SHE HAD TO be crazy. For two weeks she’d back-flipped on this, wondering at her acceptance of this summer job—which was how she’d taken to thinking of it, the only way she could deal with what she’d accepted without going into a full-blown panic.
It was just work. A temporary assignment. And, more than that, it was an opportunity to help Cameron get through another trauma in his life. She knew what change was like for children—how many times had she been forced to move, to meet new people, to accept new teachers, homes, experiences? Her childhood had been marked by extreme loneliness, a state of utter sadness and displacement almost all the time, all set against a backdrop that making her parents proud was the only way she could make them love her.
People didn’t seem to realise that having a very high IQ didn’t obviate the normal developmental milestones. Amelia had been plagued by nightmares as a child, one in particular—being consumed by a void, an impenetrable darkness that filled her lungs with bleakness and a weight of despair from which she could never escape. Whenever she’d experienced that terror she’d woken and cried for her mother—but she’d never been there. Often, there had been no one who could comfort her.
Loneliness was familiar to Amelia and she hated that Cameron was going through that now. She wanted to comfort him and that was why she’d agreed to this. It wasn’t the exorbitant amount Santos was paying her—her consulting work paid well; she didn’t need the money. And it certainly wasn’t for any other personal consideration. Santos was no draw-card whatsoever. If anything, he was a disincentive, a reason to refuse his offer.
But Cameron overrode every single one of those concerns. So here she was, holding the little boy’s hand as the helicopter circled lower over an island that was beyond anything she could have imagined. Lush greenery grew quite wild over most of it, with a small village in the north and pristine, white sand all around. The water that lapped at the island’s edges was aquamarine.
As the helicopter came down lower, Amelia picked out an enormous house right on the water’s edge, rendered in white with miles of tinted glass, making it impossible to see into it. The house was a testament to modern architecture, all clean lines and simple aesthetic. There was a swimming pool, several tennis courts, a fruit grove, a golf course and, as she looked towards the water, she saw a jetty at which were moored a yacht and several smaller crafts—speedboats and jet skis lined up side by side.
A curl of derision escaped onto her lips before she could contain it—of course a playboy like Santos had all the toys to go with the title.
She told herself that the butterflies in her tummy had to do with the rapid descent towards the island and nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that soon she would see him again. Santos. She knew from Cameron that Santos had travelled to the island a few days ago, leaving the little boy in the care of his nanny, Talia. Amelia had suppressed her disapproval. Now that she was here, she could see some stability for Cameron’s life.
The helicopter came in even lower, and beside her Cameron was very still and watchful. She angled her face, something clutching in the region of her heart. The first time she’d seen the little boy, he’d looked a bit like this. Far less well-dressed; his uniform had been stained—second-hand, Amelia had gathered—and quite ill-fitting. His face, though, had held a familiar sense of awe, and she’d understood it. He’d been starting nursery and she’d been doing her first teacher’s assistant rotation—she’d told him she was nervous too, and that perhaps they’d feel better if they sat side by side.
He’d moved into different classes over the last few years but she’d always kept an eye out for him and had welcomed him to her class this year with absolute delight. Seeing his grief at the shocking death of his mother had hit Amelia right in the chest—she’d cried with him, for him, and on that first night had wished she could bundle him into her arms and take him home. The instinct had surprised her.
Amelia wasn’t maternal. Her childhood had been as far removed from ‘normal’ as was possible. She had no idea how to be someone’s parent, and no desire to be either. But there was something about Cameron with his soulful blue-grey eyes that had buried itself deep into her heart. Not loving him wasn’t an option. It wasn’t permitted to have favourite students, and she’d taken great care not to show a preference, but that hadn’t meant she didn’t feel it.
The same nervousness and anxiety she’d sensed in him as a slender little three-year-old was in his face now. She put a hand on his knee reassuringly and squeezed. ‘The island looks beautiful.’
He turned to face her, those eyes that she’d fallen in love with haunting her now, because it was impossible not to see his father in their depths. They were identical—the same shape and colour, each set rimmed with thick, curling lashes. But this wasn’t about Santos Anastakos. That wasn’t why she’d accepted this job. It was all for Cameron.
‘It looks hot.’
‘You don’t like the heat?’
He lifted his shoulders and turned away from her, his fragility palpable despite his above-average height. ‘No. Not really.’
Amelia smiled but it was forced onto her face. She didn’t particularly like the heat either but they’d both have to tolerate it for this summer. The helicopter touched down on the roof of the house and a moment later a man appeared, followed by a woman. Both were dressed in immaculate steel-grey suits.
