‘You’re so comfortable with him.’
That pulled on her focus. She lifted a brow, but before he could say anything else he put a hand in the small of her back, guiding her a little way down the hallway, away from Cameron’s bedroom.
‘I’m a schoolteacher,’ she said quietly. ‘I spend my days with six-year-olds, and I’ve known Cam for years. It’s easy for me to be comfortable with him.’
He nodded, but his eyes were still appraising her, distracting her, making it hard to concentrate. What genius? she thought with a self-deprecating grimace.
‘You just need to spend time with him,’ she urged quietly. ‘Getting to know him will make you feel more comfortable.’ She tilted her head to the side. ‘You work such long hours. It’s no wonder you don’t feel comfortable with him yet. Why don’t you take some time off? Or even truncate your work day a little so that you can have breakfast with him, or dinner? It takes time, Santos,’ she pressed when he didn’t say anything. ‘There’s no magic pill, no secret. Time and attention.’
His expression was like stone, reminding her of the first night here.
Do not expect miracles while you are here. Your concern is my son’s happiness, not his relationship with me.
‘Anyway,’ she said again, on a small sigh. ‘He’s asleep now.’
‘Nai.’
Neither of them moved. The air around them seemed to thicken, making breathing almost impossible. God, he must work out a lot to have a physique like this. Her eyes followed the ridges of his chest, chasing each undulation until her breath was burning inside her lungs and her fingertips were tingling with a desire to follow the course of her eyes.
She had to break free of him now or it would be too late. She stifled a groan but before she could turn and move away he lifted a hand and curved it over her cheek.
Neither of them spoke, but she felt a thousand and one things deep in her soul. ‘I am very grateful you came here, Amelia.’
For Cameron, she mentally added. Of course, for Cameron.
She nodded, dislodging his hand, and took a step back while she still could. ‘So am I.’ Silence wrapped around them once more.
He broke it. ‘Kalinychta, Miss Ashford.’
‘Goodnight, Santos.’
* * *
He couldn’t say why but after Amelia had left him, disappearing into her own room, he didn’t return to his own. He couldn’t. Not while his son’s cries were still at the uppermost of his mind. He had no idea what he could do to ease the young boy’s suffering if he awoke again but he wanted to be there if grief tore through his sleep once more.
It was a long night but Santos didn’t sleep. Instead, he sat beyond his son’s door, crouched in the corridor, his head bent, his breathing deep, perched ready to react if Cameron needed him. He couldn’t explain why, but in that moment, for that night, Santos obeyed one of his instincts—that to comfort his son.
The other instinct—to be wrapped up in Amelia Ashford and how he’d like them to spend their night—he ignored resolutely.
* * *
It’s no wonder you don’t feel comfortable with him yet. Why don’t you take some time off? Or even truncate your work day a little so that you can have breakfast with him, or dinner? It takes time, Santos.
She was right. Of course she was right. He couldn’t avoid the fact he was a father. He might not have any idea how to be a father but that didn’t change the fact. And since when had Santos Anastakos been a man to run from the unfamiliar? Never. Whatever he’d faced in his business life, he had conquered, even when that meant scaling an almost impossible mountain.
This would be no different.
A week after Cameron’s broken sleep, after he’d spent the night in a silent vigil outside his son’s room, Santos surprised them all at dinner—Talia, Cameron and Amelia—even more so when he took a seat at the head of the table, accepting a plate of food and a wine glass from one of the helpers Chloe hired through the summer to keep on top of the housework.
He watched Amelia across the table as she spoke to Cameron and Talia, completely calm and reserved, no hint of emotion on her features, no hint of warmth at his presence. What had he expected? A marching band? For her to pause proceedings and congratulate him on doing something so banal as returning home a few hours earlier than normal?
‘That can’t be true!’ Talia laughed but Amelia shook her head so her dark hair shifted around her face, distracting him with its glossy, water-like consistency, reminding him of the way it had tousled around her face when she’d been in the bed in the pool room.
‘It absolutely is.’
‘How can it be?’ Cameron placed his cutlery neatly in the middle of his plate. Santos turned his attention to his son and as always felt the clip of pain—the gaping hole inside him where knowledge and familiarity should have been. Cameron had excellent manners—a credit to his mother, he supposed. He wished he could remember more about Cynthia. The truth was, he’d been twenty-seven and celebrating a huge takeover of a rival shipping company the night they’d met. He’d spent most of their time together either responding to emails or drinking Scotch.
‘The warmth in the atmosphere causes a thermal expansion,’ Amelia said with a smile. She lifted her knife, holding it in the air. ‘When the weather gets warm, the iron that was used to build the Eiffel Tower grows bigger—expands—until it’s around four inches taller than in winter.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ Cameron laughed. ‘It’s a building, they can’t change shape.’
‘Not shape, necessarily, just size,’ she insisted, laying her knife back down. ‘When I was studying in Paris, we measured it over the course of the year.’
