‘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 almost 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.
A shudder shifted through her at the whole failed debacle of dating, but that didn’t explain why now, so close to Santos Anastakos, she felt heat building inside her blood, warming her from the inside out.
The sooner she could get this over and done with, the better. She had to plead Cameron’s case and then leave—she never had to see Santos again after that.
She geared herself up to start speaking, to say what she’d come to say, but Santos spoke first, his eyes roaming her face quite freely, his gaze curious now, speculative in a way that did nothing to help her overheating blood.
‘How old are you?’
‘I beg your pardon?’