Hired by the Impossible Greek

by Clare Connelly

  Santos had been clear about his wishes for this from the start, and she wasn’t stupid enough to hope for more from him, but nor could she deny that she was starting to want more. The idea of returning to England was no longer one she faced with any degree of pleasure. Nor was her teaching job—though that seemed impossible to believe. Her village and school community were the first home she’d ever known but they weren’t the only place she felt at home. Now, there was this island and this mansion, and even his place in Athens. It was anywhere Santos was.

  A foreshadowing of disaster curdled her blood so that, as the Anastakos jet came down to land over the city, even the sight of beautiful Paris didn’t arrest the worry inside her. Perhaps the real Greek tragedy of her life was still ahead of her.

  * * *

  ‘It’s not getting bigger.’

  Amelia met Santos’s eyes over Cameron’s head and smiled. It was a smile that hurt a little—everything hurt at that point. She knew she had to leave but that didn’t stop her from feeling every single emotion.

  ‘Not recognisably, no,’ she answered, her voice a little raspy. ‘It’s a very gradual process that takes days of intense heat.’ She tousled her fingers through his hair then reached down for his hand. His small one fit inside hers and she squeezed it.

  ‘It’s still beautiful.’

  She smiled at Cameron again. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mummy used to talk about the Eiffel Tower,’ he confided as they began to walk along the Seine. Santos held Cameron’s other hand in his and the three of them walked in a line.

  ‘What did she say?’ It was Santos who asked the question, his voice gruff.

  ‘That it was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen.’ His smile was tinged with sadness. ‘She told me there’s a very fast train that travels here and that we would take it one day.’

  Sadness flooded Amelia. She glanced at Santos. His expression was steely. ‘I’m sorry she isn’t here to see it with us.’

  She knew him well enough to know that he genuinely meant that. Her heart trembled a little.

  ‘Me too.’

  They walked in silence for a few hundred metres. ‘Can I get some ice-cream?’

  ‘No, darling,’ Amelia murmured.

  At the same time Santos said, ‘I don’t see why not.’

  Cameron looked from one to the other and then leaned closer to Santos. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  Santos couldn’t help his reaction; his eyes flew to his son’s face first and then to Amelia’s. Her eyes sparked with his. They’d both heard it; they understood it. Dad.

  Such a small word but the meaning... It ricocheted around them, exploding like a pinball inside Santos. Emotions he hadn’t known he possessed welled inside him.

  Dad.

  He was a dad.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them Amelia was smiling gently, her gaze warm on Cameron’s little face. ‘I’m out-voted, then.’

  ‘Definitely.’ Cameron licked his lips. ‘Can I get two scoops?’

  Santos laughed, a laugh that was so full of joy and pride; he was almost euphoric. Something about that moment felt utterly perfect. ‘Don’t push it.’

  Santos’s penthouse wasn’t far away and, after picking up their ice-cream, they walked towards it, surrounded by the ambient noise of Paris. As they turned into his street, they were confronted by a night market. In the time they’d been out, it had been completely set up from scratch. Tents were side by side, lights had been strung from one side of a narrow walkway to the other and the stalls boasted all sorts of treasures. Jewellery, books, art, more books. She lingered at one for a moment then kept walking, reaching for Cameron’s hand.

  An artist with an easel stood perched at the end of the street. Amelia smiled—he was so quintessentially what she might have imagined a Parisian street artist to look like. Silver hair at the temples, slender, dressed in corduroy trousers with braces over a loose shirt, and a beret on the top of his head, the angle of it charming and jaunty. A family sat before him, their picture being faithfully and quickly mined from the blank page.

  ‘Amelia, look!’ Cameron pointed at the portrait, drawing the attention of the little girl in the picture.

  ‘Don’t move, Angela,’ her mother instructed in a broad American accent. The girl’s eyes remained focussed on Cameron, with that curiosity children instinctively have for other children, before she turned back to the artist.

  ‘Can we do one?’ Cameron squeezed Amelia’s hand, looking up at her and smiling. ‘Please?’

  Something stuck hard in Amelia’s throat. ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ She bit down on her lip, because even as she issued the refusal a part of her wanted to agree. ‘It’s late.’

  Santos watched, as surprised by his son’s suggestion as Amelia evidently was.

  ‘But please,’ Cameron insisted. ‘So I have a picture of you. For when you...go.’ The last word was little more than a whisper, but it screamed through Santos. The pleasure of a moment ago disappeared like a popped balloon.

  Amelia’s eyes lifted to his and Santos held her gaze, his expression impassive even when his mind was firing. The bond between Cameron and Amelia was unmistakable. It was why he’d insisted she come to Agrios Nisi, and he’d seen evidence of that bond again and again. But hearing Cameron ask for a picture because Amelia was leaving made Santos feel two things: irresponsible, for not properly having appreciated that there was risk in this step—risk that Cameron would become too attached to a temporary part of his life; and excluded, because Cameron’s love for Amelia was so apparent. Santos didn’t know if their connection was something he’d ever have with his son. He wasn’t sure he’d ever have it with anyone.

