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The Virgin's Proposition
Anne McAllister


Step into a world of sophistication and glamour, where sinfully seductive heroes await you in luxurious international locations.Royal Virgin Anny Chamion isn’t used to acting out of the ordinary – not when her position in life dictates that she behave sensibly and with decorum…Passionate Proposition But a chance encounter with the infamous Demetrios Savas has this princess desperate to throw the rule book out of the window! For One Night Only! Demetrios Savas’s heart is empty – that’s the way he likes it.So how has one night with this delectable stranger left him reeling? And why is he craving to taste such deliciously forbidden fruit once more?







The minute he slipped his arms around Anny to dance with her, the moment he felt her body fit itself to his, Demetrios knew he was done for.

He would have laughed bitterly at his own foolishness if the desire for her hadn’t been so intense, if the longing hadn’t been so real. Anger and desperation he could fight.



He couldn’t fight this.



It was like having his dreams come true. It was like being offered a taste of all he’d ever longed for. A single spoonful that would have to last him for the rest of his life.



“To remember,” Anny had said, as if it was a good thing.



How could it be good to have a hollow, aching reminder of the joy he’d once believed was his due? It wasn’t. He didn’t believe in promises any more. Yet, as much as he tried not to give in, he couldn’t resist.



It was like trying to resist gravity. Like agreeing to step off a cliff—then refusing to let himself fall.



Impossible.





The Virgin’s Proposition


by




Anne McAllister











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Award-winning author ANNE MCALLISTER was once given a blueprint for happiness that included a nice, literate husband, a ramshackle Victorian house, a horde of mischievous children, a bunch of big, friendly dogs, and a life spent writing stories about tall, dark and handsome heroes. ‘Where do I sign up?’ she asked, and promptly did. Lots of years later, she’s happy to report the blueprint was a success. She’s always happy to share the latest news with readers at her website, www.annemcallister.com, and welcomes their letters there, or at PO Box 3904, Bozeman, Montana 59772, USA (SASE appreciated).




CHAPTER ONE


SOMEDAY HER PRINCE would come.

But apparently not anytime soon, Anny thought as she glanced down to check her watch discreetly once again.

She shifted in the upholstered armchair where she’d been waiting for the past forty minutes, then sat up even straighter, and craned her neck to look down the length of the Ritz-Carlton lobby for any sign of Gerard.

There were hundreds of other people milling about. In fact, the place was a madhouse.

It always was, of course, during Film Festival week in Cannes. The French seacoast town began overflowing with industry moguls, aspiring thespians, and avid filmgoers toward the end of the first week in May.

By now—three days into the festival—the normally serene elegant area near the hotel bar, where small genteel groups usually met for cocktails or apertifs, was now a sea of babbling people. The usual polite hushed voices of guests had been replaced by raucous cracks of masculine laughter and high-pitched flirty feminine giggles.

All around her, Anny heard rapid intense conversations rumbling and spiking as producers talked deals, directors flogged films, and journalists and photographers cornered the world’s most sought-after actors and actresses. Everywhere she looked curious fans and onlookers, not to mention the hopeful groupies, milled about trying to look as if they belonged.

A prince would barely have been noticed.

But unless he was masquerading as a movie fan, which of course was ridiculous, there was no sign of tall distinguished Prince Gerard of Val de Comesque anywhere.

Anny was tempted to tap her impatient toes. She didn’t. She smiled serenely instead.

“In public, you are serene, you are calm, you are happy,” His Royal Highness, King Leopold Olivier Narcisse Bertrand of Mont Chamion—otherwise known as “Papa”—had drummed into her head from the cradle. “Always serene, my dear,” he had repeated. “It is your duty.”

Of course it was. Princesses were serene. And dutiful. And, of course, they were generally happy, too.

Privately Anny had always thought it would be the worst ingratitude if they weren’t.

Being a princess certainly wasn’t all fun and games as she knew from twenty-six years of personal experience. But princesses, by their mere birthright, were entitled to so much that none of them had a right to be anything but grateful.

So Her Royal Highness, Princess Adriana Anastasia Maria Christina Sophia of Mont Chamion, aka Anny, was serene, dutiful, determinedly happy. And grateful. Always.

Well, almost always.

At the moment, she was also stressed. She was impatient, annoyed and, if she were honest—with herself at least—a little bit apprehensive.

Not scared exactly. Certainly not panic-stricken.

Just vaguely sick to her stomach. Edgy. Filled with a sort of creeping dread that seemed to sneak up on her when she was least expecting it.

Except she had felt the dread so frequently over the past month that now she was expecting it. Regularly.

It was nerves, she told herself. Prewedding jitters. Never mind that the wedding was over a year away. Never mind that the date hadn’t even been set yet. Never mind that Prince Gerard, sophisticated, handsome, elegant, and worldly, was everything a woman could ask for.

