One summer on a private island
With her ultimate temptation!
Schoolteacher Amelia Ashford warily agrees to a job in Greece caring for Santos Anastakos’s young son. But her priority is the welfare of the little boy, not the outrageous and irresistible billionaire who hired her. Even if their chemistry is off the charts!
Santos doesn’t believe in romantic love—his father has eight ex-wives. He does believe in tantalizing pleasure, and with innocent Amelia in his luxurious villa, it’s just a bedroom door away! But their passion will test Santos’s ruthless control more than he ever anticipated...
“I have a proposition for you.”
Amelia’s eyes widened, her lips parting farther as she whooshed out a deep breath. “Go on,” she prompted, though it sounded as if she’d rather do just about anything else than hear whatever was coming next.
“Come with us.”
She blinked, shaking her head a little. “What do you mean?”
“At the end of the school year, I will take Cameron to my island to live. Come with him, and help him to adjust to his new life. Help him adjust to me.” The final request surprised Santos; he hadn’t planned on admitting how hard he was finding it to bond with his son, nor to forgive Cynthia for keeping their child a secret. Whenever he looked at Cameron he could see only what he’d missed out on, not what he’d gained.
“You’re asking me to go to Agrios Nisi with you?”
Clare Connelly was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Harlequin book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero, and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign she is in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Harlequin novels continue to be her favorite-ever books. Writing for Harlequin Presents is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or on her Facebook page.
Books by Clare Connelly
Harlequin Presents
Bought for the Billionaire’s Revenge
Innocent in the Billionaire’s Bed
Her Wedding Night Surrender
Bound by the Billionaire’s Vows
Spaniard’s Baby of Revenge
Redemption of the Untamed Italian
The Secret Kept from the King
Secret Heirs of Billionaires
Shock Heir for the King
Christmas Seductions
Bound by Their Christmas Baby
The Season to Sin
Crazy Rich Greek Weddings
The Greek’s Billion-Dollar Baby
Bride Behind the Billion-Dollar Veil
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Clare Connelly
Hired by the Impossible Greek
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EXCERPT FROM CLAIMING HIS UNKNOWN SON BY KIM LAWRENCE
PROLOGUE
IT WAS THE fourth time he’d been called upon to act in this capacity at one of these events, but undoubtedly not the last. For each of the previous four weddings, Santos Anastakos had been required to stand dutifully at his father Nico’s side—best man, oldest son, quietly watchful—as his father had promised yet another woman to love her for as long as they both should live.
Santos’s expression as he surveyed the guests was unknowingly cynical. Despite the alleged joy of the occasion, Santos couldn’t summon much more than a vague degree of tolerance for his father’s proclivities. Proclivities that had seen him marry eight—nine, counting today—women over the span of his lifetime.
It’s different this time, Santos. This time, she’s ‘the one’.
Santos had long since given up arguing with his father about the foolishness of his marriage addiction. Similarly he’d abandoned firm suggestions that Nico get counselling for what had become an embarrassing and ridiculous tendency to fall in love faster than most people changed jobs.
All Santos could do was watch from the side lines and quarantine the Anastakos fortune from any fallout from the inevitable divorce. It was ungenerous to entertain such thoughts whilst standing at the front of a crowded, ancient church, listening to Nico and his latest bride proclaim their ‘love’ for one another.
How could that concept fail to earn his derision when he’d seen, over and over and over again, how quickly and completely love turned to hate and hurt? His own mother had been overthrown for the next Mrs Anastakos when Santos had been only three years old, and Santos had been shuttled between father and mother for the next few years before—at his father’s insistence—being sent off to boarding school.
As the chaplain joyously proclaimed the happy—for now, at least—couple man and wife, Santos grimaced. He had made himself a promise after his father’s third marriage had dissolved in a particularly bitter and public fashion: he would never be foolish enough to get married, nor to fall ‘in love’, whatever the hell that meant—and nothing in his thirty-four years had tempted Santos to question that resolve. Marriage was for fools and hopeless romantics—of which, he was proud to say, he was neither.
CHAPTER ONE
Three months later
‘YES?’ THE SINGLE word was infused with derision, impatience and a Greek accent that, while she’d known to expect it, still caught Amelia a little off-guard. She stared at the man—Santos Anastakos—for several seconds, the purpose for coming to this grand estate in the English countryside momentarily forgotten as she computed several things at lightning speed.
There was something so vibrant and charismatic about the man—so larger than life, so glowering and intimidating—that she could only stare at him, blinking for several seconds, as she scrambled her brain back into working order. He was dressed in a tuxedo, styled for an evening somewhere considerably grander than even this beautiful, ancient country home.
