‘YOU THINK I’M wrong to take him away?’ Santos straightened, drawing himself to his full six-and-a-half feet, looking down on the slight schoolteacher with a sense of rumbling fury. It wasn’t entirely her fault. He’d carried this anger for weeks now—since learning that a woman he’d spent two nights with seven years ago had borne him a child and failed to mention even a hint of the boy’s existence. He’d been denied any chance to know his own son, any chance to prepare for this, until Cynthia had died and both Cameron and Santos had been thrust well and truly into the deep end.
‘Yes.’ Her eyes didn’t quite meet his. It was a frustrating habit she’d shown ever since he’d drawn the door inward to reveal her on the doorstep. One minute she was the personification of timidity and the next she was burning with passion and wild accusations, practically threatening to call child welfare, or whomever looked after inadequate parents in this country.
At least she wasn’t attempting to obfuscate now. ‘And you think you have any right coming here to lecture me about the choices I make for my son?’
Her eyes glanced in his direction, landing briefly on his squared jaw before skittering back to the window. His fingers tingled with an urge to reach for her chin and pull it towards him, to draw her stubborn, runaway gaze to his even when she refused to hold it.
‘When they’re so obviously contrary to his best interests? Yes, sir, I do.’
A muscle ticked at the base of his jaw; he felt it tapping against his flesh and sought to control his emotions before he spoke. ‘He is my son. I can do whatever the hell I’d like.’
‘Even if that’s going to hurt him?’ She responded with fierceness now and something leaped inside his chest, interest and curiosity combined in one arrow of emotion.
‘His mother’s death hurt him,’ Santos inserted quietly, the words devoid of emotion. ‘His mother’s choice to keep him a secret from me hurt him—and me—in untold ways. I am only doing what I would have insisted on six years ago, if Cynthia had bothered to inform me of her pregnancy.’
‘I’m not interested in that,’ the teacher responded, compressing her lips with a primness he found strangely tantalising. If it was true, she was unlike just about anyone in his life had been since Cameron’s existence had been revealed. Everyone wanted to know about his secret child. ‘However,’ she conceded after a moment, ‘I appreciate his pain isn’t of your causing.’
‘That’s generous of you.’ He took another sip of his Scotch and placed the cup on the edge of his desk, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at her distractedly.
‘Yet.’
She was the definition of dull. So very English, just like Cynthia had been, with that clipped accent and cool disposition. But, where Cynthia had been strikingly attractive and flirtatious, Amelia Ashford looked as though she’d rather be dragged over hot coals than spend another minute in his office. Except...
Yes, except for when their knees had brushed. She’d startled and made a soft noise, almost a moan, her lips parting and her eyes showing surprise. Was it possible that this woman was far less icy than her surface demeanour might suggest?
‘If things had been different, perhaps you would have raised him in Greece, but there’s no sense losing ourselves in the hypothetical. Cameron is English. He’s lived here all his life, never even travelling abroad. His whole world has changed so much since the accident. He was very close to Cynthia; she adored him and every day without her is a struggle for him.’ Emotion coloured the last sentence, the threat of tears obvious in her softly voiced observation. ‘Perhaps in time, when the shock has lessened and he knows you better, uprooting him wouldn’t be such a monumental ask. But right now? I honestly think you’ll worsen his grief tenfold. It’s not fair, Mr Anastakos.’
‘Fair?’ He couldn’t help himself. Despite the fact he could see the logic in what she was saying, disbelief fired through him, making him want to contradict her. ‘You think having a small child dropped on my lap—a child I had no earthly idea existed six weeks ago—and expecting to know what is right or wrong for him is fair?’
‘No,’ she conceded quietly. ‘Nothing about this situation is fair but you’re the only one who can make a difference for Cameron. Right now, he needs all of us to pull together and help him. You can’t take him away from everything he knows—everyone who knows him. He deserves better than that.’
‘My son is an Anastakos. We have lived and died on Agrios Nisi for generations and he will be no different.’
Fire shifted through her eyes once more. Wide and brown, they landed on him with a strength that surprised him. ‘Perhaps, but all I’m asking is that you give him time. What harm could come from leaving things as they are for another year? Let him take some solace from the school friends he’s known since nursery, from the parents of his friends who know and adore him, from the teachers who—’
‘Yes, care for him,’ Santos interrupted, wondering why her impassioned plea was so irritating to him. ‘You said that.’ He didn’t move his body by a degree, staying exactly as he was, his gaze heavy on her face. ‘You care for my son?’
A hint of colour shifted beneath her olive complexion. ‘I care for all my pupils.’
‘And so you do this often, then? Go into their houses and accuse their parents of being selfish and wrong?’
