‘To measure the Eiffel Tower?’
‘No, that was when I was a student.’
‘A school exchange?’
She hesitated a moment, as if choosing her words with care. ‘No. I was enrolled at the Académie for a time.’
He couldn’t say why he was surprised. Perhaps it was the idea of a teacher from a down-at-heel comprehensive school having studied at one of the most prestigious institutions of tertiary education in the world.
‘What did you study?’ He leaned back in his chair, reaching for his own glass—his filled with red wine from grapes that were grown here on the island.
Another hesitation. Was he imagining the blush on her cheeks? For what reason?
‘Mathematics.’
He watched her as he took a drink of wine then replaced his glass on the table. ‘That’s your speciality?’
‘I don’t really have one speciality,’ she said, obfuscating a little, and now she stood, fixing him with a cool gaze. ‘I do, however, have work to do.’
‘It will wait.’
Her expression clearly showed surprise. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Don’t beg my pardon,’ he responded, his eyes half-shuttered, his chest expanding with the strength of his need for her. ‘Just sit back down and talk to me while I finish my dinner.’
‘Mr Anastakos...’
‘Amelia.’ He laughed then, a thick, gruff sound. ‘Do I need to remind you of how well we know one another?’
Her lips parted on a small noise of shock. The ice was gone. He wondered if she’d been like that for Cameron’s benefit. Perhaps it was a defensive mechanism, so that no one else realised what had happened between them?
She shook her head a little warily. ‘No.’
‘So, please, call me Santos. And sit down.’
She stayed right where she was, staring at him, so frustration bubbled through him. He pushed his chair back, standing, moving to the chair at his right and drawing it from the table.
‘Sit,’ he instructed, his eyes mocking. ‘I don’t bite.’
He saw the way she swallowed, her hesitation making him want to pull her into the chair—better yet, onto his lap. He didn’t. His desire for her was hard enough to control without bringing any physical contact into the equation. But he had to control it. Amelia was off-limits.
‘Fine.’ He stayed where he was as she sat down, pushing her chair in a little, resisting an impulse to brush her shoulders with his fingertips. She was wearing a simple dress with spaghetti straps, her bare skin flawless and golden. When they’d made love, his stubble had left red marks there. On her shoulders, above her breasts. How long had they stayed on her skin before fading into nothingness? And why could he think of little other than dragging his mouth over her body now, leaving the same trail of red marks, the same covering of goose bumps, over her skin?
‘Cameron was very happy you came home for dinner.’ She said the words with a slight hint of reproach and he understood her reasons for it. He wanted to tell her that he was new to all this, and to be patient with him. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t know what the hell he was doing with the child, but that he wanted to work it out.
But Santos wasn’t a man who generally bared his soul, so he said instead, ‘And you, Amelia? Were you happy I came home for dinner?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I’M HAPPY YOU spent some time with your son.’ She evidently chose the words with care, her manner crisp. He dipped his head forward, concealing a wolfish smile, before changing the subject.
‘How long were you in Paris for?’ He sat down in his own chair with a lithe athleticism, reminding her of some kind of wild predator, all strength and muscle.
‘A little over a year.’ Her mouth was dry but her water was finished.
‘Would you like some wine?’
She eyed it for a moment before nodding. The moment he’d walked into the room she’d begun to tremble, her insides awash with fierce recognition, as though he were a magnet and she the perfect polar opposite.