The Greek Doctor's New-Year Baby. Kate Hardy

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled.

      Theo stayed close to her for the rest of the balloon trip. And although they’d been warned that in four out of five flights the balloon landed on its side, and they’d braced themselves for the impact, she still wasn’t prepared for the fact that the basket tipped over and she landed on top of Theo.

      Full length.

      Plastered against him.

      His arms automatically came round her. It was the obvious thing to do, to keep them stable—but then again he’d spent most of the balloon ride with his arms round her.

      If she lifted her head from his shoulder, she was close enough to kiss him.

      And if they hadn’t had the other passengers from the balloon and the pilot with them, she knew she would have done it. Teased that gorgeous, sexy mouth until he was kissing her back and his hands were sliding underneath her fleece and her camisole to encounter bare skin. And she would’ve been just as quick to rip his clothes off.

      Oh, lord.

      She could feel her face burning, but Theo didn’t make any comment. He merely joined the others in helping to roll up the surprisingly heavy balloon and loading it into the back of the Land Rover that had followed the balloon across London to Alexandra Palace and obtained clearance for them to land.

      â€˜So, did you enjoy your first balloon ride?’ he asked as they walked through the park towards the tube station.

      â€˜It was amazing. I’ve lived in London for twelve years now, but it’s made me see the city with new eyes. There are so many places I haven’t explored.’

      He waited a beat. ‘Maybe we could explore them together,’ he suggested.

      It shocked her how just much she wanted to agree. ‘Maybe,’ she said.

      When they were sitting on the tube, he slanted her a look. ‘Are you doing anything special for the rest of the day?’

      â€˜Does an appointment with an ironing board and a pile of laundry the height of K2 count?’ she asked wryly.

      â€˜That,’ he said, ‘doesn’t sound like fun. How about having lunch with me first?’

      â€˜As long as you let me pay,’ she said. ‘My treat—seeing as you shared your prize with me.’

      He smiled. ‘I didn’t mean in a restaurant. I don’t live far from a tube station. Come and have lunch with me.’

      Go to his home?

      She’d have to be crazy, especially given the way her body had reacted to his on the balloon. ‘It’s a bit early for lunch.’ It was barely eleven.

      He shrugged. ‘We were up early. I’d say it’s lunchtime.’ He raised an eyebrow, as if challenging her. He couldn’t make it any clearer that he thought she was being a coward.

      Well, she wasn’t. ‘Lunch,’ she said, lifting her chin, ‘would be lovely.’

      â€˜Good.’

      He unlocked the front door of a tiny Victorian terrace with a pocket-handkerchief-sized front garden. The décor was neutral—which she’d expected from a rented house—though a brief glance into the living room as she passed the open door showed framed photographs clustered on the mantelpiece. So clearly he was trying to make the place home rather than just somewhere to live.

      â€˜Anything I can do to help?’ she asked.

      â€˜You can put the kettle on, if you like.’ His eyes glittered with amusement. ‘Don’t worry—I have English coffee.’ He retrieved a cafetière and a bag of ground coffee from the cupboard above the kettle, and sliced open the seal. ‘If I was going to make proper coffee—the way I drink it—I’d use a briki.’ It must have shown on her face that she didn’t understand, because he said, ‘It’s a Greek coffee-pot—you use it straight on the stove.’

      He’d already removed his jacket and hung it on the newel post, but now he stripped off his sweater to reveal a white V-necked T-shirt. One that clung in all the right places.

      He’d looked hot in a suit. Gorgeous in that leather jacket and sweater. But now, in jeans and that white T-shirt, he was completely edible.

      Madison only just stopped herself touching him.

      But no way could she keep her fleece on. She was melting as it was. ‘It is OK if I put my fleece on top of your jacket?’

      â€˜Sure. Now, let’s see.’ He was rummaging in the fridge and stacking a pile of ingredients on the worktops. ‘Anything you don’t eat or you’re allergic to?’

      â€˜I like all food.’ As long as she didn’t have to cook it.

      â€˜Good. So we’ll start with toasted pitta and hummus, then chicken and salad.’ He handed her a bottle of milk. ‘No sugar for me, please.’

      It felt oddly domestic, making coffee for them both while he chopped salad. She’d never done this with Harry. Then again, she and Harry had hardly ever been at home together. They’d nearly always eaten out, neither of them being particularly fond of cooking. ‘Anything else I can do to help?’ she asked when she’d filled their mugs, added milk and returned the bottle to the fridge.

      â€˜You can lay the table in the dining room, if you like. The cutlery’s in the top drawer and plates are in the cupboard next to the kettle.’ Meanwhile, he was whisking lemon juice and olive oil and fresh herbs in a bowl as if he were a born chef.

      She collected the cutlery and went through to the dining room. There was a small dining table with four chairs, and a computer table with a desk lamp and laptop; next to it was a bookcase, stuffed with textbooks she recognised and other books that were printed in Greek and could have been anything from medicine to poetry. There were more photographs on the mantelpiece and a stunning watercolour of a Mediterranean seascape.

      She’d just finished laying the table and was about to take a closer look at the photographs when Theo walked in, carrying a plate with hot pitta bread and a bowl of hummus.

      â€˜Lunch. And I’m really ready for this. Must be the fresh air.’ He gave her another of those knee-buckling smiles.

      The hummus was good—to the point where she suspected it probably hadn’t been bought from the deli counter of the local supermarket. And when he brought in the next course—a salad of cucumber, tomatoes, olives, red peppers and salty feta cheese, to go with chicken he’d marinated briefly in that dressing before grilling it—she knew for sure that he’d made it himself.

      Theo Petrakis was simply gorgeous. Body, mind and heart—she’d seen him in action in the department enough to know he was kind and clever. And he was a great cook to boot.

      If she wasn’t careful, she could really fall for him.

      â€˜That was fabulous,’ she said when they’d finished. ‘You’re an excellent cook.’

      â€˜That wasn’t cooking,’ he said. ‘That was throwing stuff together from the fridge.’ He held her gaze, his dark eyes flecked with green and gold and grey. ‘One evening I’ll cook you a proper Greek meal, if you like.’

      Oh, she’d like. ‘Thank you.’

      And again her heart felt as if it had done one of those odd little flips. She decided to take refuge in a safer topic: work. ‘So where did you train?’ she asked.

      â€˜With a surname like Petrakis, where do you think?’ he