Her cheeks darkened in colour as she stood, her throat moving as she swallowed convulsively. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you in some way.’ The words were haughty. ‘I would never forgive myself if I didn’t ask you to reconsider. Cameron deserves that of me.’
She stood directly opposite him, toe to toe, though she was at least a foot shorter, so her head had to tilt in order for her eyes to meet his. ‘He deserves more than this.’
Her words rang with accusation, making a mockery of her earlier apology, and something snaked through him, something born of masculine pride and ancient, primaeval impulses.
Her judgement was tightening around his chest and he felt a desire to unsettle her easy blame, to rail at her accusation and make her understand that this last month and a half had been a type of hell on earth for Santos as well. Having a child? It was something he’d always, always sworn he wouldn’t do—a mistake he had never intended to replicate. He had a half-brother who could carry on the family name. Santos was free to remain single and alone, just the way he liked it. Having Cameron foisted upon him out of the blue—the product of a two-night affair with a woman he’d long since almost forgotten about—was like a stick of dynamite exploding in his face.
‘Tell me, Amelia Ashford.’ He couldn’t help the mockery that curled through her name. ‘What makes you an authority on this? Do you have children?’
Her cheeks were now the colour of the sky beyond the window, a vibrant peach, her eyes darker than the sun-ripened olives that grew wild over the southern side of Agrios Nisi.
‘No.’ She opened her mouth, no doubt to add further clarity to this, but Santos wasn’t interested. He pressed a finger to her lips, intending only to silence her, but the moment his flesh connected with her mouth something tightened deep in his abdomen, hardening in his groin, insisting on being acknowledged.
Her eyes were saucer-wide, her lips parting on what he presumed to be an involuntary sigh. Her breath was warm as it wrapped around his finger, making it a temptation that was almost impossible to ignore. He wanted to sink his fingertip into her mouth, to see her full, pink lips wrap around it while those huge eyes of hers bored into his.
Christos, what was happening? She was hardly his type and, more than that, she’d arrived in his home purely with the intention of berating and insulting him. Perhaps that was it—the challenge in her words made him want to answer in a completely different way, to pull her body to his and drop his mouth, claiming hers, dominating her and answering her questions and accusations all at once...
‘No?’ He moved his finger, but didn’t drop it away completely. Instead, he drew it sideways, along her cheek, before padding his thumb over her lower lip, cupping the side of her face in his palm and holding her beneath him, forcing her eyes to meet his after all.
She swallowed hard; he felt the movement of her jaw. ‘I don’t have children. But I do know Cameron.’
The words were husky and thick, desire making them more stilted than her previous verbal lashings.
His lips twisted in silent acknowledgement of that; he was no longer interested in discussing his surprise love child with this woman. He moved his body forward almost imperceptibly, closing the small distance between them just sufficiently to feel the softness of her surprisingly generous breasts against his chest.
‘I—’
‘Yes, Amelia?’ What the hell was he doing? Playing with fire, that was what. She was his son’s teacher and she’d come to him with perfectly legitimate concerns. While Santos Anastakos might have earned himself the moniker of billionaire playboy in the tabloids and on gossip blogs, he always knew where to draw the line. He’d never once become involved with a member of his staff, nor had he become involved in affairs—he didn’t do messy, complicated, emotional. This woman didn’t exactly work for him but nor was this straightforward. She’d come to him with concerns about his son and he was turning that into a sensual game of cat and mouse, enjoying the way she was sparring with him even when he resented the hell out of her accusations. This wasn’t a date; it wasn’t just a random encounter in a hotel bar. She was his child’s schoolteacher, so why was he suddenly overcome with an urge to make love to her, right here and now?
Hell, he had Maria waiting for him in the other room, and there was very little doubt in Santos’s mind as to how she wanted their evening together to end. If he wanted sex, then it was there at his disposal, but this wasn’t about the slaking of a physical need. There was something about this particular woman that was drawing him in, making him want her with an urgency he hadn’t felt in a very long time, if ever.
Amelia furrowed her brow as though she were confused, lost, and he knew he should step backward to give her some space and—politely—say to her, thank you for coming but don’t tell me how to raise my own damned kid. Except he didn’t want her to go. Suddenly the idea of Maria’s practised flirtation sat like a noose around his neck and all he could think about was this woman’s fire and spirit, her borderline hostility that was in and of itself so unusual for Santos to encounter these days—or ever.
If she’d had such an obvious reaction to the brushing of their knees, how would she feel if he kissed her? He dropped his head a little, as if weighing up the consequences of that. She smelled like honey and raspberry blossom, reminding him of the hedge along the side of this country estate, all sun-warmed and sweet.
