“It’s where I keep all of my planes.”
“You have more?”
“Yes. Helicopters, too.”
“Any boats?”
“Of course. I live on a remote island.”
She pushed a blond tendril back from her brow. “Is it too late to tour the island now?”
“The sun will be setting in the next hour. It’s better to wait for the morning. I’ll show you the gardens, the walking paths and the pool. I imagine you’ll want to get your exercise in.” He rose and went to get the water pitcher and refill her glass. “Mr. Laurent said you exercise regularly. Is that still the case?”
“I walk, swim and cycle and lift weights—”
“No more weights.”
She laughed, amused, the sound soft and husky. “We’re not talking Olympic moves here.”
“No weights,” he repeated. “I don’t think it’s necessary to stress you, or the baby, that much.”
She opened her mouth to protest but closed it, shrugged.
“The pool is heated,” he added. “I think you’ll find it quite pleasant.”
She leaned all the way back against the cushion and extended her long legs. “Will it be this way for the next three and a half months?”
“What does that mean?”
“Will you be supervising my nutrition along with my exercise?”
He heard the mockery in her voice, and it didn’t anger him as much as stir his senses. She had no idea how appealing he found her. He should warn her. If not for her sake then his. “Yes,” he answered smoothly. “It will be this way.” There was no point denying it. She was here so he could monitor the pregnancy and make sure the third trimester went well.
Her lips curved faintly. Amusement lurked in her eyes. “Then we have a problem.”
“Not if you’re compliant.”
She gave him another long look, one perfect brow lifting. “And is that how Mr. Laurent described me? Docile...sweet...compliant?”
The air was suddenly charged, crackling with tension and resistance.
No, he couldn’t imagine her ever being described as any of those, and he hadn’t been throwing down a challenge, either, just setting forth his expectations. But she was turning his expectations into something more.
Heat rushed through him, hot and heavy in his veins. His body ached. His blood hummed. He was waking up. It felt far too good.
“I don’t believe that was ever Mr. Laurent’s description,” Nikos replied gently, aware of the dance they were being drawn into. “I think my attorney used words like intelligent, gifted, successful, ambitious.”
Her blue gaze held his. She was looking so deeply, so directly, that he wondered what she was thinking...seeing. She didn’t appear threatened. Didn’t seem the least bit uneasy. If anything she radiated confidence. Control.
For being just twenty-four, Georgia Nielsen struck him as a powerful woman in her element.
Not the surrogate he’d expected. Not the surrogate he wanted.
But just possibly a woman he wanted.
Careful, he told himself. Do not be stupid...do not complicate things...
“I’m not accustomed to being told what to do,” she said, her voice pitched low and firm. “And I might be your guest here for the next few months, but I am my own person.”
And he wasn’t accustomed to negotiating with anyone, certainly not a woman. But he found it exciting. She was exciting. “Can 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