The Greek's Pregnant Cinderella. Michelle Smart

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      Slipping through a rear door into the hotel he’d bought less than two years ago, he made his way to the ballroom.

      Giannis’s business interests were varied but mostly concentrated in shipping and property across the globe. This former palace he’d spent millions on renovating into a world-class hotel was his first venture into the tourism industry outside his Greek home. As a status symbol, there was none better.

      About to open a side door into the ballroom, he spotted a female guest on the cantilevered stairs. Her fingers trailed the railing as she made her descent. Her other hand clutched the gold invitation all ball guests were required to show on their arrival.

      There was something hesitant about her graceful walk that made him look twice.

      He looked at her. Then looked again.

      Although much of her face was hidden behind a white-gold eye-mask with a plume of dusky-pink feathers on the left cheek, there was something about her that set his pulses racing.

      He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

      Her beautiful dress, all delicate pale greens, dusky pinks, golds and jewels that sparkled when the light caught them, was strapless and form-fitting to the waist then puffed out to fall in layers to her hidden feet.

      She looked like a princess.

      She could be a princess.

      He imagined the dazzling circle the skirt of the dress would make on the dance floor...

      Leaving the door he’d been about to enter, he approached her as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

      She was shorter than he’d thought and, up close, even more ravishing. Honey-blonde hair had been coiled into an elegant knot at the base of a graceful neck adorned with a gold choker necklace covered in jewels, and roses that matched her dress and the drop earrings hanging from the lobes of her pretty ears.

      She was the most exquisite creature he had ever set eyes on.

      ‘You look lost,’ he said in English.

      A pair of cornflower-blue eyes met his from behind the mask.

      Full, heart-shaped lips curved into a hesitant smile.

      ‘Do you need directions to the room the guests are meeting in? Or are you waiting for someone?’ She wore a glimmering diamond on her right hand but there was no ring on her left.

      She shook her head in obvious shyness.

      ‘You don’t need directions or you’re not waiting for someone?’ Or did she not understand him? It was a rare event to meet someone in his world who did not speak English.

      When she finally spoke, her cut-glass English accent contained a huskiness to it. ‘I’m not waiting for anyone.’

      Better and better.

      He held an arm out to her. ‘Then allow me to escort you, Miss...’

      ‘Tabitha.’ Colour stained what he could see of her cheeks. ‘My name is Tabitha.’

      ‘A pleasure to meet you, Tabitha. I’m Giannis Basinas and it would be my pleasure if you would allow me to escort you to the ball.’

      Tabitha could have screamed at her stupidity.

      Why had she given him her real name?

      She hadn’t even reached the ballroom yet and already she’d blown her cover. And with Giannis Basinas of all people!

      She was supposed to be Amelia Coulter, the name on the invitation in her hand.

      She should have turned Mrs Coulter’s incredibly generous offer down but she’d been caught up in the moment, her head turned by the beautiful dress, her heart aching for one night, just one night, of freedom from the unrelenting drudgery of a life spent scrubbing bathrooms and cleaning rooms.

      This was the sort of ball at which, if her father had lived, she could have been a real guest. She would have been here by right, not deception.

      If Giannis suspected for a moment that she was a lowly hotel employee she would be fired on the spot.

      But there was no hint of recognition.

      But then, he’d never looked at her before. And why would he? He employed hundreds of people at this hotel alone. Chambermaids came bottom of the pecking order, a faceless army who flitted unobtrusively through the corridors and cleaned the rich guests’ rooms.

      The thought calmed her a little but it was with a heart that raced that she slipped her hand through his offered arm, then found it racing even harder.

      Tall, with dark brown hair cut short at the sides and long at the top, Giannis had a nose that was too long and his chin was a little too pointed for him to be considered traditionally handsome. But there was something about him, whether it was the high cheekbones, the clear blue eyes or the full bottom lip, that drew attention.

      It had drawn her attention from her first glance.

      His was a face that had lived and had the lines etched in his forehead and around the eyes to prove it.

      He might not be traditionally handsome but in the black leather swallowtail suit and black leather eye-mask he wore as his masquerade costume, which gave him an almost piratical air, he was devastating.

      ‘Which part of England are you from?’ he asked as they strolled down a wide corridor.

      ‘Oxfordshire,’ she answered cautiously.

      ‘A beautiful county.’

      It was, she thought wistfully. She’d avoided the entire county since she’d been thrown out of her home. It hurt too much to think of everything she’d lost and everything she missed.

      However, she smiled, nodded her agreement and prayed for a change to the conversation.

      What would be even better would be an increase to the pace Giannis had set. They were walking so slowly a tortoise could have overtaken them.

      Her mind raced as to how she could slip away from him before she had to hand over the invitation written in the name of a woman who was not Tabitha.

      If she had left Mrs Coulter’s room a minute earlier or later she wouldn’t have bumped into the one person she’d really needed to avoid.

      ‘I went to university in Oxford,’ he said. ‘Boarding school at Quilton House in Wiltshire. Do you know it?’

      That explained his flawless English.

      ‘I know of it.’ Quilton House was one of the oldest schools in the world and certainly the most expensive. Only the filthy rich could afford to send their children there. A few of her school friends’ brothers had attended it.

      ‘What school did you go to?’ he asked.

      ‘Beddingdales.’

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