you not think of it as care and concern for the well-being of my son?”
A light flickered in her eyes. “I have taken excellent care of him so far.”
“I appreciate that. But as his father, I expect you to respect my wishes.”
She stared back at him, unrepentant.
There was definitely a power struggle taking place. He hadn’t anticipated that, either. She was carrying his son. She was hired to carry his son. All she had to do was heed his wishes. But it appeared that Georgia either couldn’t, or wouldn’t, and her resistance was like gasoline to a flame.
He wasn’t angry. Not in the least. But his heart was thudding, and blood was drumming in his veins.
Nikos placed her glass on the corner table and sat back down across from her. “I think we have a misunderstanding.” His tone was pleasant. There was no need to snarl. He knew just how dangerous he was...just how dangerous he could be. “Maybe it’s a language barrier. Maybe it’s cultural—you are American, I am Greek—but business is business. You entered into an arrangement with me, and I have met my end of the agreement. I have paid you, handsomely, for your service—”
“We are discussing my body. I am not a shipping container or a maritime vessel. I am not your employee, either. I am a woman who is giving you a gift—”
“Providing a service,” he interrupted. “We have to call it what it is.”
“Yes, the gift of life,” she shot back, tone defiant, blue eyes blazing. “But I’m not just any woman. I’m the one you wanted to be both egg donor and surrogate. There was a reason you picked me. You could have picked any woman, but you selected me, which means you have me, and I am not going to be pushed around. I don’t respect men who throw their weight around, either. You can have a conversation with me, but don’t dictate to me.”
* * *
For a long moment there was just silence.
Georgia felt the weight of Nikos’s inspection. He wasn’t happy. At all. She wasn’t afraid, just alert. Aware. Aware of his intensity, and how energy seemed to crackle around him. He wasn’t moving, and yet she could feel the air hum.
She’d never met anyone like him before. And if she weren’t here, trapped on an isolated island with him, she’d be intrigued. She’d be tempted to test the fire and energy, but she was trapped here, and the survivalist in her told her she needed to be careful, and she needed to get off the island. Soon.
“Does no one else live on Kamari?” she asked, filling the taut silence.
“Just my staff.”
“Are there many?”
“A half dozen or so, depending on the day and occasion.”
“And do you ever leave here? Will we ever go anywhere?”
His mouth quirked, his dark eyes narrowing. “You’ve only been here a few hours. Are you already so anxious to leave?”
“I’ve never been to Greece.”
“And here you are.”
She smiled and glanced past him, her attention drawn to the blue horizon. “But I see other islands. They cannot be that far.”
“The closest is Amorgós. It is twenty-six kilometers away.”
“How do you get there?”
“I don’t.”
She allowed her smile to grow, stretch. “What if I wanted to visit?” she asked lightly.
“And why would you want to do that?”
“I might want to shop—”
“You want to buy olives...bread...soap? Because that is all the shops have there this time of year. It’s not high season. In winter, Amorgós is not for tourists. It has a few small shops with meat and produce, but that is all.”
“Surely there is more to the island than that.”
His broad shoulders shifted. “There is a ferry, a hospital and a monastery—plus churches. Many churches. But no museums, no café culture, nothing that would appeal to you.”
“You don’t know me. How do you know what would appeal to me?”
“You are young and beautiful. Young, beautiful women like to have a good time.”
She laughed, entertained. Or at least, it was what she’d have him think. The quickest way to lose control was to get emotional. “That is so incredibly sexist.”
“Not sexist. I’m just honest. And before you think I am being unfair to the female gender, let me add that young, beautiful men like to have a good time, too.”
“But not you.”
“I am neither young nor beautiful.”
“Are you fishing for compliments?”
He leaned forward so that they were just inches apart and stared deeply into her eyes. “Look at me.”
Oh, she was, and this close his eyes weren’t just dark brown, but rich chocolate ringed with a line of espresso. His lashes were black, thick, long, perfectly framing the rich brown irises. His black brows were strong slashes. “I’m looking,” she said calmly, her cool voice belying the change in her pulse, her heart beginning to race. She didn’t know what was happening, but it was hard to breathe. She was growing warm, too warm. It was no longer easy to concentrate. “And you are still young, and despite the scars, you are still beautiful.”
The space between them, those precious inches, shimmered with heat and tension. Even the air felt charged. Georgia dragged in a breath, feeling feverish.
“Is this a game to you?” he growled.
“No.”
“Then look again.”
“I am. So tell me, what am I supposed to be seeing?”
He reached up, and shoved his dark hair back from his temple, revealing the swath of mottled skin. “Now look at them.”
“I am. They are burns,” she said, struggling to sound clinical and detached as she reached out and lightly traced the thickened scar tissue. “They extend three inches above your brow, into your hairline, and then follow your temple down to your ear and out to the top of your cheekbone.” Her fingers shook as she drew her hand back. She curled her hand in her lap. “How long ago did it happen?”
“Five years.”
“They’ve healed well.”
“There were a number of reconstructive surgeries.”
His words told her one thing, but his espresso eyes said something else. She was far too warm and unsettled to want to analyze what was happening.
Too