‘Miss Ashford,’ the man greeted her, shouting to be heard over the whir of the spinning helicopter blades. She dipped her head forward as the helicopter pilot had instructed her to do, clutching Cameron’s hand in her own, guiding him down the steps and away from the aircraft. The heat hit her like a wave in the face, sultry and thick, the air so warm it burst flame into her lungs.
‘Yes?’ she said when they were at a safe distance. Talia, the nanny, followed behind.
‘I’m Leo.’ He smiled, a kindly smile that matched his bearing. He wasn’t much taller than her, though there was a tautness to him, a strength she could feel emanating from his muscular frame. ‘I run security on the island and for Mr Anastakos generally. I’ll be coordinating things for Cameron.’
‘Things?’ Amelia prompted impatiently.
‘Security for any day trips, routines, that sort of thing.’ He spoke with a Greek accent, though it was different from Santos’s.
Amelia compressed her lips, ignoring the shift of disapproval. Given what Santos was worth, it wasn’t entirely unreasonable that there should be some kind of security measure for Cameron yet it was just another adjustment for the young boy to make.
‘I presume that here on the island he won’t need too much?’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘This place is a fortress.’
She arched a brow. ‘A fortress you can reach by air or sea?’ She gestured to the expansive ocean surrounding the island.
‘Under surveillance,’ he amended with a grin.
‘I’m Chloe.’ The woman behind him reached around to shake Amelia’s hand. ‘I run the house.’
Amelia nodded, wondering at the grandness of that—having a housekeeper and a security manager. It didn’t surprise her, and yet she couldn’t imagine living in such a fashion.
That feeling only increased as she was shown through the house. It was undeniably beautiful, and built right on the edge of the beach, so an infinity pool and terrace gave way to white sand and then pristine ocean. All of the rooms were on a large scale, with high ceilings, more impressive artwork adorning the crisp, white walls.
Cameron’s room—or suite of rooms—made her heart clutch. No expense had been spared, but it was more than that. Whoever had overseen the decorating had done so with care. The books were perfectly chosen for a child his age, the toys likewise. There wasn’t a cacophony of plastic. Instead, it was wooden blocks and construction toys, a selection of board games and paints. She inwardly approved of the selection, though she couldn’t help but feel the stark contrast with the way Cameron had been living previously. She knew from brief conversations with Cynthia that their home had been a small flat above the high street where the smell of the fish and chip shop below had infiltrated each of the rooms with its greasy pungency. There was only one bedroom—Cameron’s. Cynthia had slept on a fold-out sofa in the lounge.
It was hard not to judge Santos for that—for leaving the mother of his child to suffer in such abject poverty. Was it really possible he hadn’t known about Cameron?
Compressing her lips on that thought, and attempting to blot Santos from her mind, she completed the tour with Talia and Cameron. When Talia suggested taking Cameron to the kitchen for a snack, Amelia was secretly pleased. She felt overwhelmed with what she’d done; the enormity of stranding herself on this island with a man like Santos Anastakos had her wanting to beg the helicopter pilot to fly her right back to the mainland airport.
But she didn’t.
Cameron’s face swam before her eyes and all her doubts left her. She was right to be here. He needed this of her.
As it turned out, her anxiety was somewhat misplaced. After Cameron had a snack, she watched Talia and him swim, then joined them in a game of Snakes and Ladders before finishing a few chapters of a book in her room. She read Cameron his bedtime story and sat with him as he fell asleep—he hadn’t asked her to but she’d sensed his sadness, understood that essential loneliness and wanted to comfort him as best she could.
She ate alone—the housekeeper Chloe had prepared some chicken and salad. Afterwards, Amelia took a cup of tea onto the terrace along with her book and curled her knees beneath her chin as she watched the sun set, the sky filling with a sensational mix of colours—purple, gold, orange, the beginning of berry-black. Despite all that she knew about the formation of the universe, and the metaphysics behind the sunset, she could never fail to be awed by the repetitive cosmic phenomenon, and particularly not when it took place over a seemingly limitless ocean.
It was dark by the time she’d finished her tea. She stood and moved into the kitchen, washed the cup and placed it on the side of the sink before filling a water glass to take to her bedroom. Carrying it and her book—a heavy hardback—she walked from the kitchen, her eyes flicking towards the night sky beyond on autopilot. The stars shone so brightly here, it made Amelia long for her telescope.
