Her heart skidded to a stop. ‘What do you mean, it’s not working?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Is he not happy?’
‘No, he’s not happy. And, while I think he’s struggling with the school and his peers, and the differences of culture and language, ultimately I think he misses you more than he—at six—can put into words.’
Her heart cracked open. Tears ran down her cheeks. ‘I miss him too.’
A muscle jerked in Santos’s jaw. ‘Give me the rest of the school year.’ It was a command but she heard the uncertainty and doubt, as though he was worried she would refuse him. ‘You can fly to Athens on weekends and I’ll come here as often as I can leave Cameron. You can see for yourself how serious I am before you agree to this.’
‘Agree to what?’
He stared at her blankly. ‘To marry me, obviously.’
She stared back, just as blankly. ‘To marry you? Santos, you don’t believe in marriage.’
‘I don’t believe in my father’s marriages, but I believe in anything you and I do together.’
A tremble ran down her spine. He blinked, as if just remembering something, turning towards the sofa and picking up a slim leather document wallet. She hadn’t even realised he’d been carrying it when he walked in.
‘To that end, I’ve had this drawn up.’ He pulled out some paper and handed it to her. His eyes were boring into her so it was hard to concentrate as she skimmed the words.
‘A pre-nuptial agreement?’ Her heart sped up. ‘You’ve had a pre-nup drawn up? I haven’t even agreed—’
‘I wanted you to see it before you did agree,’ he said quietly, the words earnest and husky.
‘If I were to marry you, it wouldn’t be for the money. Do you honestly think you need to protect your fortune from me?’
‘Read it.’
She glared at him then flicked the front page. Then the next. It was all standard legalese until she reached the division of assets list on page three.
‘This says that if we got divorced you’d pay out ninety per cent of your shares in Anastakos Inc. to me.’ She kept reading. ‘And give me the island?’ Her eyes lifted to his, her skin paling.
‘Keep reading.’
She swallowed and turned the page. ‘You’d give me shared custody of Cameron.’
‘If you agree to marry me, you’ll be his stepmother. I would never ask you to love my son as your own without affording you genuine parental rights. Including custody. I know you love him, Amelia, and he loves you. We’re family.’
‘Santos.’ She shoved the papers at him as though she’d been burned. ‘Stop.’
He shook his head. ‘I need you to understand that I’ve thought all this through. I’m not just offering to marry you on a whim. I’m prepared to go all in with this.’
‘I think you’re missing the point of a pre-nuptial agreement. They’re intended to protect your fortune.’
‘This one is to protect you.’
She shook her head, none of this making any sense. ‘So you end up married to me for a lifetime because you can’t afford to divorce me? Santos, no. Marriage shouldn’t be about money. It’s a leap of faith two people take together. Just loving you is enough for me—that’s enough to show me that I can trust our future. A pre-nuptial agreement that prepares for divorce? It makes me think you’re still just as afraid as ever.’
‘Afraid? I’m terrified. I’m terrified of hurting you, and I’m terrified of failing you, but my God, Amelia, what I am most afraid of is living my life without you. If I walk out of this lovely little cottage without knowing that I have made you understand how much I love you? That scares me more than I can say.’
She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, tears filling her lashes.
‘This pre-nuptial agreement is not because I don’t trust our future. It’s because I do trust it. I want to marry you, and I do not believe, for even one moment, that our marriage will fail. I am willing to bet everything I own, everything I am, on that because, as far as I can tell, there’s no way I can lose.’
Her eyes widened and she glanced at him, his words weaving through her, making her smile for the first time since leaving Paris.
‘You really love me?’
‘Oh, yes, agape, with every single fibre of my heart, and I always will.’
* * *
It was the longest year of Santos’s life, but it was what he’d promised Amelia and he had no intention of breaking that promise. He understood how important it was for her to finish her teaching year, but a few months after they’d agreed to marry all he wanted was to have his family together under one roof. His fiancée, his son, the rest of their lives ahead of them.
It was the right decision to wait, though. Cameron settled into a routine at school and had made some good friends. While Santos hadn’t doubted the strength of his love for even a moment, he was glad for Amelia’s sake that they’d waited a year because proving himself to her was hugely important.
Their wedding was small, just as they’d both wanted. Just a few friends, including Brent, some teachers from Elesmore, some of his closest friends, his half-brother and father. They’d married at Damen’s restaurant, the view of Athens glowing beneath them, and then they’d flown to the island, just the two of them, to start their married life in the very place his life had really started. It was only in meeting Amelia that he’d truly become whole.
On their first night as a married couple, Amelia lay with her head on Santos’s arm on a blanket spread across the beach, the sand beneath them, the water lapping close to their toes, looking up at the sky. Stars sparkled and the ancient beauty of the sky seemed to congratulate them. Of all the stardust in all the world, they’d found each other, and their happiness was perfect and for eternity.
