Hired by the Impossible Greek

by Clare Connelly

  How had she thought her virginity wouldn’t matter to him? Why hadn’t she realised it was something a man would want to know before having sex with a woman?

  He stood at the foot of the bed, staring at it before sweeping his eyes closed and seeing Amelia—seeing her as she’d been in the throes of passion, and then in anguish afterwards, as he’d separated from her and hurled accusations at her until her eyes had gleamed and tears had moistened her beautiful, expressive eyes.

  Christos.

  The idea of being in a relationship with a woman was anathema to him and always had been. Not once had he questioned that. His father was blithely unaware of the true cost of his constant pursuit of ‘love’, but Santos wasn’t. Santos had seen the emotional consequences first hand—initially with his mother, who’d had to be hospitalised for severe depression after the divorce, and then in Nico’s subsequent wives. Each of them had suffered at the hands of his father and Santos had promised he would never be like him.

  He enjoyed the company of women, and he loved sex, but sex was easy to control—it was an exchange, no different from the kind of commercially motivated deals he made every day. True, there was no exchange of money, just satisfaction, but the parameters were as inviolable as if a contract had been formed. Santos offered a good time in bed. Full stop. The end. There were no gifts, no promises, no damned romance that went beyond a drink in a bar, and only then as a precursor to a night of passion.

  He didn’t swap life stories with these women but on some level, he was always careful. Finely honed business skills served him well in his private life; it was impossible to switch those traits off. He never slept with a woman who didn’t fit the mould he sought—a woman who was sophisticated and experienced, who understood what he wanted and was happy to oblige. He was, ordinarily, painfully careful to not take any woman to bed who didn’t share his view on relationships.

  A virgin? Christos. Even with what Amelia had said, the derisive way she’d scoffed at the very idea of waiting for a marriage proposal, it didn’t change the fact that someone’s virginity should mean something. Her first time should have involved more than a quick lay in the pool house, for God’s sake. Surely she could see that? So why the hell had she come here with him? Why hadn’t she told him, so he could at least have been gentle with her?

  He ground his teeth together, all the ‘what ifs’ in the world not changing the facts.

  He’d slept with her; he was her first lover. And he’d hurt her. Not physically, necessarily—though, hell, he’d taken no effort to ease her into it; he’d simply driven into her, removing the barrier of her innocence and making her completely his.

  More than that, he’d hurt her with his behaviour afterwards. He’d been angry and, though he’d had every right to feel that, he should have exercised more control, keeping a grip on his feelings in deference to hers.

  He hadn’t. He’d said everything he’d thought and witnessed the ramifications of that. The way she’d looked away from him when he’d told her he was used to lovers who knew what sex was about! Talk about offensive and insensitive.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply; the room smelled like her.

  Thialo. He’d hurt her. Amelia had been wrong not to tell him the truth, but she was still Amelia. Kind, generous Amelia who’d come to his house to beg him to be a better father to Cameron. And she deserved better than this—his mistreatment and now his disdain. With a dip of his head he moved out of the cabana, cutting across the terrace and moving through the house, taking the steps two at a time.

  He knocked on her bedroom door; there was no answer. He hesitated only a moment, figuring he’d already crossed a line with her, before pushing into her room. It was empty. A second later he heard the shower running and something punched at his gut: it was as if she couldn’t wait to wash him off her.

  That stoked his masculine pride. If he’d been less in control of his impulses he might have pulled the shower door open and joined her, whispering against her flesh that he wanted to show her what her first time should have been like.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and he waited. He hated that he’d hurt her, but not because Amelia meant anything to him. This was his own code of honour, one he’d sworn to uphold, and for the first time in his adult life he’d done something that didn’t sit well within the bounds of that. He’d fix it, and then move on.

  Easy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘OH, MY GOD, Santos!’ She stared at him, her heart pounding in her throat, her eyes huge as she regarded him across the room. He was dressed as he had been that morning, but it was impossible to see him without seeing all of him now. She refused to think about him naked, refused to think about how he’d felt on top of her, inside her. ‘You scared me half to death!’ She was pleased when the exclamation emerged with a degree of irritation.

  ‘We weren’t finished talking.’ The words were quiet, carefully blanked of emotion, which was reassuring. Dressed in only a fluffy robe, she felt at a disadvantage, but she had no intention of showing him that. She moved towards the window—a safe distance away from where he sat on the edge of the bed—and planted her bottom on the window’s ledge.

  ‘I’m not sure there’s anything else to talk about,’ she muttered, lifting her shoulders as she dropped her gaze to the thick carpet.

  ‘I was angry.’ The words were simple and unexpected.

  ‘No kidding.’

  ‘I should have realised the difference in our experience but, the truth is, the intensity of my own needs for you deafened me to anything else.’ His grimace was wry, and then he stood, moving towards her so she had only a few seconds in which to brace, to fortify herself against her body’s instinctive reaction.

  ‘I hurt you.’

  She blinked, her heart turning over in her chest. Had she been so easy to read?

