by Jane Porter
“So your name isn’t really Elizabeth, is it?”
Again she couldn’t speak. The pain inside her chest was excruciating. She could only stare at Kristian, wishing everything had somehow turned out differently. If Nico hadn’t been one of the castle’s tenants. If Cosima hadn’t stood between them. If Elizabeth had understood just who and what Cosima really was…
“I’m still waiting,” Kristian said.
Hurt and pain flared, lighting bits of fire inside her. “Waiting for what?” she demanded, shoulders twisted so she could better see him. “For some big confession? Well, I’m not going to confess. I’ve done nothing wrong—”
“You’ve done everything wrong,” he interrupted through gritted teeth. “Everything. If your name isn’t really Elizabeth Hatchet.”
Colder and colder, she swallowed, her eyes growing wide, her stomach plummeting.
“If Nico was your husband, that makes you someone I do not know.”
Elizabeth exhaled so hard it hurt, her chest spasming, her throat squeezing closed.
When she didn’t answer, he leaned toward her, touched the side of her head, then her ear and finally her cheekbones, her eyes, her nose, her mouth. “You are Grace Stile, aren’t you?”
“Was,” she barely whispered. “I was Grace Stile. But Grace Stile doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Grace Stile was a beautiful woman,” he said mockingly, his fingertips lingering on the fullness of her soft mouth.
She trembled inwardly at the touch. “I am not her,” she said against his fingers. Last night he’d made her feel so good, so warm, so safe. Happy. But today…today it was something altogether different.
He ground out a mocking laugh. “Grace Stile, daughter of an American icon—”
“No.”
“New York’s most beautiful and accomplished debutante.”
“Not me.”
“Even more wealthy than the Greek tycoon she married.”
Elizabeth stopped talking.
“Your father, Rupert Stile—”
She pulled her head away, leaned back in her seat to remove herself from his touch. “Grace Stile is gone,” she said crisply. “I am Elizabeth Hatchet, a nursing administrator, and that is all that is important, all that needs to be known.”
He barked a laugh, far from amused. “But your legal name isn’t even Elizabeth Hatchet.”
She hesitated, bit savagely into her lower lip, knowing she’d never given anyone this information—not since that fateful day when everything had changed. “Hatchet was my mother’s maiden name. Legally I’m Grace Elizabeth.”
He laughed again, the sound even more strained and incredulous. “Are you even a registered nurse?”
“Of course!”
“Of course,” he repeated, shaking his head and running a hand across his jaw, which was dark with a day’s growth of beard.
For a moment neither spoke, and the only sound was Kristian’s palm, rubbing the rough bristles on his chin and jaw.
“You think you know someone,” he said, after a tense minute. “You think you know what’s true, what’s real, and then you find out you know nothing at all.”
“But you do know I am a nurse,” she said steadfastly. “And I hold a Masters Degree in Business Administration.”
“But I don’t know that. I can’t see. You could be just anybody…and it turns out you are!”
“Kristian—”
“Because if I weren’t blind you couldn’t have pulled this off, could you? If I could see I would have recognized you. I would have known you weren’t some dreary, dumpy little nursing administrator, but the famously beautiful heiress Grace Stile.”
“That never crossed my mind—”
“No? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He made a rough, derogatory sound. His mouth slanted, cheekbones pronounced. The car had stopped. They were at the small airport, and not far from their car waited the helicopter and pilot. As the driver of the car turned off the ignition, Kristian laid a hand on Elizabeth’s thigh.
“Your degrees,” he said. “Those are in which name?”
She felt the heat of his hand sear her skin even as it melted her on the inside. She cared for him, loved him, but couldn’t seem to connect anything that was happening today with what had taken place in her bed last night.
“My degrees,” she said softly, referring to her nursing degree and then the degree in Business Administration, “were both earned in England, as Elizabeth Hatchet.”
“Very clever of you,” he taunted, as the passenger door opened and the driver stood there, ready to provide assistance.
Elizabeth suppressed a wave of panic. It was all coming to an end, so quickly and so badly, and she couldn’t figure out how to turn the tide now that it was rushing at her, fierce and relentless.
“Kristian,” she said urgently, touching his hand, her fingers attempting to slide around his. But he held his fingers stiff, and aloof, as though they’d never been close. “There was nothing clever about it. I moved to England and changed my name, out of desperation. I didn’t want to be Grace Stile anymore. I wanted to start over. I needed to start over. And so I did.”
He didn’t speak again. Not even after they were in the helicopter heading for Athens, where he’d told her a plane awaited. He was sending her home immediately. Her bags were already at Athens airport. She’d be back in London by mid-afternoon.
It was a strangely silent flight, and it wasn’t until they were on the ground in Athens, exiting the helicopter, that he broke the painful stillness.
“Why medicine?” he demanded.
Kristian’s question stopped her just as she was about to climb the private jet’s stairs.
Slowly she turned to face him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear even as she marveled all over again at the changes two weeks had made. Kristian Koumantaros was every inch the formidable tycoon he’d been before he was injured. He wasn’t just walking, he stood tall, legs spread, powerful shoulders braced.
