Hired by the Impossible Greek

by Clare Connelly

Cameron’s eyes were exactly like his own. Santos stared into them as something beat across his heart.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Another shrug.

  ‘Do you like the beach?’

  ‘I never saw the beach before I came here.’

  Anger flashed in his belly; he ignored it. ‘I have a yacht, you know.’

  Cameron hesitated a moment. ‘I like building yachts.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Mmm... Big ones. All white. I make the sails out of paper. Sometimes fabric. Once I cut up a shirt of Mum’s and she was very cross.’

  The little boy’s skin grew pale. He jerked his gaze back to the bricks, fumbling with them a little. His fingers weren’t steady and he jabbed his space ship, knocking it so it fell to the floor and broke apart.

  They both stared at it for several seconds.

  ‘Let me help you,’ Santos offered, wondering how long it had been since he’d played with bricks.

  ‘No.’ The word was firm, surprising Santos.

  ‘You want to do it on your own?’

  ‘I want you to go away.’ He glared at Santos with a mutinous expression. ‘I want to be alone.’

  Something flared inside Santos. ‘Cameron.’ He spoke gently, not exactly sure how to handle the outburst. ‘I know you’d worked hard on building that, and you’re disappointed it’s broken, but there’s no need to speak like that. I was only offering to help. If you’d prefer to build it on your own, then I will just sit and watch. Is that okay?’

  ‘I want you to go!’ He pressed his palms into his eyes and then made a small sobbing noise, but he swallowed it, fixating on anger instead. ‘Go away!’

  Santos wasn’t used to being told what to do but the boy was clearly distressed. He stood quickly, hovering for a moment, before walking towards the door. He was only two feet down the corridor when the door was unceremoniously slammed shut behind him. He winced, shaking his head, a rush of frustration exploding through him.

  * * *

  It wasn’t Amelia’s fault, but that frustration turned towards her, so he found himself walking through the house—at four o’clock on a Tuesday, when he should have still been in his office—in search of the woman who’d guilt-tripped him into doing something that evidently neither Santos nor Cameron wanted.

  He found her by the pool, wearing a red one-piece bathing suit. He ignored his body’s now predictable response. ‘Santos?’ She stared at him in obvious surprise, scrambling to her feet. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What do you think?’ He didn’t mean to stand so close, close enough to smell her vanilla and strawberry body wash teasing his nostrils. ‘I came home to spend time with my son.’

  Her smile was like a ray of sunshine, piercing the fiercest storm cloud. But it didn’t pierce his mood. ‘I’m so glad, Santos.’ She lifted a hand to his arm on autopilot, pressing it to his flesh. He fought an urge to pull away.

  ‘Don’t be. He threw me out of his room.’

  She stared at him for a second and then laughed, the sweetest sound, something that threatened to unpick his anger. But he wouldn’t let it. He was angry, and he was lost—completely lost. He’d never wanted to be a father!

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She sobered when she realised he was glowering at her. ‘It’s just the idea of anyone, let alone a sweet six-year-old kid, physically throwing you from anywhere is kind of absurd.’

  ‘He told me to get out, in no uncertain terms.’

  Amelia blinked at him, shaking her head. ‘That doesn’t sound like Cameron.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Santos growled. ‘He was playing with bricks. I complimented him on the ship he’d built. I told him I have a yacht. I was about to suggest we go out on it for the afternoon and then he just lost it.’ He expelled an angry breath. ‘He broke his construction. I offered to help fix it. He snapped.’

  ‘He’s a little boy,’ she said quietly. ‘With big emotions. You just have to be—’

  ‘Patient, yes, you’ve said that. Then let me be patient. Let me do this in my own time. You’re the one who pressured me to spend time with him but he’s not ready.’

  ‘He’s not or you’re not?’

  ‘Don’t psychoanalyse me.’