‘You studied in Paris?’ Santos’s voice came out deep and Amelia’s gaze flicked to him, something flashing in her eyes so it was impossible not to feel the snaking heat of response. It had been several days since he’d last seen her and when she looked at him now he wanted to stand up and drag her body to his, to throw her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs. He wanted to spend a long, hot night making love to her, rather than the rushed coming together they’d experienced in the pool house.
‘Yes.’ She lifted one perfect brow in a silent challenge then turned back to Cameron. It was as if she felt nothing for Santos, no temptation, no curiosity. Frustration shifted inside him—he wanted to kiss her until that ice dropped from her completely, until it melted away in an incontrovertible acknowledgement of desire.
‘How did you measure it?’
‘With lasers, of course.’ She smiled and Santos tried to focus his thoughts; the strength of his erection beneath the table was hardly helpful.
He could see what a good teacher she’d be. She was patient and engaging and seemed genuinely passionate about the subject matter.
‘But what—?’
‘No more questions for Miss Ashford.’ Talia grinned, standing up and resting her hands on the back of the chair. ‘It’s time for bed.’
‘But it’s only seven-thirty!’
‘Exactly,’ Talia said with a crisp nod. ‘The perfect time for little boys to have their stories read.’
‘I’m not tired.’
Amelia’s smile was all indulgence. ‘You always say that, right before your head hits the pillow and you’re fast asleep within minutes.’
Something inside Santos shifted. Guilt? Jealousy? He had no idea about his son’s bedtime rhythms.
Cameron opened his mouth to challenge that statement but then nodded with a glimmer of obedience. ‘Okay, then.’ He stood up and rounded the table, coming to Amelia’s side. She lifted an arm around him, holding him there, burying her face in his hair, and for a minute there was such a look of unguarded sadness and love on her features that his breath snagged in his throat.
‘Goodnight, darling.’ She kissed his hair, smiling directly into his eyes. Warmth replaced the s
adness; she was beautiful.
‘Night.’ Cameron moved further down the table. It was a new thing for Santos to dine with his son. Even in England, Santos had come home too late for Cameron’s mealtime. They therefore didn’t have any kind of routine established and the little boy looked unsure as to what to say or do to his father. It clutched something tight in Santos’s chest.
He smiled reassuringly, his gut churning for how alike they were—Cameron could have been Santos at the same age. ‘You know,’ he said thoughtfully, scanning the little boy’s face. ‘Paris is only a short flight from here. Perhaps we could go there and see the magical, growing Eiffel Tower for ourselves?’
Cameron’s eyes turned into little round plates of blue. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’ He shifted his attention to Amelia. ‘What do you think, Miss Ashford?’
She sat back in her seat as a young woman cleared the plates. ‘I think Cameron would enjoy that,’ Amelia said with a small smile, reserved just for the little boy.
‘I would.’
Santos laughed. ‘Then I’ll arrange it.’ He didn’t expect his son to hug him. It was still new—they were learning. But he reached out and tousled Cameron’s hair, then put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Kalinychta.’
Amelia’s eyes flew to his, and now heat sparked between them. She wasn’t ice. Not at all.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means goodnight.’
‘Kalinychta,’ Cameron repeated, his pronunciation close to perfect.
‘Excellent,’ Santos praised.
‘Kalinychta,’ Cameron said again, apparently enjoying the feeling of the word in his mouth. He repeated it to Amelia as he left the room, Talia’s arm wrapping around Cameron’s shoulder as she shepherded him away for the night.
Leaving Santos alone with Amelia.
‘Well.’ She moved to stand, as though she couldn’t leave quickly enough. He shook his head, the single gesture holding her where she was a moment. Their eyes held, a challenge moving from him to her and being returned with twice the intensity, so his whole body began to ache for her, to want her, to imagine what being with her would be like.
‘When were you in Paris?’
She reached forward, toying with the stem of her wine glass. It was filled with a clear liquid—mineral water. ‘I went last summer.’ She sipped her drink.
‘To measure the Eiffel Tower?’
‘No, that was when I was a student.’
‘A school exchange?’
She hesitated a moment, as if choosing her words with care. ‘No. I was enrolled at the Académie for a time.’
He couldn’t say why he was surprised. Perhaps it was the idea of a teacher from a down-at-heel comprehensive school having studied at one of the most prestigious institutions of tertiary education in the world.
‘What did you study?’ He leaned back in his chair, reaching for his own glass—his filled with red wine from grapes that were grown here on the island.
Another hesitation. Was he imagining the blush on her cheeks? For what reason?
‘Mathematics.’
He watched her as he took a drink of wine then replaced his glass on the table. ‘That’s your speciality?’
‘I don’t really have one speciality,’ she said, obfuscating a little, and now she stood, fixing him with a cool gaze. ‘I do, however, have work to do.’
‘It will wait.’
Her expression clearly showed surprise. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Don’t beg my pardon,’ he responded, his eyes half-shuttered, his chest expanding with the strength of his need for her. ‘Just sit back down and talk to me while I finish my dinner.’
‘Mr Anastakos...’
‘Amelia.’ He laughed then, a thick, gruff sound. ‘Do I need to remind you of how well we know one another?’
Her lips parted on a small noise of shock. The ice was gone. He wondered if she’d been like that for Cameron’s benefit. Perhaps it was a defensive mechanism, so that no one else realised what had happened between them?
