she could never swim against it—but the foolhardiness of her actions caught up with her. The vastness of the ocean that had moments ago soothed her scared her now.

      He didn’t want to go back.

      Even though he had spent only twelve hours away from the city, Zarios actually felt as if he had had a break. Walking along the beach, the sun just starting to appear on the horizon—it was bliss to have the place to himself.

      Last night had been nice, watching his father and Eric talking, and for once he had been able to relax and enjoy a pleasant evening without worrying about Miranda, about work, or the board’s decision.

      He was almost tempted to accept Lydia’s offer to stay the entire weekend—to cancel his other engagements and to just get off the treadmill for a little while.

      Except he couldn’t.

      It seemed everyone wanted a piece of him these days—everyone demanded their pound of flesh. It wouldn’t even enter their heads that he really needed a weekend off—naturally they’d assume the worst.

      That Zarios D’Amilo was boiling towards yet another scandal.

      Oh, his father was upset—furious, in fact, that things hadn’t worked out with Miranda, that another teary story would no doubt hit the magazines in a week or so, at a time when the D’Amilo name could least afford it. Zarios knew he had tried to make it work with her, but her behaviour had been becoming more and more bizarre. With each passing week she became more possessive, more demanding, till nothing bar a proposal of marriage would convince Miranda that he wasn’t cheating on her. And though it might have soothed Miranda and might have appeased his father and their fellow directors, Zarios had refused to be pushed.

      Once again, he hated how he had been judged.

      Despite the scathing words that were written about him, despite his heartbreak reputation,