Chapter Nine
Theo, as of five minutes ago you’re officially an uncle. Contact me, damn you!
Theo listened to the last of brother’s increasingly frantic and frustrated messages—a result of all the calls he’d let go to voicemail over the last twenty-four hours—then deleted the voicemail, like all the others.
The pressure under his ribs expanded.
So Xander was a father.
He pressed a fist under his breastbone to ease the tightness in his chest.
He liked Poppy Brown well enough, the waitress his brother had become obsessed with over the last three months, ever since discovering his one-time lover in Galicos was pregnant with his child.
That would be the night Theo’s life had changed, too—although it had taken him all this time to realise how much.
Until Poppy Brown had happened, it had always been just him and Xander against the world.
Hiding from their drunken father, then the authorities when their father had abandoned them.
Five years older, Xander had always protected him, as they had struggled to survive alone as boys.
Then they had worked together to build their shipping business from nothing as they became men.
The land deal had fallen through because Xander had called off his arranged marriage to Freya as soon as he’d found Poppy planning to have his baby alone.
Xander had never shirked a responsibility in his life, so Theo hadn’t been surprised by his brother’s hasty decision to sacrifice the port deal.
But Theo had finally realised, when he had been the best man at his brother’s wedding a month ago, that Xander’s commitment to Poppy had very little to do with duty and everything to do with the way his older brother couldn’t take his eyes off his heavily pregnant bride—and the way she looked right back at him.
The visceral connection between them had disturbed Theo because it had made him feel like he had as a kid.
An outsider, looking in at other people’s perfect, easy lives.
He’d always scorned the notion that love and trust mattered as sentimental nonsense, when money and success were the only things people really respected.
But before, when he’d been so certain his cynicism made him superior, invulnerable, his brother had always been with him on the outside, as his ally and his friend.
And now he wasn’t so sure of Xander any more. Where did Xander stand today? Now he was a father as well as a husband and had never seemed happier in his life.
During the wedding, when Theo had made some offhand remark about Xander going to the dark side as Poppy had walked down the aisle towards them, Xander had glanced at him. And what Theo had seen in his brother’s face had shocked him to his core—not amusement, or even irritation, but pity.
He’d left the festivities as soon as he could, and he hadn’t been back to Parádeisos, his brother’s private island, since.
Xander had asked him to handle the company for the last couple of weeks, while he prepared for his baby’s birth.
And Theo had welcomed the extra work, even the increasingly fraught situation with the Galicos deal, because then he didn’t have to think about that look, and what it meant.
Theo liked being an outsider, being free of any and all emotional commitments—except his loyalty to his brother and their company—but how much fun was it going to be, being on the outside alone?
The tightness under his breastbone became sharp and jagged.
He sent off a single word of congratulations, switched his phone back off and shoved it into his pocket, resolved to continue ignoring the ache.
To hell with it, the baby wasn’t a real thing, not to him.
It wasn’t his kid after all. Officially he was related to it, but what did uncles even do?
And why should he have to figure that out, when he hadn’t chosen to be one?
He noticed the dawn starting to redden the sky on the horizon through the jet’s window.
And forced his thoughts to Freya, sound asleep in his bedroom on the plane.
The spike of lust—at the memory of her butt in her boys’ jeans as she’d strolled away from him several hours ago—was instant and gratifyingly distracting.
Why was he even thinking about Xander and his baby? His focus needed to be on the princess, the land deal and how he was going to make this situation work to his advantage.
For whatever reason, Andreas was determined not to sell the land unless the buyer married his daughter. And no way was Theo going to let the buyer be anyone but him.
Of course, unlike Xander, he was never going to fall in love. But maybe the prospect of marriage didn’t have to be a hard no… Especially if it meant getting Freya in his bed and Caras Cruises acquiring the port land in Galicos.
He frowned. Not necessarily in that order. Because obviously securing the land deal was the point. Not seducing Freya.