She shook her head a little warily. ‘No.’
‘So, please, call me Santos. And sit down.’
She stayed right where she was, staring at him, so frustration bubbled through him. He pushed his chair back, standing, moving to the chair at his right and drawing it from the table.
‘Sit,’ he instructed, his eyes mocking. ‘I don’t bite.’
He saw the way she swallowed, her hesitation making him want to pull her into the chair—better yet, onto his lap. He didn’t. His desire for her was hard enough to control without bringing any physical contact into the equation. But he had to control it. Amelia was off-limits.
‘Fine.’ He stayed where he was as she sat down, pushing her chair in a little, resisting an impulse to brush her shoulders with his fingertips. She was wearing a simple dress with spaghetti straps, her bare skin flawless and golden. When they’d made love, his stubble had left red marks there. On her shoulders, above her breasts. How long had they stayed on her skin before fading into nothingness? And why could he think of little other than dragging his mouth over her body now, leaving the same trail of red marks, the same covering of goose bumps, over her skin?
‘Cameron was very happy you came home for dinner.’ She said the words with a slight hint of reproach and he understood her reasons for it. He wanted to tell her that he was new to all this, and to be patient with him. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t know what the hell he was doing with the child, but that he wanted to work it out.
But Santos wasn’t a man who generally bared his soul, so he said instead, ‘And you, Amelia? Were you happy I came home for dinner?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I’M HAPPY YOU spent some time with your son.’ She evidently chose the words with care, her manner crisp. He dipped his head forward, concealing a wolfish smile, before changing the subject.
‘How long were you in Paris for?’ He sat down in his own chair with a lithe athleticism, reminding her of some kind of wild predator, all strength and muscle.
‘A little over a year.’ Her mouth was dry but her water was finished.
‘Would you like some wine?’
She eyed it for a moment before nodding. The moment he’d walked into the room she’d begun to tremble, her insides awash with fierce recognition, as though he were a magnet and she the perfect polar opposite.
When she was thirteen, she’d been badly bullied by a student at college. The girl was seventeen and should have known better but she’d made it her mission to make Amelia’s life hell. Amelia had prided herself on not showing the bully how badly it hurt, nor how upset she’d been with the cruel name-calling. She’d perfected a calm exterior that rarely failed, even when her insides were being shredded to pieces. Her heart had been slamming into her ribs and her pulse filling her ears with a tsunami-like power but, outwardly at least, she’d kept calm.
With Santos, that had been almost impossible and tonight, the first time she’d seen him since they’d slept together, the effort had cost her. He’d strolled into the dining room, in the midst of their happy domesticity, and her body had begun to reverberate, as if recognising its master. She’d found it almost impossible not to look at him during dinner but she hadn’t been able to look—not without staring. It had been a difficult forty minutes. Wine was welcome.
She watched as he poured the rich burgundy liquid into her glass, half-filling it.
‘What is it?’ She lifted it to her nose, inhaling its wooded fragrance.
‘Xinomavro.’ The word had an almost magical-sounding quality. ‘A type of grape varietal that grows well on the island.’
‘You grow it here?’
He made a noise of agreement. ‘It ages well, so each harvest is bottled and stored for at least five years before it’s sent to my homes around the world.’<
br />
She stared at him for several seconds and then laughed. ‘I’m sorry, I know you’re probably used to that, with your helicopter and jets and whatever else, but do you have idea how unusual what you just said is?’
His expression showed a hint of amusement. ‘I do.’
She took a sip, her eyes roaming his face, the same flicker of need that had been tormenting her all week flaring to violent life. She’d felt it endlessly—need, desire, impatience and hunger. What they’d started had launched a thousand wants within her. At twenty-four she’d had her first sexual awakening and, far from satisfying her curiosity, it had only served to fill her with renewed curiosity.
‘I can’t imagine growing up with that kind of money,’ she said honestly, thinking back to her own childhood, how marred it had been by intense poverty—how incredible the contrast when she’d started travelling and suddenly they’d been able to afford some non-essentials, and eventually even a few luxuries. As a child, she hadn’t really connected her activities with an improvement in her family’s fortunes; she’d just been grateful things were slightly less strained at home.
‘It was normal.’ He lifted his shoulders, but there was something in his eyes that had her waiting for him to elaborate. After a moment, he did. ‘I was born into money but my father lost almost all of it.’ She leaned forward and beneath the table their knees brushed so she almost jumped out of her seat, jerking them away. His eyes showed a hint of speculation but he reached down and put his hand on her knee, holding them where they were then stroking her flesh so stars began to dance against her eyelids.
‘How?’ Her question was husky, coated by her unmistakable desire. ‘I would have thought that to be impossible, given your wealth.’
‘Bad investments. Messy divorces.’ Santos grimaced.
‘Plural?’
‘Plural indeed. He’s currently on wife number nine, and that marriage looks like it has just about run its course.’
‘Nine?’ she repeated, her eyes wide with disbelief. ‘How in the world...?’
Hired by the Impossible Greek Page 9