her. “Sign here, and date there.”
She swallowed, shocked he’d so readily agreed to her “outrageous” demand. He must have been prepared for her to ask for even more. She probably could have asked for millions and he would have said yes. Stupid pride. Why couldn’t she be a proper mercenary?
“You’re agreeing to leave Friday,” Mr. Laurent said as she reached for the page. “You will spend the last trimester of your pregnancy in Greece, at Nikos Panos’s villa on Kamari, which is a short flight from Athens. After delivery, once you have been cleared to travel, my client will send you back to Atlanta, either on his private jet or first class on the airline of your choice. Any questions?”
“The money? It will be wired into my account first thing tomorrow?”
He handed her a pen. “It will be there by nine a.m.” He smiled as she signed.
“I’m so glad we were able to come to terms.”
Georgia stood, heartsick but too far in to see a way out. “As you said, everyone has a price. Goodbye, Mr. Laurent.”
“Enjoy your time in Greece, Miss Nielsen.”
IT WAS A long trip from Atlanta. Nearly thirteen hours, which meant that Georgia had plenty of time to sleep, study and even watch a movie or two when she was too tired to read one more sample question from the test.
The movies helped occupy her mind. She didn’t want to think. If she wasn’t going to sleep, she needed entertainment and diversion to keep from replaying her goodbye with Savannah, who’d driven down from Duke to see her off.
Or more accurately, who’d driven down to beg Georgia not to go.
Savannah had been beside herself, alternating between tears and anger, asking repeatedly what Georgia knew about this Greek tycoon in the first place.
What do you even know about him? And who cares if he’s a billionaire? He could be dangerous, seriously deranged, and who will be able to help you when you’re on his island in the middle of nowhere?
Savannah had never been the practical one, but in this instance, she was right.
Georgia had researched Nikos Panos—and, yes, he was a Greek billionaire, and he’d turned his family’s struggling company around with shrewd investments, and he’d done it at a young age, taking over the helm of the company while in his midtwenties—but she didn’t have any references on him. Nothing on his morals or his character. She just had the attorney and the payments for services rendered.
She started to rub her tummy. Her bump was becoming increasingly pronounced. Her skin was sensitive, and warm, and even when she didn’t want to think about the pregnancy, or the surrogacy, she was aware of the life inside her.
And not just a life, but a boy. There were no boys in her family. Just girls. Three sisters. Georgia couldn’t even imagine what it’d be like to raise a little boy.
But she wouldn’t go there. She never let herself go there. She wasn’t going to let herself become invested.
But as the jet made its final descent into what looked like an endless sea of blue, the baby did a flutter kick as if recognizing that he was almost home. Georgia held her breath, fighting panic.
She could do this. She would do this.
The baby wasn’t hers.
She wasn’t attached.
She’d been paid not to care.
She wouldn’t care.
But those fierce admonishments did little to ease the wave of grief and regret washing through her heart.
“Just three and a half months,” she whispered. Three and a half months and she’d be free of this horrific thing she’d 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