The ache in his gut pulsed distractingly, calling him a liar.
The princess was a beautiful woman for sure, even in boys’ clothing…
And she also fascinated him on several levels.
Her sharp intelligence and caustic tongue offered a challenge he had never encountered before…
He even found her contrariness exhilarating, because he’d certainly never met anyone before who seemed so determined to do things the hard way.
Such as attempting to scale an icy wall in the middle of the night and being so determined to survive on her own, when she was much better off letting him take care of things.
Once they got to Lapland, though, they would have time to come to an agreement… And if that meant seducing her again, that would not be a hardship.
He’d noticed the dark sheen of lust in her eyes from a simple wrist stroke.
She was so transparent, her hunger unfettered and refreshingly obvious, why not exploit their chemistry?
Especially if it would help divert him from the many things he had no desire to think about—namely Xander’s new baby, the festive season he had always hated, and the below-freezing temperatures—when he had always been a hot-blooded man…
The tightness in his chest softened at the thought of letting Freya discover just how hot his blood was. For her.
He lifted his coffee cup but paused when he heard a strangled sound coming from the bedroom Freya had waltzed off to.
He placed the cup on the armrest, when he heard the sound again. What was that? Because it had to be Freya, but it sounded more like a small, hunted creature—scared and threatened and alone.
The hostess appeared in the lounge.
‘Would you like me to check on Her Highness?’ the woman asked, because she’d obviously heard the noise, too.
He frowned at the use of her title. When had she stopped being a princess to him?
He should let the hostess see to her comfort. He was hardly the best man to deal with a woman in distress. Especially as he was probably the cause of her nightmares. But the strange feeling of kinship echoed in his chest, and he rose to his feet.
‘I’ll check on her,’ he said, then marched towards the plaintive cries still coming from the bedroom.
He knocked on the closed door.
‘Freya, are you okay?’ he asked. Another cry came, more distressed than the last.
Ignoring the unsettled feeling in his gut, and the twist of anxiety, he opened the cabin door and entered the room.
She lay on the bed, her slender body tangled in the bedsheets, the red light from the rising dawn through the jet’s windows casting her face into shadows. She tossed and turned, her knees tucked against her chest as she curled into a foetal position.
That she was having a nightmare was obvious when a vicious shudder wracked her body and she cried out again, unintelligible words, full of anguish and fear.
What was this? And what should he do?
He had no idea, as he had never comforted or cared for a woman before.
After the sex was done, he employed easy charm and empty flattery to send his bed partners on their way.
He didn’t fall asleep with them, hated anything resembling intimacy.
All he required of a woman—and all he was willing to give in return—was the endorphin rush of satisfying sex.
Freya moaned again and turned towards him.
Her face was screwed up into a ball of anguish.
He hesitated, caught in two minds whether to do something or leave her to it.
No one had ever died of a nightmare. He ought to know, he had had enough of the damn things as a boy, the night terrors waking him in that squalid apartment, his phantoms far more real than anything a princess could conjure.
‘Please, don’t leave me.’
The cry—so full of pain—shocked him out of his indecision, her distress too much for even him to bear.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he placed a hand on her arm, shook her gently. ‘Freya, wake up, you’re having a nightmare,’ he managed, his gut knotting with confusion… And panic.
But then her eyes flew open, and those emerald orbs trapped him in their depths. She blinked twice, her gaze dazed, then wary, her breathing ragged.
And suddenly his own gaze dropped to the T-shirt she wore, which was one of his, the neckline drooping to reveal the dewy skin of her cleavage. The buds of her nipples stood proud against the thin fabric. Heat flared, racing across his skin, and pounding hard in his groin.
‘Theo, why are you in my bedroom?’ she asked, but there was no panic in her voice, only curiosity and that husky note he had heard before, when he was about to devour her.
The heat rose like a wave, torching everything it touched, including the dumb notion that he would ever be able to comfort her… And leaving in its wake one clear, concise and all-consuming objective.