  ‘I wasn’t gentle, and I would have been if I’d known. I would have made it so much better for you.’ He expelled a breath, his eyes heavy on her face. ‘Your first time shouldn’t be rushed like that. It should have been special, different.’

  She didn’t admit that it had felt damned special to her—until his anger and disappointment had become evident.

  ‘It was fine,’ she said simply, turning her face away, no longer wanting to look at him, aware of how easily he could read her features.

  ‘“Fine” has never been a benchmark I considered worth aiming for.’

  Her stomach squeezed. ‘It was better than fine. Is that what you want to hear? Did you come here for praise, Santos? To hear that you were amazing?’

  Out of her peripheral vision she saw him shake his head and then he was crouching before her, his hand on her knee gentle and so kind that it was somehow all the worse. She resolutely straightened her spine, refusing to show him any more overt sentimentality.

  ‘I came here to apologise.’

  It shocked her. She swivelled to face him, biting down on her lower lip. ‘I was angry that you would choose me to be your first lover, because of all the things I cannot offer you, but I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did. I don’t want that to be your memory of losing your virginity.’

  She nodded a little awkwardly. ‘I’m not—I wasn’t building it up to be some big, momentous event.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It’s not like I was “saving myself” or anything so quaint.’

  He pounced on her denial. ‘So how does it happen then that a beautiful woman in her twenties had never had sex?’

  ‘I just hadn’t.’ She pulled away from him, standing, turning a little to look out of the window. The Aegean glistened beneath her, beautiful and expansive, bright and blue.

  ‘There has to be more to it.’

  ‘Why?’ She angled her face to his. ‘Why can’t it be something I just never got around to?’

  ‘Because you are a sensual w
oman, and to have not indulged that side of your nature makes no sense.’

  She nodded, his confusion easy to understand. ‘It’s a long story and I’m not sure it really matters.’

  ‘I don’t like mysteries.’

  Her laugh was involuntary, a small sound of disbelief. ‘Is that what I am?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,’ she said honestly. ‘I wondered if I should but then once we were in the pool house I couldn’t really think of anything except—’

  ‘Except?’ He moved a little closer, his face almost touching hers.

  She swallowed. ‘What we were doing.’ She turned back to the window, needing some mental space from him.

  He stood beside her for several beats, and a thousand thoughts and feelings rammed into her brain, asking to be spoken, but she stayed quiet, staring out to sea.

  ‘Please let me know if you need anything,’ he said a little formally, taking a step back from her. ‘If I did hurt you, and you need—’

  She shook her head in frustration. ‘I’m not made of glass, Santos.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘Are you?’ She regarded him carefully, her stomach in knots. There were many things about her life she might have changed if she could but she’d never wished more keenly to reach back through the fabric of time and alter her social experiences. She was aware how out of kilter she was much of the time—an anomaly—yet she’d learned to cover that, to integrate for the most part. But with Santos she felt like all her usual defences were missing; she was vulnerable and raw.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Stop saying that.’ She brushed his apology aside. ‘I get that you wish it hadn’t happened, that you wouldn’t have slept with me if you’d known I hadn’t done that before, but I knew and I chose to have sex with you and I’m still happy with that decision.’ She realised, as she said it, that it was true. ‘I’m glad we had sex. I liked being with you. I’m sorry if that’s disrespecting your wishes but I need to say it so you can stop tormenting yourself.’

  She didn’t let him speak. ‘I’m not secretly imagining changing my name to Amelia Anastakos. I’m not fantasising about waking up beside you every morning for the rest of the time I’m on Agrios Nisi. I’m a big girl, Santos. As you keep pointing out, I’m in my twenties, and I understand how men like you operate. Sex is sex, and I’m more than okay with that.’

  * * *

  He stared at her, the words wrapping around him, each of them perfectly chosen to relax him, a balm to his worries. She was letting him off the hook, making him understand that she’d gone into this with her eyes wide open. His only objection, the root of his anger, was his fear that he had unknowingly hurt her—that perhaps he’d led her on in some way, that she’d chosen to give him her virginity because she’d been hoping it might lead to something bigger, but she was telling him clearly that wasn’t the case.

  She’d wanted to have sex. That was all. It was no big deal. Meaningless, temporary, perfect.

  So why didn’t he feel better? Why hadn’t her words done a bit to relax him? Why were they having almost the opposite effect?

  I understand how men like you operate.

  Men like him? Men like his father, did she mean? It coated the inside of his mouth with acid. He was nothing like Nico Anastakos. He’d spent a lifetime proving that.

  ‘You should not have let me be your first. I cannot give you—’

  ‘God, Santos!’ She laughed, shaking her head. ‘I just told you, you don’t have to give me anything. I don’t know what it is with you. I’ve never met anyone that I looked at and felt...’

  Her words tapered off. What had she been about to say? Felt like I wanted to rip their clothes from their body?

  She closed her eyes on a wave of embarrassment.

  ‘It shouldn’t have happened.’ When he sighed, his breath fanned her temple, warm and distracting. She angled her face away.

  ‘You don’t have to worry. It definitely won’t happen again.’