  ‘Well, then, don’t be so childish,’ she retorted. ‘You know what? He might have thrown you out of his room but he’ll calm down, and he’ll see that you came to him, that you made the effort. It’s not always going to be plain sailing but learning to trust that you’ll be there for him is what you need to work on. Let him calm down now, then later go to him again. Let him see that even though he lost his temper you still love him. Trust me, he needs to see that.’

  ‘What do you base this on?’

  She spoke without thinking. ‘Years of knowing what it feels like to have no one in your corner.’ She wished she hadn’t been so honest when his features showed obvious curiosity. ‘Give him time. And keep doing this. Come home, spend time with him. Be in his life without pressuring him.’ She dropped her hand to curve over his, entangling their fingers. ‘Okay?’

  His fingers gripped hers right back, his features taut, revealing nothing, so she had no way of knowing what he intended until his head had swooped down and his lips claimed hers, his tongue driving into her mouth, his body curving around hers, the kiss filled with passion, anger and annoyance. And she felt those things too, biting through her, so she kissed him back with the same intensity, grinding her hips, frustration exploding in her gut.

  ‘I wanted to ignore you,’ he growled, but his hand lifted to the back of her head, holding her there so his mouth could ravage hers, dominating her in every way.

  ‘You have been.’

  ‘Not well enough. Not really.’ And then he was lifting her, pulling her towards the pool house, his body so strong and powerful, hers so full of need that it didn’t even enter her head to demur, to put a stop to this.

  They’d been fighting over Cameron, but was it possible they’d really been fighting each other, this instinct, looking for another way to satiate the violent needs somersaulting through them?

  He kicked the door shut behind them, moving her to the bed, dropping her onto it but staying standing, looking down at her.

  ‘Thée mou, voítha me,’ he said intently. ‘What am I doing?’

  ‘You’re making love to me,’ she said simply. ‘And it means nothing, except that in this moment I want you and you want me,’ she promised, sitting up so she could reach the button on his jeans. ‘You don’t need to worry about hurting me.’

  He chased her to the bed, though, stripping his clothes as he went before turning his attention to her bathers, pulling them from her body as quickly as he could, revealing her nakedness to his hungry gaze.

  ‘This is madness.’ He pushed the words into his mouth as his hands ran over her body, worshipping her curves.

  ‘Yes.’ She kissed him right back, hard and fast, wrapping her legs around his waist, drawing her towards him. He swore softly, breaking away from her just long enough to pull a condom from his wallet—he’d begun to carry them as a precaution after last time, which should have told him how realistic he found the whole ‘ignoring her’ approach.

  ‘Amelia?’ Sanity was almost gone but there was still a thread—just enough. ‘Are you sure?’

  She pushed at his chest in response, flipping him to his back. ‘I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Make love to me. Now.’

  * * *

  ‘Christos.’ He turned to face her, his eyes showing complete surprise. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had such fast sex. What had it been—ten minutes? He felt as though a whirlwind had raced through the pool house. They’d rolled off the bed, onto the floor, knocking over a bedside table and lamp at some stage. Usually, he liked to savour the experience but passion—everything—had overwhelmed him completely.r />
  ‘Don’t freak out.’

  It was such a ridiculous thing for Amelia to say—such a mirror of his own sentiments—that he laughed. ‘I’m not, believe me.’

  ‘Okay, good. It’s just, last time, you totally freaked out.’

  He propped up on one elbow, looking down at her. ‘I did. A little. I hadn’t expected it. Then or now.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed, staring up at the ceiling before shifting her gaze to his face. ‘I like being with you.’

  A warning light flared inside his brain.

  Don’t freak out.

  ‘I know who you are,’ she said quietly. ‘And what your limitations are. I’m just saying I like being with you. I don’t think you should go back to ignoring me again.’

  Mortified, he angled her face towards his. ‘I have no intention of it. That was to protect you, not to hurt you. I was trying to simplify everything. It didn’t work and I was wrong.’