Her eyes widened and perhaps she anticipated his intention. She lifted a hand to the front of his shirt, her fingers splayed wide over his chest, her eyes locked to his. He braced, wondering if she was about to push him away. She didn’t. Her fingers buried themselves in the fabric, holding him right where he was, another breathy exhalation bursting against his jaw, then another, and another, her breathing as frantic as if she’d run a marathon. His body was hyper-charged and attuned to every single shift of hers—he felt her breath, smelled her sweet fragrance, and the tightening of her nipples into buds against his chest made him swallow a guttural groan all of his own.
This was getting out of hand.
He’d never been one for delayed gratification. What was he waiting for? A damned starter’s pistol? That had been fired the second he’d opened the door and seen her standing there.
‘I’m not interested in discussing my son with you, Amelia.’
Again he felt her swallowing motion. ‘Why not?’
He could barely think straight. His mind was filled with the idea of kissing her, of running his tongue over the outline of her lips before plunging it deep into her warm, wet mouth. Of tangling his fingers into the back of her hair, angling her head towards his so he had unfettered access to her mouth, throat, décolletage...
Why not? It was a fair question. One he didn’t want to answer.
Because all I can think of right now is you.
How ridiculous!
Her breath was warm, each little pant of air fanning against his throat. She smelled sweet.
‘I care about Cameron.’ Her voice was shaking as badly as her body. ‘I came here because I think that he’s a little boy who’s had the parameters of his world shattered beyond recognition, and if you take him away from school, from his friends and me, from England, you’ll make it almost impossible for him to recover.’
Her speech was fine but it barely penetrated the fog of his brain. Her eyes were pinned to his, and a silent but volatile arc of electricity buzzed from her to him.
‘We cannot stay here.’ He said the words for his own benefit as much as hers.
‘Not for ever.’ Her hand on his chest shifted, as though she didn’t realise she was still touching him. She dropped it to her side but stayed where she was, their bodies hemmed together by some powerful and invisible force. ‘Just until he’s over this terrible grief.’
His gut rolled at that, his belly filling with pain. Terrible grief. Yes, his son was grieving and, damn it, Santos was the last person on earth who knew how to help him. Hell, Santos had no idea how to be a father, let alone the kind of father who could assist his son in navigating this kind of emotional trauma.
‘I will do what I think best for my son.’ It was another pledge he made more for his own benefit than for hers. In the back of his mind, he wondered why he didn’t move away, why he didn’t step backward, but even as he knew he ought to his body was pressing forward, his head dropping lower, as though her lips were magnetic, drawing him closer.
‘Then you’ll stay in England?’ They were strong words but she swallowed quickly, as though her mouth was dry, her breath thick. Her lips were the palest pink, with the perfect Cupid’s bow shape. He wanted to crush his own to them, to feel their softness beneath his mouth.
Her breath was forced. He had no doubt she was thinking of kissing him, just as he was her. The air seemed to spark around them, humming with an electrical current.
‘And would you like me to stay, Miss Ashford?’
Her eyes flickered closed, long lashes fanning her cheeks for a moment, and a tiny noise escaped from her lips. Then she blinked quickly before lifting her eyes to his once more, something like panic in their depths. Her reactions were fascinating. She was like a little butterfly, flittering and moving, so fine and nimble, so difficult to pin down.
‘It’s not about what I want, nor what I think you should do.’
‘Liar.’ His laugh was deep and throaty, husky, as the sound brushed her hair, lifting it slightly.
It seemed to shake her, waking her from some kind of dream. Her face tightened and her features became unreadable. Her voice, when she spoke, was authoritative. Impatient, almost. ‘Fine, then. I would like you to put your son before yourself. There is no doubt in my mind that leaving England suits you very nicely. It will be much easier for you to continue your life with minimal inconvenience if you return to Greece. But Cameron’s interests are served by remaining right here.’ And then, to underscore her feelings, she sidestepped him, moving away a little, putting vital distance between them. Something he should have done moments earlier.
Only the flush of her cheeks betrayed that she was still feeling a rush of awareness—or that she’d ever felt anything for him whatsoever. In fact, in every other way she was suddenly ice-cold.
Fascinating.
He watched her from where he was, his eyes shuttered, taking her lead and suppressing the desire that had been rampant in his system a moment ago. He wasn’t sure what had come over him but it had been stupid and inappropriate. He had Maria waiting in the room next door. This woman was his son’s teacher! And absolutely not his type.
Beyond that, she’d come to his home to try to organise his life—something Santos had never particularly relished.
Her small sigh drew his gaze back to her face. ‘All I ask is that you think about what you would want if you were in his shoes—your whole world changing with a sadness beyond words carried inside your heart. Ask yourself what you would need and please do only that, Mr Anastakos.’
She used his surname like a shield, pressing it between them to remind him that they were two strangers, nothing more.