She wasn’t looking where she was going, and apparently neither was he, because a second later Amelia connected not with a wall or a door but with a solid shape that knocked her backward. Her water spilled all over Santos’s chest, covering his shirt in a spreading pool of liquid.
‘Oh!’ Her eyes dropped to his chest and couldn’t look away. The water made every sculpted delineation visible. His torso was ridged with abdominal muscles, just like the statues of Greek gods she’d studied as a girl.
‘I’m so sorry!’ The words stumbled from her mouth and she briefly risked a glance at his face, then wished she hadn’t. Fire seemed to arc from his eyes to hers, his perfectly shaped lips flattening into a line that could have represented disapproval, impatience or irritation. Far better to believe that than anything else.
She swallowed hard, trying to bring moisture back to her dry mouth.
‘Let me...’ She pressed her hand against his shirt, intending only to wipe away the water, but the same flames spiralled through her at the slight contact. ‘Get you a towel,’ she finished, spinning away from him quickly so she could retrieve something from the kitchen. Only she bumped into the edge of the kitchen door in her haste and embarrassment, and squawked awkwardly at the pain that flooded her.
Amelia closed her eyes on a wave of mortification.
Great. Just great.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to walk into?’ he asked and, heaven help her, Amelia had somehow managed to forget the deep huskiness of his voice, the sultry heat of his accent. It wrapped around her now, making thought and words impossible.
Amelia had begun speaking in full sentences at six months of age—apparently one of the first markers for an unusually high IQ—but in that moment she struggled to wrap her brain around a single word whatsoever.
She made do with firing him a terse smile then continued her trajectory—more carefully this time—into the kitchen, rifling through drawers until she found a tea towel. Spinning round to take it to Santos, she realised he’d followed her into the kitchen and was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt.
Good Lord. Her mouth was drier than the desert.
‘Oh.’ She stared at him. ‘You’re getting undressed.’
His grin was rich with amusement. ‘I’m removing a wet shirt. It’s not quite the same thing.’
‘Isn’t it?’ It sure felt the same. ‘I was just...going to bed.’ Oh, no! That sounded like an invitation! She furrowed her brow, shaking her head a little. What the heck was happening to her? ‘To read.’
‘Do you have everything you need?’
She lifted her book. ‘Yes.’
His smile was slow to spread but her reaction was instant. Her skin prickled all over with tiny darts of heat. ‘I meant in the house. Did Chloe show you where everything is?’
Amelia nodded. ‘Yes. She did.’ And then, with a small shake of her head, ‘Though not an office I can use.’
‘Would you like to see it now?’
Her chest tightened. She did—she wanted to start her work routine the next day, and knowing exactly where she could work from would be vital to that, but the naked chest of Santos Anastakos was almost too much to bear. ‘Would you like to get...erm...dressed first?’
‘Would you like me to get dressed first?’ He put the question back on her and somehow managed to make her feel like a child. Naïve and gauche. She shook her head and tried to look cool, as though she frequently spent time with half-naked, bronzed living replicas of sculpted Greek gods.
‘That’s fine.’ She shrugged with an assumed and not entirely credible air of nonchalance. ‘Which way?’
‘Did you want to refill your water glass first?’
Heat stained her cheeks. She shook her head—she could come back later. He took a step backward, allowing her space to precede him from the kitchen, and she skirted past him, ever so careful not to so much as brush his skin. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything, though she was sure she caught the tail end of a smile on his face when she glanced up at him.
‘How was your flight?’
‘Fine.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘It was my first time in a private jet.’
‘I thought it would be easier with Cameron.’
‘He travelled well.’ She fell into step beside him, feeling a little calmer as they moved onto safer conversational ground. ‘He was excited by the helicopter.’
Santos’s expression was distracted. ‘I thought he might be.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘I have an office here.’
‘On the island?’
‘Yes.’ He dipped his head forward. ‘Though I travel to Athens most days. We have headquarters there and I usually have meetings that require my personal attention.’
Amelia’s brow furrowed as she digested this. ‘So you won’t be here much?’
He fixed her with an enquiring gaze.
‘I mean long-term. With Cameron.’
Santos’s pace slowed to a stop. ‘You’re asking if I intend to neglect my son?’
Heat flowed in her cheeks. ‘I—’
‘You have a habit of seeing the worst in me, when it comes to him.’
‘Do I?’
‘You think I’ve moved him here and plan never to see him?’
‘If today is any indication.’
