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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.’