“You didn’t study medicine at Smith or Brown or wherever you went in the States,” he continued, naming universities on the East Coast. “You were interested in antiquities then.”
Antiquities, she thought, her teeth pressed to the inside of her lower lip. She and her love of ancient cultures. Wasn’t that how she’d met Nico in the first place? Attending a party at a prestigious New York museum to celebrate the opening of a new, priceless Greek exhibit?
“Medicine’s more practical,” she answered, eyes gritty, stinging with tears she wouldn’t let herself cry.
And, thinking back to her move across the Atlantic, to her new identity and her new choices, she knew she’d been compelled to become someone different, someone better…more altruistic.
“Medicine is also about helping others—doing something good.”
“Versus exploiting their weaknesses?”
“I’ve never done that!” she protested hotly.
“No?”
“No.” But she could see from his expression that he didn’t believe her. She opened her mouth to defend herself yet again, before stopping. It didn’t matter, she thought wearily, pushing another strand of hair back from her face. He would think what he wanted to think.
And, fine, let him.
She cared about him—hugely, tremendously—but she was tired of being the bad person, was unwilling to be vilified any longer. She’d never been a bad woman, a bad person. Maybe at twenty-three or twenty-four she hadn’t known better than to accept the blame, but she did now. She was a woman, not a punching bag.
“Goodbye,” she said “Kali tihi.” Good luck.
“Good luck?” he repeated. “With what?” he snapped, taking a threatening step toward her.
His reaction puzzled her. But he’d always puzzled her. “With everything,” she answered, just wanting to go now, needing to make the break. She knew this could go nowhere. Last night she should have realized that nothing good would come out of an inap
propriate liaison, but last night she hadn’t been thinking. Last night she’d been frightened and uncertain, and she’d turned to him for comfort, turned to him for reassurance. It was the worst thing she could have done.
And yet Kristian still marched toward her, his expression black. “And just what is everything?”
She thought of all he had still waiting for him. He could have such a good life, such a rich, interesting life—sight or no sight—if he wanted.
Her lips curved in a faint, bittersweet smile. “Your life,” she said simply. “It’s all still before you.”
And quickly, before he could detain her, she climbed the stairs, disappearing into the jet’s cool, elegant interior where she settled into one of the leather chairs in the main cabin.
Except for the flight crew, the plane was empty.
Elizabeth fastened her seatbelt and settled back in the club chair. She knew it would be a very quiet trip home.
* * *
Back in London, Elizabeth rather rejoiced in the staggering number of cases piled high on her desk. She welcomed the billing issues, the cranky patients, the nurses needing vacations and personal days off, as every extra hour of work meant another hour she couldn’t think about Kristian, or Greece, or the chaotic two weeks spent there.
Because now that she was back in England, taking the train to work at her office in Richmond every day, she couldn’t fathom what had happened.
Couldn’t fathom how it had happened.
Couldn’t fathom why.
She wasn’t interested in men, or dating, or having another lover. She wasn’t interested in having a family, either. All she wanted was to work, to pay her bills, to keep her company running as smoothly as possible. Her business was her professional life, social life and personal life all rolled into one, and it suited her just fine.
Far better to be Plain Jane than Glamorous Grace Stile, with the world at her feet, because the whole world-at-your-feet thing was just an illusion anyway. As she’d learned the hard way, the more people thought you had, the more they envied you, and then resented you, and eventually they lobbied to see you fall.
Far better to live simply and quietly and mind your own business, she thought, shuffling papers into her briefcase.
She was leaving work early again today, tormented by a stomach bug that wouldn’t go away. She’d been back home in England just over two months now, but she hadn’t felt like herself for ages. Since Greece, as a matter of fact.
Her secretary glanced up as Elizabeth opened the office door.
“Still under the weather, Ms. Hatchet?” Mrs. Shipley asked sympathetically, pushing her reading glasses up on her head.
Mrs. Shipley had practically run the office single-handedly while Elizabeth was gone, and she couldn’t imagine a better administrative assistant.
“I am,” Elizabeth answered with a grimace, as her insides did another sickly, queasy rise and fall that made her want to throw up into the nearest rubbish bin. But of course she never had the pleasure of actually throwing up. She wasn’t lucky enough to get the thing—whatever it was—out of her system.
“If you picked up a parasite in Greece, you’ll need a good antibiotic, my dear. I know I’m sounding like a broken record, but you really should see a doctor. Get something for that. The right antibiotic will nip it in the bud. And you need it nipped in the bud, as you look downright peaky.”
Mrs. Shipley was right. Elizabeth felt absolutely wretched. She ached. Her head throbbed. Her stomach alternated between nausea and cramps. Even her sleep was disturbed, colored with weird, wild dreams of doom and gloom.
But what she feared most, and refused to confront, was the very real possibility that it wasn’t a parasite she’d picked up but something more permanent. Something more changing.
Something far more serious.
Like Kristian Koumantaros’s baby.