And she was right—he had no idea why he’d let the strength of his impulses override every piece of common sense he possessed, but he had, and it had been wrong.
‘I intend on doing the right thing by him.’ His admission was gravelly, his eyes reverberating with the intensity of that pledge.
‘I hope so.’ She stared at him for several moments and he stood perfectly still, wondering if she was going to move closer, if she was thinking about him, if she was wishing he’d given into his impulses and kissed her. But then she blinked and shook her head, forcing a tight smile to her lips.
‘Enjoy your date.’
He dipped his head in what appeared to be a nod but was actually a way to disguise his thoughts.
Santos might have been called ‘the billionaire playboy’ for years but he lived by a strict code of conduct, a black and white morality, and that always guided how he treated women. If his father had taught him anything—and indeed he’d learned many lessons from his father’s choices, most vitally how he didn’t want to act—it was that women deserved respect. He never slept with a woman who didn’t want exactly what he did and he never slept with one woman while another was waiting in a different room of the same damned house. Shame coloured his own feelings for a moment.
‘Then you’ve said what you came to say?’
‘And I hope you’ll listen to it.’ Her tone was ice-cold, but there was worry in it too, as though she hoped he would heed her advice but severely doubted that he would.
He held her gaze for a long time, neither of them inclined to look away, but this time he found the power to break that connection.
‘Then goodnight, Miss Ashford.’
His dismissal was every bit as cold as her own words but he didn’t get any satisfaction from that. Her features showed hurt and he winced inwardly, watching as she reached the door. When her hand pressed to the handle, he spoke once more, his voice gravelly. ‘Thank you.’ The words were stilted. She angled her face just a little, enough for him to see the proud tilt of her chin. ‘For caring about Cameron, I mean.’
A cursory nod and she was gone, pulling the door behind her with a near-silent click. He stared at it for several seconds before sitting down heavily in the chair behind his desk.
Maria would keep a moment or two. Santos didn’t particularly want to see her when his cock was straining against his pants, desire for another woman making him almost desperate with needs. He sat down and tried to make sense of how a slight, prim schoolteacher had driven him to the edge of sanity with little more than the sharpness of her tongue.
Amelia stared at her ceiling, completely unable to sleep. Ever since she’d walked out of Renway Hall hours earlier, she’d been unsettled and filled with a gnawing sense of frustration that made almost everything impossible.
Her body felt different. Alive on a different cosmic plane, existing in a hyper-aware state so everything looked and felt brighter and sharper. She’d gone through the motions of a normal evening. A light dinner, fifteen minutes of meditation and then an hour on the Hayashi Analysis. Usually, that consumed her, the detailed analysis of star radius and formation stretching her brain in just the way she needed, followed by a quick back and forth messenger chat with Brent, usually about his work or hers, before dropping into bed exhausted and satisfied.
But not tonight.
Tonight Amelia had eaten only half her dinner, unable to fit anything else in a tummy that was already full of knots and butterflies. Each equation she’d performed on the Hayashi Analysis had taken twice the usual time, and she’d even found an error on one when she’d re-read her work. She’d cut short her conversation with Brent, pleading a headache.
But she didn’t have a headache. Amelia had a body ache, deep in the pit of her abdomen, extending through every cell of her being. She was shaking with a need she’d never before experienced. When she closed her eyes, she saw him. When she breathed in, she smelled him. She lay in her bed and remembered the touch of his finger against her lips, the feeling of his body brushing hers. Her fingertips were still trembling as she lifted them to her lips now, feeling the skin there.
He’d been going to kiss her; she was sure of it. She had no experience in such matters but only a fool would have been unable to read the signs. His head had been lowering, his eyes rich with emotion, desire, want, need; he’d looked at her as though he’d been dying of thirst and she the only water for miles.
Something rolled through her, the ache intensifying, her need growing, so that all she wanted was to push out of bed and return to his home, time travel be damned.
And what would he say if she turned up at his front doorstep, dressed like this?
She cast a rueful glance at her pyjamas—bearing the familiar space agency logo on the right breast, they were a size too big, and the dullest shade of grey possible. They were, she decided from her very limited contemplation on the subject, the least seductive things imaginable.
She flopped back against her pillows and continued to stare at the ceiling. She had no doubt he was supremely experienced with women. Had he sensed her inexperience? Had he realised she’d never been kissed, beyond a chaste peck on the cheek? Would he still have looked at her like that if he’d known she was a virgin?
Of course not.
The woman who’d been waiting for him had been the kind of woman he was used to—beautiful, and undoubtedly worldly and experienced. For whatever reason, perhaps he’d assumed Amelia was of that ilk.
But she wasn’t. She was worlds away from that. She needed to put Santos Anastakos out of her mind, once and for all. They were oil and water—they’d never mix.