agreed to do.
* * *
Three and a half months, Nikos Panos told himself, standing at the far end of the landing strip, narrowed gaze fixed on the white Dassault Falcon jet. It had been a rough landing owing to the windy day, which wasn’t unusual for this time of year in the Cyclades. But the jet was safely parked and the door was open, revealing twenty-four-year-old Georgia Nielsen.
From where he stood, she appeared very slender and very blonde in a soft-knit apricot tunic, dark gray tights and high-heel boots that covered her knees. He frowned at the height of the heels on her boots, baffled as to why a pregnant woman would wear boots with heels four inches high. Her boots were a problem, and so was her dress. Her tunic’s knit hem hit just above midthigh, revealing a lot of leg.
Nikos knew from her profile that Georgia Nielsen would be pretty, but he hadn’t expected this.
Standing at the top of the stairs with the blustery wind grabbing at her hair and the sun haloing the bright golden mass, she looked so much like Elsa that it made his chest tighten and ache.
He’d wanted a surrogate that looked like Elsa.
But he didn’t want Elsa.
In that moment, he wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake. He had to be more than a little bit mad to search the world for a woman that looked like his late wife, and certifiably insane to bring that doppelgänger here, to Kamari.
The American surrogate must have spotted him because she suddenly straightened, and, lifting a hand to her hair, held the billowing golden mane back from her face as she came down the jet’s stairs quickly. It wasn’t quite a run, but definitely with speed, and purpose.
Not Elsa, he grimly corrected, moving forward to meet her.
His Elsa had been quiet and gentle, even a bit timid, while this leggy blonde crossed the tarmac as if she owned it. He met her halfway, determined to slow her down. “Careful,” he ground out.
Georgia lifted her head and looked at him, brows pulling. “Of what?” she countered, a hint of irritation in her voice.
From afar she was striking. Close, she was astonishingly pretty. Even prettier than Elsa, maybe, if such a thing was possible.
And for the second time he thought this was a critical error, bringing her here, now, when there was so much time left before the baby’s birth. Not because he was in danger of falling in love with his late wife’s ghost, but because his relationship with Elsa had never been easy, and her senseless death had filled him with guilt. He hoped the baby would ease some of the guilt. He hoped that becoming a father would force him to move forward and live. And feel.
Elsa wasn’t the only ghost in his life. He’d become one, too.
“You could trip and fall,” he said shortly, his deep voice rough even to his own ears. He didn’t speak much on Kamari. Not even to his staff. They knew their duties, and they did them without unnecessary conversation.
One of her winged eyebrows arched higher. She gave him a long, assessing look, sizing him up—inspecting, cataloging, making a dozen mental notes. “I wouldn’t do that,” she said after a moment. “I have excellent balance. I would have loved to be a gymnast, but I grew too tall.” She extended her hand to him. “But I appreciate your concern, Mr. Panos.”
He looked down at her hand for what would probably be considered too long to be polite. He’d never been overly concerned about manners and niceties before the fire, and now he simply didn’t care at all. He didn’t care about anything. That was the problem. But the Panoses couldn’t die out with him. Not just because the company needed an heir; he was the last Panos. It wasn’t right that he allowed his mistakes to end hundreds of years of a family lineage. Surely his family shouldn’t pay for who he was...what he’d done...
The baby would hopefully change that. The child would be the future. God knew he needed a future.
Taking her hand, his fingers engulfed hers, his grip firm, her skin warm against his. “Nikos,” he corrected.
Then he lifted his head and turned his jaw from her to give her a good look at the right side of his face, letting her see who he was now. What he was now.
A monster.
The Beast of Kamari.
He turned his head back the other way and met her gaze.
She looked straight back at him without a flicker of horror or fear. Nor did she reveal surprise. Instead her blue eyes, with their specks of gray and bits of silver, were wide and clear. He found it intriguing that she didn’t appear discomfited by the burns on his temple and cheek.
“Georgia,” she replied, giving his hand an equally firm shake.
Like the proverbial Georgia peach, he thought, releasing her hand. Her name suited her. Too well.
Despite the long hours flying, despite the pregnancy—or maybe because of it—she looked fresh, ripe, glowing with health and vitality.
Nikos, who hadn’t wanted anything or anyone for nearly five years, felt the stirring of curiosity, and the dull ache of desire. He hadn’t felt anything in so long that the stirring of his body was as surprising as the questions forming in his mind.
Was the attraction because she resembled Elsa, or was he intrigued because she seemed fearless when confronted by his scars?
Touching her hand, feeling her warmth, made something within him uncoil and reach out to her, wondering just who she was, wondering what she looked like naked, wondering what she would taste like if he put his mouth to her skin—
And just like that, after years of feeling nothing, and being nothing, and living as if numb or dead, he hardened, his body responding to her despite whatever else was happening in his head.
And yet this was what couldn’t happen. And this was why he lived on Kamari, away from people. It wasn’t to protect himself, but to protect others.
Nikos ruthlessly clamped down on the surge of desire, smashing it by reminding himself of what he’d done to Elsa, and what Elsa’s death had done to him.
But she wasn’t Elsa, wasn’t his wife. And even though she wasn’t a wife, he still wouldn’t take chances. She carried his son. Her health and well-being were essential for his son’s health and well-being. And so he’d take excellent care of the surrogate, but only because she was the surrogate. She was nothing to him beyond that. Just help...a hired womb...that was all.
All, he repeated, looking past her to his flight crew. He gestured, indicating that her luggage should be placed in the back of the restored 1961 military Land Rover. It was the best vehicle for Kamari’s rugged terrain, handling the steep twisting roads with ease. It was also his preferred vehicle since he could drive in summer without the soft top. In winter he kept the soft top up, but there were no windows. No glass to trap him.
He started for the vehicle, and then remembered the American’s ridiculous footwear. “Those shoes are not appropriate for Kamari,” he said curtly.
She gave him another long look and then shrugged. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said before setting off, heading toward the passenger side of his green Land Rover with her careless, leggy, athletic
