The Love Islands Collection. Jane Porter

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Did he really expect her to jump to his bidding? Was he accustomed to women bowing and scraping?

      Clearly he had no idea who he was dealing with. The Nielsen sisters were not pushovers. Neither Savannah nor Georgia were known to be quiet, timid, pliable women. The daughters of Norwegian American missionaries, they’d grown up overseas, moving with their parents from mission to mission, before losing their family in a horrific assault four years ago. Georgia and her sister had battled through the grief together and had emerged stronger than ever.

      And Nikos should know that.

      He’d selected her from thousands of egg donors and potential surrogates. Mr. Laurent told her that Nikos had examined her profile in great depth as he was very specific about what he wanted—age, birth date, height, weight, blood type, eye color, natural hair color, education, IQ.

      “You laugh,” Nikos said grimly.

      “Yes, I did, and I will again if you continue to act as if you’re a barbarian. I might be your paid surrogate, but I’ve a good brain, and I don’t need you telling me what to do every time I turn around.”

      “Then your good brain and your common sense should tell you that wearing impractical shoes is asking for trouble.”

      “They are ankle boots, with a tiny stacked heel.” She held up her fingers, showing him a sliver of space between her thumb and pointer finger. “Tiny.”

      His sigh was heavy and loud. “You are as exasperating as a child.”

      “I don’t know how much experience you’ve had with children, but you do seem to be an expert in belittling women—”

      “I’m not belittling women in general. We’re discussing you.”

      “You might be surprised to discover that I don’t want your attention. I don’t want your company, either. You are insufferably arrogant. I completely understand why you live on a rock in the middle of the sea. Nobody wants to be your neighbor!”

      “And I think you enjoy fighting.”

      “I don’t enjoy fighting, but I’m not about to bow and scrape. I don’t like conflict, but I won’t let you, or anyone, bulldoze over me.” She was breathing fast, and her hands knotted at her sides. “You started this, you know. You talk to me as if I’m feebleminded—”

      “I’m helping you.”

      “You’d help me more by staying out of my business. I don’t tell you how to eat or exercise. I don’t tell you how to dress or what shoes to wear—”

      “I’m not pregnant.”

      “No, I am—that’s correct. And when I’m upset my blood pressure goes up and my hormones change and the baby feels all of it. Do you think it’s good for your child when you get me all worked up? Or maybe since he is your son he enjoys a good fight.”

      Nikos scowled at her. “I don’t enjoy a fight, and nor does he.”

      “Then if you don’t enjoy a fight, don’t provoke one.”

      “Maybe you are the one that needs to compromise.”

      “I am. I have. I’m here!” Georgia gestured to the room, the window, the view beyond. “I left my home to be your guest for three and a half months, and I’ve given up everything to make you happy. You can try to make me happy, Nikos.”

      He stretched out his arms, putting an elbow on either side of the plastered doorway, his shoulders forming a thick, muscular wall. He drew a slow, deep breath, his dark eyes burning, revealing his chaotic emotions. “We are not going to do this for the next three-plus months,” he growled as a lock of his thick black hair fell forward, half hiding one dark eye, concealing the scars at his temple. “This is my home, my sanctuary. It’s where I live to be calm and in control—”

      “And would it hurt you so much to give up a little control?” she interrupted furiously. “Is it impossible for you to back off and just give me breathing room?”

      “You only just arrived.”

      “Exactly. And yet you’ve already broken down my door—”

      “Which I apologized for.”

      She snorted. “You didn’t apologize. You just fixed it. But that’s not an apology. And now you’re hanging from my door, your giant body blocking my room, as you lecture me about calm and control while you act like a crazed werewolf—” She broke off, gulped air. “Mr. Laurent should have told me the whole story. He shouldn’t have sold me on how smart and successful you were. He shouldn’t have portrayed you to be this brilliant Greek tycoon. He should have told me the truth. You’re a nightmare!”

      Georgia knew immediately by the flare of hot white light in his eyes that she’d gone too far, said too much. But she was also in too deep, her emotions too stirred up to do anything but end the conversation as fast as she could.

      “You’re right,” she added breathlessly. “This isn’t working. Let’s forget the tour. I’ll find my way around. I think it’s best if you just do your thing and let me do mine.” And then she slammed the door shut, praying that as the door scraped shut, it didn’t take off his face.

      For a split second after Georgia closed the door, she felt wildly victorious. The rush of adrenaline was pure and strong, and she praised herself for handling the situation—and him—without revealing cowardice or weakness.

      Perhaps he’d learn from this, she mentally added, heading toward the sitting area, where she’d piled her books. Perhaps he’d realize that his controlling boorish behavior was detrimental to the well-being of them all—

      And then her door flew open, and he stormed across the threshold. Georgia’s heart tumbled to her feet. All self-congratulating ended when she saw his livid expression.

      She backed up a step, and then another as he continued to charge across the room. “What are you doing?” she cried, praying he didn’t hear the wobble in her voice. “Get out! This is my room—”

      “No, gynaika mou, it seems you are in need of a little lesson. This isn’t your room. It’s a room in my house that I am allowing you to use,” he gritted out, marching toward her. “So to repeat, so we can be absolutely clear, this is my house. My room. You are my surrogate carrying my son.”

      Her heart drummed double time as he bore down on her but she wasn’t about to retreat. “It might be your house, and the baby might be your son, but I am not your surrogate. I do not belong to you, and I will never be any man’s possession.”

      “You took my money—”

      “Not that again!”

      “So until you give birth, you are mine.”

      “Wrong.” She threw her shoulders back. “Not yours. I will never be yours. In fact, I’d like to call Mr. Laurent right now. I think it’s time he and I had a little conversation and sorted things out.”

      “You don’t need to call anyone.”

      “Oh, but I do. I’ve had enough СКАЧАТЬ