  ‘Yes, you were.’ She smiled, though, reaching up and running a hand through his hair. ‘So what do you intend, then?’

  His chest tightened.

  Don’t freak out.

  ‘Because I’m only here for a bit under a month, and neither of us wants to get involved in anything serious. But I do want to do this again. And again. And again.’

  He laughed. ‘I get the picture.’

  ‘So what if we agree that we just...keep it simple?’

  ‘It’s not simple, though, agapitós. Cameron adores you. If this ends badly...’

  ‘It won’t.’

  He shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. I witnessed enough relationship breakdowns in my childhood. They’re difficult to watch from the side-lines. Seeing people you care about hurt each other is not something I want for my son.’

  ‘First of all, this isn’t a relationship. Not in that sense. It’s just an...arrangement.’ She grinned, the sexiest smile he’d ever seen. ‘And, besides, we can make sure no one knows about this.’ She shrugged. ‘Especially Cameron.’

  ‘And can you say with confidence that you will feel that way in five weeks’ time, when you leave the island?’

  She laughed, shifting a little, bringing their bodies into more intimate contact. ‘You think you’re so irresistible, don’t you?’

  His eyes held a warning.

  ‘You think every woman on earth is at risk of falling in love with you.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I’m more worried that you’ll fall in love with me,’ she said with an impish lift of her shoulders, drawing his gaze to the dusky pink aureole of her nipple. ‘After all, I’m quite unique, you know.’ She laughed, to show she was joking, but he didn’t.

  His expression was deadly serious. ‘I don’t believe in love—not romantic love, in any event. I don’t ask you not to love me because I’m arrogant, so much as because it’s utterly futile. I will never return it. This is just sex.’

  * * *

  A small smile moved across her face as she lifted her head, resting her chin lightly on his bare chest. He slept. Breath moved in and out, rhythmically, reliably; beneath her his heart beat, strong, regular, deep. Day was just preparing to break, whispering its promise beyond the window, urging the night to fade into nothingness, emerging in a blaze of triumphant orange somewhere near the horizon. It had been a warm night and they’d fallen asleep with the windows open. The curtains billowed a little, adding to the magic of that pre-dawn moment.

  Do you think I want to wake up beside you every morning I’m here?

  She’d thrown those words at him after they’d first slept together, the absurdity of the expectation making them ring with defiance in that moment.

  But it was exactly what she’d done several times now in the three weeks since that afternoon in the pool house, when they’d both been so angry and passion, tension and need had spilled over, offering them the best kind of balm.

  She woke early—it was part of her make-up, her overactive mind rousing her into the day well before light broke across the sky—and she never stayed in his room once she was awake. But this morning, she was tempted.

  New to the ways of intimacy, she hadn’t realised that hunger could be impossible to satiate. She couldn’t have understood that each time they were together only seemed to increase her dependency on him, not lessen it as she’d anticipated.

  Desire hammered through her veins now, thready and demanding, so that she ignored her usual pattern of behaviour—sneaking back to her room before anyone else was awake. Instead, she slowly eased the sheet from his broad, tanned body, exposing him inch by delicious inch, her eyes feasting on a chest that was broadly ridged—so familiar to her now that, despite her lack of artistic talent, she knew she could easily and confidently sculpt it from clay, just from memory alone. When the sheet reached his waist he moved just a little, shifting in his sleep. She stiffened, staying perfectly still, her eyes locked to his face until his breathing had resumed its steady, rhythmic pattern.

  She pushed the sheet down his thighs lower still and then let it drop back to the bed with an almost silent swish, pressing against him. She bit down on her lip, her pulse rushing through her at an unbearable speed, and then she moved slowly in the bed, her eyes on his face as she moved.

  He worked long hours. Despite the beauty of this island, he left it each morning at seven-thirty, like clockwork, and returned about twelve hours later. He spent around half an hour with Cameron then, and she worked, trying not to think of him when the fact he was in the house made it almost impossible to concentrate.