  * * *

  One of his stepmothers had bought him a puppy—a little brown Labrador. Santos had named it Atrómitos—Atró for short. He’d been ten, and it had been very easy to love the dog. Hard to lose it when the inevitable separation occurred and his temporary stepmother decided to take Atró away with her.

  During thunderstorms Atró had cried, and the noise Santos heard in the early hours of the morning was so reminiscent of that sound he thought he was slipping back in time. He pushed up in his bed, his heart pounding, disorientation making him frown, and then he moved as the reality of what was happening woke him fully.

  ‘Cameron.’ He didn’t pause to pull on a shirt. Striding from his bedroom in only a pair of boxers, he moved through his home towards the suite of rooms he’d assigned his son. The cries grew louder as he approached. He pushed open the door and then paused.

  His son was crying, but he wasn’t alone. Amelia was beside him in the bed, her arms wrapped around him, her hair like burnt caramel in the soft light of his room. He hadn’t seen her in days—not since he’d left her room with an uneasiness in his gut that she was casting him in the same light as his father—and for a moment all he could do was stare. Her elegant fingers moved over Cameron’s head, brushing the curls away from his temples, her words too soft for Santos to catch. Her pyjamas were hardly intended to seduce—a T-shirt and a loose pair of pants—but, knowing her body as he now did, it didn’t matter how she chose to dress herself. His reaction was instant—a stirring in his blood, a question his body wanted answered.

  After a slight delay, she appeared to notice him, moving her eyes towards the door, her lips compressing, casting her face in an expression he didn’t understood.

  He forced himself to look away from Amelia. Christos, he found that harder than he cared to admit. His son’s little face was streaked with tears, his eyes bloodshot, his small body moving with the violent force of his sobs.

  ‘Can I...?’ Frustration bit through him. He wasn’t used to this—not knowing what to say, how to act. He’d felt like this ever since he’d found out about Cameron. He hated it.

  Amelia almost felt sorry for him. His uncertainty was patently obvious. How could he see his son in such obvious distress and not simply rush into the room and bundle him into a reassuring hug? Perhaps he would have if Amelia hadn’t reached him first. Perhaps it was her being here that was confusing him.

  She grimaced, turning her attention back to Cameron, very close to wishing that it had all never happened. Even as she thought it, she pushed the very idea away. She’d never regret what they’d shared.

  ‘There, there,’ she murmured, stroking the darling boy’s hair, brushing her lips over his brow. ‘I’m here, darling.’

  ‘I just...’ His little voice was so sad, and Amelia’s heart ached for him. ‘I miss her so much.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ she agreed, catching one of his hands and squeezing it.

  Without intending it, her eyes moved to the door. Santos was blocking it. The light cast from the lamp was faint and golden, shading his face in a collection of geometric shadows.

  ‘Would you get Cameron a drink of water?’ she suggested quietly.

  ‘Water, nai.’ His voice did funny things to her stomach. He moved quickly, turning and leaving, relieved to have something to do.

  Amelia kept talking to Cameron, reminding him of all that she knew about Cynthia and of England; of the first day they’d met—short little anecdotes that seemed to work. When she made intentional little mistakes, Cameron, in that way children had, effortlessly corrected her. ‘No, I wasn’t wearing a red shirt, because we were dressed in house colours; it must have been blue.’

  Santos didn’t take long, striding across the room. She looked in his general direction rather than towards the wall of muscles that was right at her side.


  ‘Thank you.’ She held the glass out to Cameron. He’d stopped crying now, though his breaths were shallow. He drank half and then Amelia stood, almost bumping into Santos—she would have done so had he not moved quickly, sidestepping her with easy athleticism. She placed the water on the bedside table and rearranged an exhausted Cameron, easing him back against the pillows, his little face dark in contrast to the crisp white pillows, stroking his hair until his eyes grew heavy.

  ‘Amelia?’

  His voice was thick with tiredness.

  ‘Yes, dearest?’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  Her heart flipped over in her chest. She straightened, watching as sleep devoured him, turning his breathing rhythmic, relaxing his little face.

  Santos moved behind her, surprising her, and she stiffened, bracing her body to ward off its usual, predictable, unwanted response to his proximity, but he was only turning off the lamp. The room plunged into darkness.

  Amelia moved towards the door, aware he was right behind her, crossing into the corridor.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, almost unnecessarily.

  ‘He had a dream. About Cynthia.’ There was a little light out here, coming from a room down the hallway. A quick glance showed the foot of a bed. Santos’s room? Great. That was a detail she’d prefer not to know.

  ‘He was so upset.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Amelia agreed. ‘He woke up thinking it had all been a terrible nightmare, that his mother was still here, only to realise he’s living that nightmare.’

  Santos’s jaw clenched tight and Amelia could have kicked herself for being so insensitive.

  ‘I don’t mean that knowing you is a nightmare—’

  ‘I know what you meant.’ His eyes lingered on her face, so her heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Anyway...’ She let the word hang in the air. What was she waiting for? An invitation? How ridiculous.