Except here.

She stood up so that she could scan the busy lobby once more. She’d had to dash to get to the hotel by five. Her father had called her this morning and said that Gerard would be expecting her, that he had something to discuss.

“But it’s Thursday. I’ll be at the clinic then,” she had protested.

The clinic Alfonse de Jacques was a private establishment dedicated to children and teens with paralysis and spinal injuries, a place between hospital and home. Anny volunteered there every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. She had done it since she’d come to Cannes to work on her doctoral dissertation right after Christmas five months ago.

At first she’d gone simply to be useful and to do something besides write about prehistoric cave painting all day. It got her out of the flat. And it was public service—something princesses did.

She loved children, and spending a few hours with ones whose lives were often severely limited seemed like time well-spent. But what had started out as a distraction and a good deed quickly turned into the time she looked forward to most each week.

At the clinic she wasn’t a princess. The children had no idea who she was. And when she came to see them it wasn’t a duty. It was a joy. She was simply Anny—their friend.

She played catch with Paul and video games with Madeleine and Charles. She watched football with Philippe and Gabriel and sewed tiny dolls’ clothes with Marie-Claire. She talked movies and movie stars with eager starry-eyed Elise and argued—about everything—with “cranky Franck,” the resident fifteen-year-old cynic who challenged her at every turn. She looked forward to it.

“I’m always at the clinic until five at least,” she’d protested to her father this morning. “Gerard can meet me there.”

“Gerard will not visit hospitals.”

“It’s a clinic,” Anny protested.

“Even so. He will not,” her father said firmly, but there was a sympathetic note in his voice. “You know that. Not since Ofelia…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

Ofelia was Gerard’s wife.

Had been Gerard’s wife, Anny had corrected herself. Until her death four years ago. Now beautiful, charming, elegant Ofelia was the woman Anny was supposed to replace.

“Of course,” she’d said quietly. “I forgot.”

“We must understand,” her father said gently. “It is hard for him, Adriana.”

“I do understand.”

She understood that there was every likelihood she’d never replace Ofelia in Gerard’s affections. She only knew she was supposed to try. And that was at least part of the reason she was feeling apprehensive.

“He’ll meet you in the lobby at five. You will have an early dinner and discuss,” her father went on. “Then he must leave for Paris. He has a flight in the morning to Montreal. Business meetings.”

Gerard was a prince, yes, but he owned a multinational corporation—several of them, in fact—on the side.

“What does he want to discuss?” Anny asked.

“I’m sure he will tell you tonight,” her father said. “You mustn’t keep him waiting, my dear.”

“No.”

She hadn’t kept him waiting. It was Gerard who wasn’t here.

Now Anny did tap her foot. Just once. Well, maybe twice. And she shot another surreptitious glance at her watch, while in her head her father’s voice murmured, “Princesses are not impatient.”

Maybe not, but it was already almost quarter til six. She could have stayed at the clinic and finished her argument with Franck about the relative merits of realism in television action hero series after all.

Instead, when she’d had to leave early, he’d accused her of “running away.”

“I am not ‘running away’!” Anny told him. “I have to meet my fiancé this afternoon.”

“Fiancé?” Franck had frowned at her from beneath his mop of untidy brown hair. “You’re getting married? When?”

“In a year. Maybe two. I’m not sure.” Sometime in the foreseeable future no doubt. Gerard needed an heir and he wasn’t prepared to wait forever.

He had agreed to wait until she had finished her dissertation. Barring disaster, that would be sometime next year. Not long.

Not long enough.

She shoved the thought away. It wasn’t as if Gerard was some horrible ogre her father was forcing her to marry. Well, yes, he’d arranged it, but there was nothing wrong with Gerard. He was kind, he was thoughtful. He was a prince—in more than one sense of the word.

It was just—Anny shook off her uneasiness and reminded herself that she was simply relieved he understood that finishing her dissertation was important to her and that he hadn’t minded waiting until she had finished.

Apparently Franck did mind. He scowled, his dark eyes narrowed on her. “A year? Two? Years? What on earth are you waiting for?”

His question jolted her. She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

He flung out a hand, a sweeping gesture that took in the four walls, the clean but spartan clinic room, his own paralyzed legs. He stared at her, then at them, then his gaze lifted again to bore into hers.

“You never know what’s going to happen, do you?” he demanded.

He had been playing soccer—going up to head a ball at the same time another boy had done the same. The next day the other boy’s head was a little sore. Franck was paralyzed from the waist down. He had a bit of tingling now and then, but he hadn’t walked in nearly three years.

“You shouldn’t wait,” he said firmly. His eyes never left hers.

It was the sort of pronouncement Franck was inclined to make, an edict handed down from on high, one designed to get her to argue with him.