  They only saw each other at night. And every night had made her more aware of her body’s needs and likes, of what she was capable of, of what she could feel, of how all-consuming physical desire was, until she found herself wondering how she’d ever existed without something as biologically imperative as sex.

  He had driven her wild, showing her how her body liked to be pleasured, using his fingers, himself, his mouth, to drive her to orgasm after orgasm.

  With a small smile tingling her lips, she dropped her mouth over his arousal, his guttural noise in response shooting barbs of pleasure through her. She felt him shift, and when she blinked her eyes towards his face saw that he was watching her, his eyes still heavy with sleep, his lips parted in slumberous sensuality.

  She’d never done this before—never even imagined doing something so intimate, at first—but as he’d continued to teach her what her body was capable of, she’d begun to harbour fantasies of how she could visit that upon him. She knew her experience might make her less than spectacular, but feminine instincts were driving her, so she moved her mouth up and down his length, letting her tongue brush over his tip before pushing him deep into her mouth once more, so he hitched against her throat. She made a small murmur of appreciation—he was so large, so hard; and, as she continued to take him deep into her warmth, he spoke in Greek, low and husky, the words impossible to comprehend, yet she grasped his meaning.

  He was as filled with desire as she had been the night before, when he’d lashed her with his tongue, his strong hands holding her legs apart, permitting him full access to her femininity.

  ‘Amelia, please.’ There was a plea in his words but she didn’t answer it. She didn’t know what he wanted and she wasn’t sure she cared. This was perfection. Feeling him like this, inside her, and seeing the answering wavering of his control, was some kind of fantasy come to life.

  ‘You must stop.’ His hand pressed at her shoulder. She paused, lifting her gaze to his while her lips stayed pressed to his tip.

  ‘Why must I?’

  ‘Because if you don’t...’

  ‘Yes?’ She took him deep into her mouth then and he cursed—in Greek, yet his tone made the meaning of his word abundantly clear.

  ‘Amelia.’

  She laughed softly, the sound carrying across the room to
wards the ocean.

  ‘Santos,’ she said his name sternly. Then grinned. ‘Relax.’

  ‘Not bloody likely.’

  She laughed again but, a moment later, neither of them was laughing. She moved faster, completely captivated by the intimacy of this and the ancient, feminine rush of power that trilled in her veins. Driving him beyond wild was possibly the most addictive thing she’d ever done. His fingers dug into her shoulder, and his voice filled the room, but she didn’t stop, not until he’d surrendered to her completely, his pleasure exploding through her, his hoarse groan wrapping around her.

  Lifting on to her haunches, she then straddled him, smiling, settling herself on his waist and pressing her hands to his chest.

  He captured one of her hands as it trailed towards his nipple, lifting it to his lips instead and pressing a kiss against the inside of her wrist. ‘Have you tried contacting your parents?’

  For a moment, pain lanced her chest. She met his eyes then looked away towards the dawn sky and the shifting ocean beneath it. ‘I call them a few times a year. They don’t answer, and never return my calls.’

  Her pain was obvious; she could feel it spreading through her and she forced a smile to her face. He didn’t return it. ‘Don’t look at me like that, please.’

  ‘How am I looking at you?’

  ‘Like you feel sorry for me. Like you’re working out how to fix it.’

  His frown was a flash in his face. ‘It seems strange that your parents would choose not to have you in their lives. And stranger still that you would accept it.’

  ‘What can I do? You can’t force someone to love you, Santos. It’s taken me a long time to accept it, but at the end of the day my value to them was always tied up in my academic success, and how that translated financially for them. I—as a person on my own—don’t particularly matter.’

  ‘If that’s true, then they don’t deserve to have you in their lives.’

  She couldn’t respond to that. She’d come to a similar conclusion years earlier but that didn’t take the sting out of it. She tried another smile and squeezed his hand. ‘It’s fine.’ She wasn’t sure if she was saying that to herself or him.