* * *
If you found yourself head over heels for Hired by the Impossible Greek, you’ll love these other stories by Clare Connelly!
The Greek’s Billion-Dollar Baby
Bride Behind the Billion-Dollar Veil
Redemption of the Untamed Italian
The Secret Kept from the King
Available now!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Claiming His Unknown Son by Kim Lawrence.
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Claiming His Unknown Son
by Kim Lawrence
CHAPTER ONE
‘NO!’
The Madrigal Hotel’s assistant manager was a consummate professional accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of the rich and famous so his practised smile stayed painted in place, despite the sudden outburst from the woman in front of him. He was rarely surprised, but at that moment, as he braced himself for a diva meltdown, he was.
He prided himself on being able to tell at first glance which of their VIP guests were going to be hard work, but he hadn’t had this beautiful guest down as one of the awkward ones.
First impressions had certainly not given him any clues, as up to this point she had lived up to her public image. Her arrival had been low-key, as befitting the rarity she was said to be, someone not in the business of promoting herself, just good causes. People spoke about how freely she gave of her time and energy and her dedication in continuing to support the charities that she said were her late husband’s legacy.
The rare unfriendly pieces that appeared in the media he had always attributed to the hack’s frustration in not being able to find a story. You could see it from their point of view—they were used to being invited into the homes of the rich and famous, and Marisa Rayner never even gave the
m a glimpse behind closed doors.
There was still no meltdown forthcoming, but what was happening was even more alarming than a hissy fit. She hadn’t moved a muscle; she was just standing there like a pale frozen statue. What if she was ill?
He experienced a sudden flurry of panic as the question entered his thoughts, realising that would also explain the other-worldly, almost unfocused expression in her wide amber eyes when she’d removed her fashionable shades earlier, as he’d walked beside her through the hotel’s famous art deco doors. At the time he had put her pallor down to the lights from the glittering chandeliers overhead.
An ill guest was never good, but then he reasoned nobody who felt really ill would make such an effort to smile at all the staff she had encountered. At least, she had up until now.
The friendly, genuinely warm smile that charmed everyone it was aimed at was now totally absent as she stood on the threshold of one of their premiere suites looking as if she had seen a ghost.
He gave a philosophical shrug and waited. The Madrigal’s reputation had been built in part on the hotel’s ability to satisfy the most difficult of guests, especially when they had the money to pay the exorbitant prices the Madrigal charged for their premier luxury suites, and the lovely Marisa Rayner was one guest who could certainly afford it.
The fact she had been the sole beneficiary of her husband’s considerable estate after his death made her a natural target of envy. The story of the rich older man married to a very much younger woman was a magnet for the scandal-loving red tops. She could have gone through her life with a ‘gold-digger’ label attached to her, but the forensic dirt-digging exercises had come up empty-handed and she was considered a scandal-free zone—aside from a little guilt by association. But even her dead father, with his colourful history of affairs and a taste for high-stakes gambling, was nothing in this day and age.
No young lovers pre-or post-marriage—just a few malicious suggestions, which was par for the course, but they had faded away too after she had not morphed as predicted into a ‘merry widow’, but had remained a dedicated, hard-working one devoted to charitable works.
The adjective mostly attached to her name was classy and for once, he decided, the press had it right.
If she had any skeletons in her closet they were deeply hidden.
‘Do you have another room?’ Marisa heard the quiver in her voice that stopped just the right side of hysteria, and bit down on her full lower lip while buying time to regain her composure by making a meal of smoothing back non-existent loose strands of shiny silver-blonde hair that was safely secured in a smooth simple knot on the nape of her swanlike neck.
She knew she had to pull herself together, but unfortunately knowing that was no help right now.
‘Another room? This is one of our—’
‘Sorry, yes, this is marvellous,’ she gushed. ‘But...something...on a lower floor, perhaps? I... I don’t have a very good head for heights.’
‘Of course, if you’ll just bear with me for a moment.’ The man pulled out a slim tablet and began to scroll through it.
Get a grip, Marisa, she told herself fiercely, if for no other reason than this poor man who was only doing his job looked as if he wanted to run for the hills—and who could blame him? Scared of heights? She was beyond feeling embarrassed, no doubt that would come later when she revisited this moment—in her nightmares!
The gut-freezing panic had hit her the moment the taxi drew up outside the hotel. The signage on the well-known art deco frontage was ultra-discreet—it didn’t need to be flashy; everyone knew the iconic façade of the Madrigal—but to Marisa those letters had seemed to be written in neon and came accompanied by a loud soundtrack of guilt and shame.…She still couldn’t remember how she had got out of the taxi, as the sheer horror of the moment had blanked her brain completely.