‘I work long hours.’ He expelled a breath so his nostrils flared. ‘Up until three months ago I had no idea I was a father. I am intending to make whatever changes are necessary to fit Cameron into my life but it will take time. Forgive me, Miss Ashford, for not having all the answers just yet.’
She felt a small shift of sympathy for him, but an even greater one for Cameron; after her own childhood she knew the facts Santos was failing to see. ‘So long as you love him, above anything and anyone else, you’ll work it out.’
The words seemed to lash Santos. He shifted a little, a physical reaction—a rejection?—and then began to walk once more, his stride longer this time, his face glowering.
‘This area is generally off-limits to my domestic staff.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘It will also be off-limits to Cameron and Talia. I work on sensitive projects. I require privacy and peace.’
Amelia’s stomach squeezed. He was changing the subject, but she didn’t want him to do that. She reached for his arm, ignoring the tingling wave that crashed through her at the small touch. ‘Santos?’
He stopped walking, turning to face her without meeting her eyes, his nostrils flaring as he expelled a deep breath.
‘You don’t agree with me?’
Now his eyes dragged to hers, slowly, something dark in their depths. ‘About...?’
But he understood. He was evading her question on purpose. ‘You don’t need to overthink things with Cameron. In time, and with an abundance of love, he’ll find his way to you.’
A muscle jerked low in his jaw. ‘And if I cannot give him those things?’
‘What do you mean?’ She lifted a brow, impatient for him to explain.
‘You think it’s so easy? You simply say “love the child” and it is done? A matter of months ago, I didn’t even know about him.’
Defence of Cameron raised her hackles. ‘So? That’s not his fault. You’re his father.’
‘Whatever that means.’ He spun round, walking once more, his stride long, not stopping until he reached an office door beside the one he’d indicated as his. ‘From time to time my assistant flies to the island to work with me—she uses this space. In her absence, consider it yours.’ It was a swift conversation change but she allowed it, seeing the futility in pushing him further at this point.
Amelia looked around the room—yet again, on a rather grand scale—and nodded. Two computer screens sat side by side on a large desk. Another desk, free of any clutter or technology, was set at a right angle to it, forming an L shape in which a comfortable looking black leather chair was anchored. A leather armchair sat across the room and the walls were lined with bookshelves.
‘I presume this will suffice?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, noting the things it had and those it did not, while her mind analysed his throwaway comment ‘whatever that means’.
‘But it’s lacking something?’
Was she so transparent? ‘No, it will be fine.’
‘You’re easier to read than a book. What do you need?’
She bit down on her lower lip but promptly stopped when his gaze was drawn to the gesture, overheating her already frantic blood. ‘A whiteboard.’
He nodded crisply. ‘Of course. I suppose as a teacher you’re used to writing vertically.’
It took her a moment to connect her vocation with this work. ‘Right.’ She cleared her throat.
‘I’ll have Leo arrange one for you in the morning.’
‘I don’t want to put him to any trouble.’
‘It’s not a problem.’
‘Well, not for you,’ she pointed out, surprising them both with the joke. His smile was instinctive, but it died almost instantly. He stared at her for several moments and she felt as though he was choosing his words carefully.
‘What if I can’t love him?’
Amelia’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You’re serious?’
His features were like stone as he nodded once. ‘Nai.’
‘Oh, Santos.’ She was so swept up in his worry that it didn’t occur to her to use his surname. ‘You will. Not just because he’s your son, but because he’s an amazing little boy. Open yourself up to the possibility of loving him and it will happen without you realising it.’
‘Your confidence is naïve.’
She blinked, trying to remember the last time anyone had said anything even remotely approaching an aspersion cast on her intelligence.
‘I can only assume your own childhood was a picture of rosy parental doting, but that’s not the norm for many people. I am not close to my father. Nor is my brother. In my family, “love” is very far from how we do it. So how can you expect me to open myself to the possibility of loving him? How can I ever replace the mother he lost? I’m simply not built that way. Christos, I chose to not have children for this very reason, Amelia.’
She flinched a little, wanting to refute his assumption about her and his words about himself. Her childhood had been far from what he believed. But his own summation of his life and choices filled her with such sadness. His uncertainty was so unexpected that she was lost for words.
He spoke before she could, anyway.
‘Regardless, he is my son, and I will care for him to the best of my ability. I will raise him so that he wants for nothing it is within my power to provide. But do not expect miracles while you are here. Your concern is my son’s happiness, not his relationship with me.’