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Not that I mind. It gives me an opportunity to fantasize about undoing those buttons and revealing the broad, muscular chest underneath. After that searing kiss he gave me on our wedding day, I need the fantasy. Otherwise I might be tempted to take him up on his offer to enjoy the physical aspects of our union.

My thighs clench. I shift in my seat, trying to relieve the ache that hasn’t quit since he kissed my fingers. Michail glances my way. His eyes travel down my body and back up, as if he knows the source of my discomfort. Judging by the slow curve of his lips, he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

Damn it.

I can’t figure the man out. Right before the ceremony, I was ready to call it quits over his suspicious attitude toward me inviting his mother in. When I walked down the aisle, he looked thunderous, fists clenched at his sides and his face tight.

But then he relaxed, kissed my hand in the most sensual way possible in front of the guests. He didn’t let go throughout the whole ceremony, gripping my fingers as if he expected me to bolt.

And then that kiss… God, that kiss. It rekindled every moment of our night together: the passion, the desire, those moments of intimacy that added a layer to our lovemaking I’d never experienced before. One that heightened every pleasure, enhanced every peak he brought me to.

I press my legs together as pressure builds. A pressure I have no way of relieving because the only thing that will truly satisfy it is the man I need to stay away from. A task that grows more difficult with each passing day.

I look back out the window. New York City glitters one last time. And then the plane ascends above the clouds.

It’s not just my deepening desire that presents a problem. No, it’s spending more time with Michail, seeing more and more glimpses of the man I thought he was back in Santorini. The past two mornings I’ve woken up to breakfast on a small tray next to my bed. He accompanied me to my doctor’s appointment yesterday to make sure I was cleared to fly to Greece. He brought me tea on the terrace and, when he saw that I was looking up things for the nursery, asked me questions and even made a couple suggestions.

Yet aside from helping me in and out of taxis, he hasn’t touched me. Not once. He’s treating me with respect, shooting me the occasional heated or appreciative glance, but otherwise honoring the rules we agreed on.

I don’t know what to do about it.

Although, I remind myself, there are still some things he’s overbearing on. Like the nurse practitioner. He asked my doctor yesterday about the safety of flying at this stage in my pregnancy and with my recent fainting. She was reassuring, but as soon asshe said “There’s always some risk associated with travel,” he insisted on hiring a nurse to travel on the plane to and from Greece. It didn’t matter what argument I came up with; he simply rejected it.

“I’m not risking you or the baby,” he’d said.

“Mrs. Sullivan?”

It takes a moment for the name to sink in. I look over my shoulder at the flight attendant.

“Sorry, I’m still not used to my married name.”

The flight attendant smiles. “Not a problem, ma’am. We’ll be serving dinner in a few minutes.”

“Thank you.”

I move to the front of the plane and sit down in the seat across from Michail. The more time I spend with him, the more tempted I am to let down my guard. It would be enjoyable while it lasted. But Michail isn’t a happily-ever-after kind of man. Yes, he’s close to his mother. And he’s slowly developing relationships with Gavriil and Rafe.

But I still sense a distance there, a wall he keeps between himself and his half-brothers. Similar to the wall he maintains between us. A wall I recognize because I’ve lived behind a similar one for most of my life.

Michail hangs up and closes his laptop.

“That was the lawyer in Greece. He has to leave Monday to meet with a client in Japan.”

“What about the paintings?”

“Per the will, the lawyer has to meet you and me in person before agreeing to release the paintings to me. He’s attending a charity gala tomorrow night and has invited us to join him. Once he meets us, he’ll authorize the delivery of the paintings to my home in the Hamptons.”

“At least he’s getting us in before he leaves.” I frown. “Although I’ll need to stop by a store or boutique when we land.I didn’t bring anything appropriate for what I’m assuming is a black-tie event.”

Michail waves his hand in the air. “We’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll take care of it.” I hold up a hand when he starts to argue. “Michail, I’m making a lot of concessions. A lot. When I tell you I can shop for my own dress, I mean it. I’ve been dressing myself for over twenty-five years.”

Our conversation is interrupted by the flight attendant setting salads in front of us with plump grapes, walnuts, and feta on top of a bed of arugula. I try to focus on the salad and not my simmering irritation.

As I stab my fork at a grape, my phone buzzes. A text flashes across the screen. I glance at it, then do a double take when I see the message.

“Why is there four million dollars in my checking account?”