Of course it ought not to have been a shock, wouldn’t have if she’d been paying attention. Her delicate dark blonde brows drew together in a straight line above her heavily lashed amber eyes. Even distracted, she had managed to hide her disappointment when her assistant, Jennie, had triumphantly announced that she’d managed the impossible and secured an alternative last-minute venue after their original booking at a country-house hotel had fallen through.
She could remember Jennie mentioning the prestige of the alternative venue, she had to have mentioned the name, but Marisa’s mind had been elsewhere and she hadn’t registered it. No, because she’d been too busy torturing herself with every possible, and highly improbable, disaster that could occur in her absence.
Her glance darted around the room, reached the slightly open bedroom door and retracted hastily, focusing instead on her feet clad in leg-elongating nude court shoes that added four inches to her willowy five feet ten inches.
She brought her lashes down in a protective sweep over eyes that continued to be drawn to that open door, her mouth twisted in frustration as she acknowledged all the missed opportunities that would have at least given her time, if not to avoid this moment, then to at the very least prepare herself for it.
Even as late as getting in the taxi would have been something, she thought, considering another missed opportunity. Jennie had waited until she was in the cab before they’d parted company, her PA heading towards the Tube to spend some well-deserved time off with her family. Jennie had to have given the driver the address of the hotel, but again Marisa’s thoughts had been elsewhere.
Where was a convenient icy shiver of premonition when a girl needed one?
Up to the point the taxi had pulled in, she hadn’t even glanced out of the window. Instead, she had spent the journey from the station scrolling through some emails and checking in with Jamie’s nanny, Ashley, who had responded to her anxious questions with cheery positivity and a series of soothing photos of Marisa’s four-and-a-half-year-old clearly having the time of his life at junior soccer practice.
It wasn’t that she doubted Ashley’s competence, but this was the first time she had left Jamie since he’d been given the all-clear by the doctors.
Up to this point, any trip away from home had deliberately not included an overnight stay, or if it had, she had taken Jamie with her. This was a big step for her, though less so, it seemed, for Jamie, who had been too busy playing with a new computer game to do more than give her a casual wave before he got back to his screen.
On one level she knew that he was fine, he was safe, and she knew her fear had no basis in logic but, as she had already discovered, it wasn’t always about logic. When you had lived with fear this long it was something that was hard to let go of. For so long she had been afraid of losing her precious son and—She took a deep breath and deliberately dampened the panic she could feel rising. No, she told herself, repeating the phrase like a mantra, she was not going to lose him, because he was healthy now.
Her son was a survivor, one of the lucky ones, and he had made a complete recovery. Despite the fact he was noticeably smaller and more delicate-looking than his contemporaries, Jamie was, so the medics told her, as fit and robust as any other four-year-old and would soon catch up developmentally.
The assistant manager cleared his throat and lowered his tablet. ‘We do have an alternative room although it is not as—’
‘That’s tremendous, thank you so much. I’ll take it.’
Reaching for her sunglasses, she slid them on her small straight nose, hiding behind the tinted glass as she dredged deep to produce a faint smile.
‘Right then, if you can give me a few moments I will make the necessary arrangements. The room is on the second floor—will that do?’
‘That’s fine. It’s just the balcony up here that bothers me.’ She stopped, well aware that the balcony she spoke of was not actually visible from where they stood.
‘I understand totally.’
Luckily for her he didn’t.
‘I wil
l be back momentarily.’ He held out a straight-backed chair situated by a small table and after a pause she took it.
‘Can I get you anything?’
She made an inarticulate sound in her throat and vaguely registered the sound of the door closing, the images floating in her head exerting a tug she couldn’t resist.
She was standing on the balcony that she knew existed behind the heavy curtains in the bedroom. It was night, as dark outside as a city ever got, and she was staring down at the shining lights, the glistening moisture on the rain-soaked pavements, when she felt the quivering downy hair rise on her skin a second before the back of her neck started to tingle—she was no longer alone.
Her breath left her lungs as his big strong hands came to rest on her shoulders. As if connected by an invisible thread to his body, she leaned back against his chest, drawn to the hard warmth of his maleness, breathing in the clean unique fragrance of him. For a few moments they stayed that way, her heart beating heavy and slow in anticipation for a long while before he twisted her around to face him, and, like a parched flower turning to the sun, her face had tilted as she had strained upwards to meet his cool, firm lips with her own.
The languid heat that had spread through her body like a flash fire had made her bones dissolve and she would have slid to the floor had a muscular arm not banded her narrow ribcage before he’d picked her up and...!
Behind the smoky lenses of her sunglasses her pupils dilated as she swallowed hard, pushing the memory kicking and screaming back into its box. She glanced at the bedroom door again and felt her insides tighten.
With a cry she shot to her feet, opened the suite door a crack and positioned herself within reaching distance of the door handle for a quick escape should she need it, before pressing her rigid shoulder blades against the wall and closing her eyes...
Hired by the Impossible Greek Page 18
