wanted to see the pink scars, see where they disappeared into his hairline, and how they changed the hairline, and how they curved over his ear. She suspected he wore his hair loose and long to hide as much of the scars as he could.
“If your son inherits your good looks, he will be very lucky,” she said with a smile.
Nikos frowned and looked at her quickly, his expression shuttered. “Is that a joke?”
She blinked in surprise. “No. You’re very, very good-looking, Nikos—”
“You are pulling my leg.”
“I’m not.”
“I know what I am.” His dark gaze met hers. “I know what you called me. Lykánthropos.” The edge of his mouth curled up. “That was a first, but it fits.”
“I don’t know what you just said.”
“Werewolf.” He was still smiling, but the smile hurt her. It was so hard and fierce and yet behind the smile she sensed a world of pain.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she whispered, feeling a pang of guilt and shame. “It had nothing to do with your scars.”
“It’s okay. As I said, it fits.”
“That’s not why I said it.”
“I’ve heard worse—”
“Nikos.” She could barely say his name. Her heart hurt. “It wasn’t your face. It’s not the scars. It’s the way you were hanging on my door, filling the space up. Your energy was just so big, so physical. You are so physical...” Her voice faded as she could see he wasn’t even listening to her. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Now you know why I swim. I have a lot of energy. I’ve been told that I come across as very physical, and it’s unpleasant for others. I don’t want to be unpleasant for others. I wasn’t raised to make women uncomfortable.”
For a moment she couldn’t speak or breathe. Her eyes stung, hot and gritty. Her heart felt impossibly tender. Somehow everything had changed between them. Somehow she felt as though she were the aggressor and she was hunting him, chasing him with a pitchfork...
“I have a feeling you’ve been labeled unfairly,” she said when she was sure she could speak. “I don’t know that you are as aggressive as you think you are. In fact, I would say you are more protective than aggressive.”
“That’s because you don’t know me well.”
“What do you do that is so aggressive?”
“I have a forceful personality.”
“This is true. But what specifically do you do that warrants the label? Do you yell...hit...punch...shake? Do you threaten women—”
“No! None of that. That is terrible.”
“So what do you do? Are you hostile towards people? Antagonistic?”
“I try to avoid most people. That’s why I live here. Works out better for everyone.”
“And yet even here, you have to swim to manage your aggression and tension?”
“Maybe I should have said that swimming helps me burn off excess energy.”
“That does sound better than aggressive.” The wind blew across the pool and Georgia slid lower under the water to stay warm. “You and I have clashed, and I don’t agree with some of your rules, including recommended footwear, but I wouldn’t describe you as a hostile person. I’d say you’re assertive.”
“But in English, are they not the same things—aggressive and assertive?”
“For me, they are different. Assertive means being direct and strong, and, yes, forceful, but in a commanding sort of way, whereas I view aggressive to be far more negative. Aggressive can imply a lack of control, as well as unpleasantly hostile.”
His mouth quirked. “Based on your definition, I would prefer to be assertive instead of aggressive.”
She was thinking hard now on the word, and the various ways it could be used in the English language, and aggressive wasn’t always negative. In fact, in medicine, an aggressive treatment was often the best treatment. “You know, aggressive can mean dynamic. In battle, you want to be aggressive. When dealing with cancer, you need an aggressive plan of attack.”
“Sounds as if you are giving me permission to be aggressive.”
She pushed at the water, creating small waves. “If it’s for the right reason.” She gave another push at the water, sending more ripples across the pool. “In business, I would think you’d have to be aggressive. Successful businesses are rarely complacent. I’m quite sure successful people are the same.”
He ran a hand over his inky-black hair, muscles bunching and rippling in his bicep and shoulder. “You keep surprising me.” His voice was rough, deep. “You’re not what I expected. You are more.” His head turned, and she glimpsed the scars he always tried so hard to hide. “My son is lucky to have had you as his...mother.”
Georgia felt a lance of pain, her chest squeezing, air bottling. She struggled to smile, hiding the hurt as well as the wash of panic.
Mother...his mother...
Why did Nikos say that? Why would he say that? Something buried deep inside her wanted to scream, punch, lash out.
She wasn’t this child’s mother. She wasn’t his mother. She wasn’t. She’d signed those rights away forever, and it was the right thing to do. She wasn’t prepared to be a mother, and certainly not a single mother who was only halfway through medical school.
Georgia rose and climbed from the pool. It was chilly out and shivering; she grabbed her towel and thick terry-cloth robe. The entire time she blotted herself dry she fought for calm and control.
She was someone who liked control, needed control, and yet she’d agreed to a contract that gave her no control...and was starting to turn her heart inside out.
Dropping the towel, Georgia quickly slid her arms into the robe, tying the sash around her waist, determined to get a grip. She couldn’t panic. It wouldn’t help to panic.
“I’ll see you later tonight,” she said to Nikos before rushing away. She dropped the damp towel in the laundry hamper at the pool house and then continued up to her room.
Her teeth chattered as she walked. She was scared. She didn’t like this feeling. The pregnancy had changed everything, including her.
Her senses of taste and smell were different. Her emotions were more intense, and her moods were more volatile.
And now she was here, on a private island, in the middle of the Aegean Sea, with no phone and no internet and no way to distract herself from what was happening. And what was happening was beginning to rattle her.
She was having a baby, and then she was giving the baby away, before going away herself.
Good God. What had she done?
And why had she thought this was something she could actually do?
IT HAD BECOME custom to meet at sunset for drinks on the terrace. Quite often it was their first time seeing each other each day. Today had been different. They’d met at the pool during her swim and now they were together again, outside on the terrace on the third floor, taking in the sunset, making pleasant but inane conversation. She hoped the meaningless words would keep her from thinking, or feeling, because she was scared.
It was too late to have regrets. Too late to wish she’d never agreed to be a surrogate. An egg donor was one thing, but to carry the child, and then fly halfway across the world to deliver him in a foreign country?