She’d been home just over two months now and she hadn’t had her period—which wasn’t altogether unusual, since she was the least regular woman she knew—but she couldn’t bring herself to actually take a pregnancy test.
If she wasn’t pregnant—fantastic.
If she was…
If she was?
The next morning her nausea was so severe she huddled next to the toilet, managing nothing more than wrenching dry heaves.
Her head was spinning and she was gagging, and all she could think was, What if I really am pregnant with Kristian Koumantaros’s baby?
Kristian Koumantaros was one of the most wealthy, powerful, successful men in Europe. He lived in ancient monasteries and castles and villas all over the world. He traveled by helicopter, private jet, luxury yacht. He negotiated with no one.
And she knew he wouldn’t negotiate with her. If he knew she was pregnant he’d step in, take over, take action.
And, yes, Kristian ought to know. But how would he benefit from knowing? Would the baby—if there really was a baby—benefit?
Would she?
No. Not when Kristian viewed her as a heartless mercenary, a gold-digger, someone who preyed upon other’s weaknesses.
Elizabeth somehow managed to drag herself into work, drag listlessly through the day, and then caught the train home to Windsor.
Sitting on the train seat, thirty minutes away from her stop, it hit her for the first time. She was pregnant. She knew deep down she was going to have a baby.
But Kristian. What about Kristian?
A wave of ice flooded her. What would he say, much less do, if he knew about the baby? He didn’t even like her. He despised her. How would he react if he knew she carried his child?
Panic flooded her—panic that made her feel even colder and more afraid.
She couldn’t let him find out. She wouldn’t let him find out.
Stop it, she silently chastised herself as her panic grew. It’s not as though you’ll bump into him.
You live on opposite ends of the continent. You’re both on islands separated by seas. No way to accidentally meet.
As heartless as it sounded, she’d make sure they wouldn’t meet, either.
He’d take the baby. She knew he’d take the baby from her. Just the way Nico had taken everything from her.
Greek men were proud, and fierce. Greek men, particularly Greek tycoons, thought they were above rules and laws. And Kristian Koumantaros, now that he was nearly recovered, would be no different.
Elizabeth’s nausea increased, and she stirred restlessly in her seat, anxious to be home, where she could take a long bath, climb into bed and just relax.
She needed to relax. Her heart was pounding far too hard.
Trying to distract herself, she glanced around the train cabin, studying the different commuters, before glancing at the man next to her reading a newspaper. His face was hidden by the back of the paper and her gaze fell on the headlines. Nothing looked particularly interesting until she read, Koumantaros in London for Treatment.
Koumantaros.
Kristian Koumantaros?
Breath catching, she leaned forward to better see the article. She only got the first line or two before the man rudely shuffled the pages and turned his back to her preventing her from reading more.
But Elizabeth didn’t need to read much more than those first two lines to get the gist of the article.
Kristian had undergone the risky eye surgery at Moorfield’s Hospital in London today.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WALKING FROM THE train station to her little house, Elizabeth felt her nerves started getting the best of her. For the past three years she’d made historic Windsor her home, having found it the perfect antidote to the stresses of her career, but today the walk filled her with apprehension.
Something felt wrong. And it wasn’t just thinking about the baby. It was an uneasy sixth sense that things around her weren’t right.
Picking up her pace, she tried to silence her fears, telling herself she was tired and overly imaginative.
No one was watching her.
No one was following her.
And nothing bad was going to happen.
But tugging the collar of her coat up, and crossing her arms over her chest to keep warm, she couldn’t help thinking that something felt bad. And the bad feeling was growing stronger as she left the road and hurried up the crushed gravel path toward her house.
Windsor provided plenty of diversion on weekends, with brilliant shopping as well as the gorgeous castle and the riverside walks, but as she entered her house and closed the door behind her, her quiet little house on its quiet little lane seemed very isolated.
If someone had followed her home, no one would see.
If someone broke into her house, no one would hear her cries for help.
Elizabeth locked the front door, then went through the kitchen to the back door, checking the lock on that before finally taking her coat off and turning the heat up.
In the kitchen she put on the kettle for tea, and was just about to make some toast when a knock sounded on her door.
She froze, the loaf of bread still in her hands, and stood still so long that the knock sounded again.
Putting the bread on the counter, and the knife down, she headed for the door, checking through a window first before she actually opened it.
A new model Jaguar was parked out front, and a man stood on her doorstep, his back to her as he faced the car. But she knew the man—knew his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his legs, the shape of his head.
Kristian.
Kristian here.
But today was his surgery…he was supposed to have had surgery…the paper had said…
Unless he’d backed out.
But he wouldn’t back out, would he?
Heart hammering, she undid the lock and opened the door, and the sound of the lock turning caught his attention. Kristian shifted, turning toward her. But as he faced her his eyes never blinked, and his expression remained impassive.
“Kristian,” she whispered, cold all over again.
“Cratchett,” he answered soberly.
And looking up into his face, a face so sculpturally perfect, the striking features contrasted by black hair and blue eyes, she thought him a beautiful but fearsome angel. One sent to judge her, punish her.