‘Mr Anastakos?’ she confirmed, though of course it was him—she’d seen his photograph in the papers around the time of Cameron’s mother’s death, when news had broken that the billionaire magnate had fathered a love child over six years earlier.
‘Yes?’ The word was again impatient. A light breeze rustled past, giving a hint of relief on this summer’s evening, and her long, dark hair shifted a little, an errant clutch pushing across her face so she had to lift a hand to contain it, instinctively brushing it away and tucking it behind her ear.
‘Darling, we’re going to have to get a move on if we’re to make it on time.’ A woman’s voice came from within the house, echoing across the marbled tiles which glittered and shone beneath Santos’s hand-crafted shoes.
‘I don’t have all night,’ he expelled, his lips flattening into a frown. ‘Are you lost? Did your car break down?’ His eyes were wide-set and almond-shaped and lined by thick, dark lashes. Where his complexion was swarthy and dark, his eyes were the most magnificent blue, almost silver, with flecks of black close to the iris. They shifted beyond her now, as if searching for a car or some other physical clue as to why she was here.
‘Not at all. I came here to speak with you.’
‘Have we met before?’ There was a hint of wariness in his question, an emotion she couldn’t fathom.
‘No, sir. Not at all.’
Relief. She frowned, wondering how many people he must meet to think he’d forgotten her. ‘Then what can I do for you?’
‘I’m Amelia Ashford...’
‘Ashford.’ She could see the moment comprehension dawned. ‘The famous Miss Ashford?’
‘I don’t know about that.’ She smiled even when the idea of fame had her wanting to curl up in a ball and hide. Fame was the reason she’d opted to use her grandmother’s surname when taking up this teaching position—a desire to be known only for her teaching work and nothing else.
‘You are Cameron’s teacher?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled at him, a crisp smile that flashed on her face like lightning then disappeared again. ‘I wanted to speak to you about your son.’
His shoulders squared at that, as though he resented her description of their relationship. But that wasn’t Amelia’s concern, whatever the rumours said—and there were plenty, about this man’s parental neglect of Cameron, his refusal to support Cameron’s mother... It wasn’t for Amelia to speculate. Her only care was the little boy of whom she’d always been fond and whom she now considered to be quite dear to her. Perhaps her estrangement from her own parents made her feel more invested in Cameron than she otherwise would have been...but, no. The little boy was special and the grief he was suffering through demanded advocacy and support.
‘Is something the matter?’
She compressed her lips, trying not to express any overt hostility. So far as she knew, this man had very little experience with children in general and his son in particular. Perhaps he didn’t realise how unusual an occurrence it was for a primary schoolteacher to arrive at a parent’s doorstep at eight o’clock in the evening.
It was unusual, but Amelia had timed it thus on purpose in the hope of avoiding Cameron. She hadn’t wanted her little pupil to overhear them, nor to know more than he needed to at this point.
‘This conversation would be better had inside. May I come in?’
His brows drew together, thick and full, giving his expression a forbidding and darkly handsome look. She thought then how intimidating he might be to some people, those who had to work with him or relied on his good opinion in order to advance professionally. Fortunately for Amelia, neither of those things applied to her. She was able to be professional and confident, her motives for coming to him motivated purely by concern for her young pupil.
‘Do you make a habit of turning up uninvited at the homes of your students?’
‘Not at all, sir, which should give you some clue as to how important I consider this matter to be.’
‘What exactly do you consider to be important?’
‘Your son.’
Again, there was something in his features, a look of annoyance or frustration, but it was gone again almost immediately. ‘The nanny has put Cameron to bed already. If you wanted to see him...’
Her heart squeezed at that, and she swept her eyes shut for a moment, forcefully pushing emotions to the side. But, oh, it was almost impossible when she remembered Cynthia McDowell, who had adored and doted on her son, who had made up for all the lack of money in the world with an abundance of love and interest. To think of the dear little boy losing his mother, inheriting this man as a father and being shunted into a nanny’s care all in the space of less than two months!
It only galvanised her, making her feel even more strongly about her reasons for coming to Renway Hall so late on a Friday evening. ‘It’s you I’d like to speak to, Mr Anastakos.’
‘And it can’t wait until Monday?’
She considered that a moment. ‘Would Monday suit you better?’
‘Not necessarily.’ He shifted his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure if any time would be convenient, given that I have no idea what you’ve come to discuss.’
‘You’ll just have to take it on trust, then, that I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important.’
‘I don’t take anyone on trust,’ he asserted silkily, nonetheless taking a step backward and gesturing into the hall. ‘But I am intrigued.’ He cast a glance at his wristwatch. ‘I have five minutes.’
