LITMIR.BIZ

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glow and staining her cheeks pink.

      He desired her more than he’d ever wanted any woman, and yet he didn’t want to hurt her, break her.

      And he couldn’t.

      She was pregnant. He couldn’t take any risks with her, not just for his son’s sake but for her sake.

      She mattered. She mattered a great deal.

      He’d thought she was cold when she’d arrived. Cold and beautiful. But he was wrong. She wasn’t cold at all. She was intelligent and complex. There were so many layers to her. She could be fierce, as well as fiercely funny. It still amused him how she’d deliberately tried to provoke him outside the bakery. It’d been impossible to resist her when she’d smiled at him, her expression so warm, the light in her eyes teasing and sexy.

      How could a man resist sunshine and honey?

      And yet he couldn’t have her.

      But that didn’t mean he didn’t ache for her. He craved her touch and taste, her soft skin and ripe curves calling to him...

      To fight the throb of his erection, he drew her attention to the ruins on the hill ahead of them. “The Venetian castle,” he said.

      “A Venetian castle in Greece?”

      “There are dozens and dozens of them. Venice played a role in Greece’s history for a thousand years. There are still Venetian fortresses and fortified villages scattered through the mainland and islands.”

      “I had no idea.”

      “All the windmills we saw today, those can be attributed to the Venetians, as well. The Venetians introduced the windmills for milling wheat—an essential form of income for hundreds of years—but the windmills fell out of use in the middle part of the twentieth century.”

      They were nearing the base of the hill with the castle. Georgia stared up at it, nose wrinkling. “It doesn’t look like much,” she said.

      “There isn’t much left,” he agreed.

      “We don’t have to climb up there, do we?”

      “It’s dangerous. I wouldn’t let you go up there even if you wanted to.”

      “Does that mean we have to go back to the harbor?”

      “We can get a snack in Chora and then return.”

      “Or, can we see if we can find a hotel...?”

      “Georgia.”

      “I’ve never stayed in a Greek hotel. I’ve never eaten in Greek restaurants.”

      “You did at lunch.”

      “We had olives and a salad and a delicious cheese-and-spinach thingy—”

      “Spanakopita. Greek spinach pie.”

      “And I loved it, but I want more than just that little pie. I want to try more food and see more things. This is Greece.”

      “I know.”

      “It’s exciting, Nikos. You’re giving me a good memory to take home with me.”

      He knew she didn’t mean back to Kamari, but back to Atlanta in June. His gut tightened. His chest felt heavy.

      He didn’t want to think of June, didn’t want to think of her leaving.

      For a long minute he said nothing, just stared out toward town with its brilliant white buildings and bold blue accents.

      “We’ll get two rooms,” he said.

      “We don’t have to get two rooms,” she answered. “Not if you’re worrying about money.”

      “Not worrying about money.” His lips compressed. “And we need two rooms. For your safety.”

      “I trust you.”

      “That’s nice, but I don’t trust myself.”

      She laughed.

      * * *

      Nikos found them rooms at a small hotel in the center of the town that advertised itself as Beautiful Villa. It was neither particularly beautiful nor luxurious, but it was neat and clean, and what Nikos said was typical of hotels on the smaller islands.

      There was little to do after check-in as they had no luggage, and Nikos and Georgia dutifully inspected their individual rooms. Georgia was happy to note that they were close together. Not adjoining, but just a couple of doors down the narrow hallway from each other.

      They left the hotel and walked to a nearby restaurant. It was quite early still, and the restaurant was deserted.

      “They will think we are American tourists,” he grumbled as they were seated by the window overlooking the town square.

      “Well, I am an American tourist, and you can pretend to be a Greek tourist.”

      “No.”

      She grinned. “You don’t want to be a tourist?”

      “No.”

      Georgia couldn’t stop smiling.

      Nikos noticed. “What’s happened to you? You are all giggles and laughs today.”

      “I’m having a good time.” She reached across the table and captured his hand. “And I hope you are, too.”

      He attempted a scowl. “You’ve become overly affectionate, as well.”

      “I think somewhere in your hard little heart, you like it.”

      His jaw shifted, expression easing, and his dark eyes glinted. “Maybe just a little bit.”

      She squeezed his hand. “I thought so.”

      Over dinner of grilled lamb and fish and flavorful salads they talked about what they’d seen that day and the austere but mystical monastery. Georgia shared that she loved all the bright blue accents—the doors, the windows, the church cupolas—that turned simple Spartan villages into charming postcards.

      “We know I’ve had a great time,” Georgia said. “But have you?”

      “I have, actually. I enjoyed the day.”

      “And you don’t resent me for forcing you to have an adventure? I know how much you cherish your time on Kamari.”

      “And now I think you’re trying to provoke me.”

      “Keeping it exciting,” she said.

      “Mmm. A rebel, aren’t you?”

      She mulled this over, then nodded. “I guess I am. No, I know I am. But in the end, it’s what saved my life. Leaving my family, leaving Africa. If I hadn’t insisted on returning to the States, I would have died with them. Savannah, too.”

      “You weren’t worried about going to a big university in America?”

      She shook her head. “I wanted a big American school and wanted to do all the things I’d only read about. College football games, parties, movies, dates, fun.”

      “And was it fun?”

      She nodded. “I loved it. So much. And I pushed Savannah to do the same. I told her she could always go back to Africa, but she owed herself the chance to be just a normal American girl for four years. Take four years, experience what everyone else your age experiences, and then decide what you want to do for the rest of your life.” Georgia looked away and exhaled slowly, remembering the day she’d heard about the attack that took place at the church, at the end of a Sunday service. She’d heard it on the news, not even realizing that the missionaries killed were her own family until hours later when Savannah got ahold of her.

      The day everything changed.

      She changed.

      Her inner

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