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Hired by the Impossible Greek
by Clare Connelly
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.’
His eyes narrowed, returning to her face, and she wished quite illogically that they’d turn away once more. There was something in the strength of his gaze that caused her usually unflappable pulse to flutter in a way that was incredibly unsettling. It increased when his gaze travelled downward, over the plain pink blouse she wore, towards the cream trousers that were shaped over her slender hips and legs. It was little more than a cursory inspection, as though her outfit might give away some hint of who she was and what she was doing on his doorstep.
‘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.’