She bristled at that and—barely—resisted an inclination to point out that discussing his son’s emotional health and welfare was something for which he should prioritise a little more time, particularly in the wake of recent events, but she didn’t. It was important to keep her mind on what she wanted, and arguing unnecessarily with this man would do nothing to achieve her goal.
‘Come with me.’ He turned, walking down the corridor. She had a brief impression of an endless expanse of tiles and walls lined with ancient art—one in particular caught her eye, so she stopped walking for a moment to look at it properly.
‘This is a Camareli.’
She felt him stop and turn without even looking in his direction. There was something about his presence that seemed to puncture the air around her—it wasn’t necessary to look at him to know how he moved. He was dynamic, as though his absolute magnitude was so bright it was almost overpowering.
The painting depicted a Madonna scene. Bright colours had been used, but it was the nature of the brush strokes that had revealed the artist’s hand before Amelia had seen the small signature in the bottom-right-hand corner of the painting.
‘Yes.’ And then, after a moment’s silence, ‘But we’re not here to discuss art, are we, Miss Ashford?’
She jerked her gaze to his face, wondering at the rapid hammering of her pulse, the flipping of her heart inside her chest. Her features were cool, her eyes giving away nothing of her internal responses. ‘No, Mr Anastakos. We’re not.’
He began to move once more, turning through two wide doors into a room that had leather furniture and a grand piano. The art on the walls in here was world-class too—more famous, by artists of greater renown than Camareli. Then again, she’d always had a thing for the lesser known Renaissance painters, and Camareli was just that.
‘Maria, Cameron’s teacher is here. I’ll be a few minutes.’
A stunning blonde woman dressed in a slinky red gown moved with all the grace of a ballerina, standing from the white leather lounge she’d occupied a moment earlier and subjecting Amelia to the same slow inspection Santos had performed earlier. But, where Santos’s eyes had seemed to trail heat over Amelia’s body, the other woman’s left only ice in their wake.
‘But, darling, we’ll be late,’ Maria pouted.
Santos expelled a breath so his nostrils flared and his features showed disdain. ‘Apparently it can’t wait. Call Leo—he’ll make you a cocktail.’
‘Oh, fine, but if I’d known this would involve baby sitting and being abandoned all night I would never have come,’ Maria complained, turning her slender body away from Santos and Amelia.
Amelia, for her part, could only look at Maria with a sense of wonder—she’d never seen a woman in the flesh who was so like some kind of Hollywood celebrity. Everything about her was a study in perfection, from her figure to her sheening hair; from her flawless make-up and sky-high heels to manicured nails.
‘She’s very beautiful,’ Amelia remarked conversationally as they left the room, returning to the long marbled corridor.
‘Yes,’ Santos returned in al
most the same tone, pausing at another doorway. This time, it led to an office, all modern furniture and computers. There was more artwork here, and a large mirror that showed a reflection of the stables.
He closed the door behind them and Amelia—for no reason she could think of—jumped a little.
‘So, Miss Ashford? You have my full attention; what would you like to speak to me about?’
He gestured to one of the seats opposite his desk. She took it, crossing her legs and placing her hands in her lap, her eyes following him across the room, where he paused at a bar and opened a crystal Scotch decanter. He poured two generous measures then handed a glass to her, their fingertips brushing as he placed the Scotch in the palm of her hand.
‘Thank you.’ She cradled the Scotch without taking a sip. She’d bypassed the usual phases of wild abandon and teenage letting down of hair and had never really developed a tolerance for or interest in alcohol. Every now and again she enjoyed a few sips of a nice wine with a special dinner, or champagne on Christmas Eve, but it certainly wasn’t something she imbibed on a daily basis.
Unlike Santos, she gathered, as he threw half of his own Scotch back in one go before resting his bottom on the edge of his desk, rather than taking up the seat opposite, so he was much closer to her than she’d anticipated. His long legs were just to her right, so she could reach out and touch them if she wanted.
The thought threw her completely off-balance in a way she’d never experienced in her life. She’d been on a few dates, but they had been academic exercises more than anything, something she’d been encouraged to try at Brent’s urging and never really found comfortable or fun.
You have to give it time, Millie. Get to know a guy, see his good side. Just go with the flow!
But those dates had all ended the same way—with Amelia feeling bored out of her brain and wanting nothing more than never to see the man again. One particular date had left her so bored she’d almost fallen asleep at the table. It was very rare for her to factor her intellect into her thoughts but, at times like that, it was impossible not to realise that being a child genius, being exposed to some of the world’s greatest minds from a very young age, had left her with absolutely zero tolerance for small talk. And particularly not with men who were quite clearly preoccupied with the more physical aspects of the evening.
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