  Amelia had been trying to help him—but that wasn’t the answer. Santos had told her that repeatedly. He needed to focus on his relationship with Cameron. It was no good to feel excluded from their bond—he had to focus on being the father Cameron deserved. Fear had driven him to employ Amelia—fear of being alone with Cameron, of not being what the little boy needed, but that wasn’t acceptable. Santos had never run from a challenge and this was the most important of his life. He would conquer it—he had to.

  ‘What do you say, monsieur?’ the artist called, taking payment from the mother of the family he’d just drawn and giving his full attention to Santos. ‘Let me draw your beautiful family. Your wife and child should be captured on paper, no?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cameron agreed with a grin.

  ‘Another time,’ Amelia demurred gently then, to Cameron as she guided him away, ‘We have plenty of photographs together on my phone. I’ll send one to your dad to print.’

  Cameron, though, was unusually determined. ‘Why can’t we get a picture, though? Like that other family before?’

  ‘Because we’re not a family.’ Santos’s words cut through them all, like the shockwave from an earthquake. His eyes met Amelia’s and held her startled gaze for a moment before he crouched in front of Cameron. ‘You and I are a family, Cameron.’ His words were throaty and guttural, filled with an emotion that surprised him with its strength. ‘Amelia is just a friend. It’s different.’

  No one spoke for the rest of the short walk to his apartment. Even Cameron was quiet.

  But Amelia’s mind had been flooded by his words. Amelia is just a friend. It’s different. We’re not a family.

  The silence filled her with a sense that she was drowning.

  She felt as if she was on the outside looking in on something incredibly beautiful and warm but being lashed by snow and ice. She was their ‘friend’, except she wasn’t. Her place in both of their lives was temporary.

  They were a family. She didn’t belong.

  The next day, she’d leave. Soon Cameron would start a new school, make new friends and have a different teacher; and, while he might—for a time—think of Miss Ashford, before l
ong she’d be a tiny figment of his imagination, slipping through the recesses of his mind until she was gone for ever. As for Santos?

  At the door to the building that housed his penthouse, she looked at him without meaning to, only to find his eyes were resting on her face. Her heart stuttered. Would he think of her when she was gone? Would he miss her?

  ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  She nodded her agreement, but her insides were awash with doubts. She hadn’t been stupid enough to think saying goodbye would be easy but she’d had no concept of just how damned hard it would turn out to be.

  * * *

  He was used to Paris. Used to the Eiffel Tower, used to the city, used to its sounds and smells, but being here with Amelia on their last night together somehow made it different. New all over again, like the first time he’d come here.

  ‘You were annoyed by him?’ Her words reached across the room and he fixed his gaze on her face intently, as if committing it to memory. Maybe he should have let the artist draw the damned picture. He didn’t have a photo of himself with Amelia. What a childish thing to care about! Since when had he wanted photographs of his lovers? Boxing her neatly into that shelf filled him with satisfaction. Amelia was no different from anyone else he’d been with. Even as he told himself the comforting fact, he acknowledged it for the lie it was.

  ‘Who?’

  She sipped her Scotch, her expression morphing into a grimace as the unfamiliar alcohol assaulted her. ‘The artist.’

  He searched for the right words. He had been annoyed. Jealous? Excluded? Worried? None of those things particularly did him credit. He focussed on the small part of his response he could claim without a sense of shame. ‘I was annoyed for Cameron. He doesn’t need to hear that kind of thing—that we’re a family when it’s patently untrue.’

  He shifted his gaze across the room, his eyes landing on the door that led to Cameron’s room. They’d left Talia on the island—it was just a short trip, and easy enough for Santos to manage Cameron on his own. Truth be told he was, in some ways, looking forward to being alone with the boy. It was a double-edged sword, though, because that would only happen once Amelia had left.

  ‘It was a natural assumption,’ Amelia murmured, but her eyes had fallen away, her expression frustratingly shuttered from his.

  ‘Just as it’s natural for Cameron to wish he were part of a family. It’s something he’s never known—even with his mother. But allowing him to indulge an illusion will only hurt him in the long run. We’re not a family and it felt important to explain that to Cameron. Do you disagree?’

  It felt good to say the words, as though they were important somehow. Her expression flickered slightly but then she tersely moved her head sideways. Her dark hair was glossy in the evening light. ‘No. I...think you were right.’ But it was a soft statement, swallowed by swirling emotions. Her concern for Cameron was obvious.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Santos assured her after a quiet moment. ‘Don’t worry about him.’

  ‘I’ll always worry about him,’ she said simply, her smile melancholy.

  ‘You don’t trust me?’

  ‘I care for him,’ she clarified. ‘I think loving someone and worrying about them probably go hand in hand.’

  He stiffened, her easy use of the word ‘love’ sparking inside him. She was talking about Cameron, not him, but it nonetheless felt as though danger were surrounding him.

  ‘I was a little...surprised too. I hadn’t realised what we would look like, from the outside.’ Her smile was awkward. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything even remotely resembling a family.’ Her cheeks flushed pink. ‘I know we’re not. I just meant what people might have thought...’

  Her loneliness opened a huge hole in his chest. He tried to cover over it, to ignore it. He’d made a choice to stay single, to avoid emotional commitments, but she hadn’t. Not really. Her parents had devastated her, and she’d gone into a mode of self-protection ever since then, but she deserved to be a part of something; she deserved to be loved. The certainty rolled through his gut. She deserved to be loved. The idea of that stirred something uncomfortable within him but also brought him a wave of happiness because, more than anything, he wanted her to be happy.

  He couldn’t make her happy.

  Offering her weekend assignations when it suited him would be a bastard’s move and she deserved better. Once she left, he’d never see her again; setting her free was the best thing for her.

  He resolutely changed the subject. ‘Who won your chess game?’

  ‘I did.’ Her features relaxed. ‘I almost always do, though.’

  Santos narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. He had to set her free—and perhaps she wouldn’t even mind that much. ‘So why do you suppose he continues to play against you?’

  ‘He’s a far better player now than he was when we first started competing,’ she said simply, taking another drink. This time, her face didn’t contort with the hit of alcohol.

  ‘You don’t think there could be another reason?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as he’s attracted to you?’

  ‘Brent?’ She pulled a face. ‘No way. He’s definitely just a friend.’

  But Santos wasn’t so sure about that. It seemed unlikely and impossible.

  ‘Honestly, there’s nothing between us—and never has been.’

  ‘Maybe you should revisit that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He seems nice. You obviously have a lot in common.’

  ‘You don’t mean he “seems nice”. You mean he’s handsome, and therefore I should feel attracted to him,’ she challenged.

  ‘I wouldn’t really know what you find handsome,’ he responded lightly, drinking his Scotch.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve had very lovely looking men ask me out in the past, thank you very much. That’s not what I’m into.’

  ‘You don’t like attractive people?’

  Her easy smile morphed into a frown of deep concentration. ‘The fact you’re attractive isn’t why I was attracted to you.’

  ‘So why were you?’

  He leaned forward, his need to hear her answer surprising him.

  ‘Why after living as a nun or a social isolationist did you decide you wanted me to be your first?’

  She stared at her drink so he wanted to reach across and lift her chin, tilting her face towards his, but he didn’t. He waited, impatience making his gut clench.

  ‘I can’t really say,’ she said a little breathlessly. ‘I think my stardust and your stardust just aligned.’

  It was such a romantic thing for a scientist to say that her expression was self-conscious, and then she laughed. Only to his ears the sound was slightly brittle.

  ‘Sorry. That’s a load of nonsense. I bet you can’t wait to see the back of me tomorrow.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘DO YOU HAVE to go?’ Pain was lashing Amelia from all directions. The sooner she stood up and walked out of this penthouse, the better.

  ‘I’m afraid so. School starts next week and I have to get the classroom all ready for the new students.’

  Tears filled Cameron’s eyes. ‘I want you to stay here with me.’

  Her heart squeezed. She wanted that too, more than she could say. She refused to look at Santos.

  Everything was different. Even the way they’d made love the night before had been different. Slower, more explorative, as if they’d both been committing every single detail of each other to memory. It had been a goodbye, an act of passion filled with finality. It was the last time they’d be together.

  She’d woken early, slipped from his room, showered and dressed, already mentally imagining herself back in England, in her own home, far from Santos Anastakos and his seductive way of life.

  ‘She can’t, Cameron. Miss Ashford was good
enough to spend her holidays with you but now it’s time for her to leave.’

  The coldness in his words was for Cameron’s benefit but it only added to the excruciating minefield she was navigating.

  ‘Then I want to go with her.’ His little face assumed a truculent expression. ‘I want to go home.’

  Now she did look at Santos and saw a dark emotion in the depths of his eyes. Neither of them had predicted this. ‘You have so much to look forward to, darling. You’re going to love your new school, and make so many new little friends.’

  ‘I like my old school and my old friends. I like you. I want to go home. I want to go home!’ He burst into tears, tears that broke Amelia’s heart. He hadn’t had an outburst like this in weeks. She wrapped her arms around him, drawing him into a bear hug, holding him right where he was. She wanted to give into a similar breakdown, but didn’t. For Cameron, she held it together.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could say, and she meant it from the depths of her heart. She was sorry for all that this little boy had lost. The years he’d missed out on having a father in his life because of a decision his mother had made, then the sudden loss of a mother he’d adored and now the terrifying new start that was before him.

  ‘Do you remember what I told you when we first came to Greece?’

  He shook his head, his eyes still overflowing with tears.

  ‘I told you that every night, when you look up in the sky, I’ll be looking up at it too. And we’ll see the same stars, and we can smile and wave at each other, and you’ll know that I’m thinking about you and you’re thinking about me. Deal?’