That was what they did: argued. Not just about action heroes. About soccer teams. The immutable laws of science. The best desserts. In short, everything.

It was his recreation, one of the nurses had said to Anny back in January, and she’d only been marginally joking.

“So what are you saying? That you think I should run off and elope?” Anny had challenged him with a smile.

But Franck’s eyes didn’t light with the challenge of battle the way they usually did. They glittered, but it was a fierce glitter as he shook his head. “I just don’t see why you’re waiting.”

“A year’s not long,” Anny protested. “Even two. I have to finish my doctorate. And when we do set a date there will be lots to do. Preparations.” Protocol. Tradition. She didn’t explain about royal weddings. Ordinary everyday weddings were demanding enough.

“Stuff you’d rather do?” Franck asked.

“That’s not the point.”

“Of course it is. ’Cause if it isn’t, you shouldn’t waste time. You should do what you want to do!”

“People can’t always do what they want to do, Franck,” she said gently.

He snorted. “Tell me about it!” he said bitterly. “I wouldn’t be locked up in here if I didn’t have to be!”

Anny felt instantly guilty for her prim preachiness. “I know that.”

Franck’s jaw tightened, and his fingers plucked at the bedclothes. He pressed his lips together and turned his head away to stare out the window. He didn’t say anything, and Anny didn’t know what to say. She shifted from one foot to the other.

Finally he shrugged his shoulders and shifted his gaze back to look at her. “You only get one life,” he said.

His voice had lost its fierceness. It was flat, toneless. His eyes had lost their glitter. His expression was bleak. And seeing it made Anny feel wretched. She wanted desperately to provoke him, to argue with him, to say it wasn’t so.

But it was.

He wasn’t ever going to be running down the street to meet Gerard—or anyone else—again. And how could she argue with that?

So she did the only thing she could do. She’d reached out and gave his hand a quick hard squeeze. She had wished she could bring Gerard back with her. Meeting a prince might take his mind off his misery at least for a while. But her father was right, Gerard wouldn’t come.

“I have to go,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Franck’s mouth had twisted. “Go, then.” It was a curt dismissal. He looked away quickly, his jaw hard, his expression stony. Only the rapid blink of his lashes gave him away.

“I’ll be back,” Anny had promised.

She should have stayed.

Another look at her watch told her that it was ten to six now and there was still no sign of Gerard.

But the moment she glanced down at her watch, a sudden silence fell over the whole room, as if everyone in the entire lobby had stopped to draw in a single collective breath.

Startled, Anny looked up. Had they noticed her prince after all?

Certainly everyone in the room seemed to be staring at something. Anny followed their gaze.

At the sight of the man now standing at the far end of the room, her heart kicked over in her chest. All she could do was stare, too.

It wasn’t Gerard.

Not even close. Gerard was smooth, refined and cosmopolitan, the personfication of continental charm, a blend of 21st century sophistication and nearly as many centuries of royal breeding.

This man was anything but. He was hard-edged, shaggy-haired, and unshaven, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a nondescript open-necked shirt. He might have been nobody. A beach bum, a carpenter, a sailor in from the sea. He seemed to be cultivating the look.

But he was Somebody—with a capital S.

His name was Demetrios Savas. Anny knew it. So did everyone else in the room.

For ten years he’d been the golden boy of Hollywood. A man descended from Greek immigrants to America, Demetrios had started his brilliant career as nothing more than a handsome face. And stunning body.

In his early twenties, he’d modeled underwear, for goodness’ sake!

But from those inauspicious beginnings, he’d worked hard to parlay not only his looks, but also his talent into a notable acting career, a successful television series, half a dozen feature films, and a fledgling but well-respected directing career. Not to mention his brief tragic fairy-tale marriage to the beautiful talented actress Lissa Conroy.

Demetrios and Lissa had been Hollywood’s—and the world’s—sweethearts. One of the film industry’s golden couples—extraordinarily beautiful, talented people who lived charmed lives.

Charmed at least until two years ago when Lissa had contracted some sort of infection while filming overseas and had died scant days thereafter. Demetrios, working on the other side of the globe, had barely reached her side before she was gone.

Anny remembered the news photos that had chronicled his lonely journey home with her body and the shots of the treeless windswept North Dakota cemetery where he’d taken her to be buried. She still recalled how the starkness of it shocked her.

And yet it had made sense when she’d heard his explanation. “This is where she came from. It’s what she’d want. I’m just bringing her home.”

In her mind’s eye she could still see the pain that had etched the features of his beautiful face that day.

She hadn’t seen that face since. In the two years since Lissa Conroy’s death and burial, Demetrios Savas had not made a public appearance.

He’d gone to ground—somewhere. And while the tabloids had reprinted pictures of a hollow-faced grieving Demetrios at first, when he didn’t return to the limelight, when there were no more sightings and no more news, eventually they’d looked elsewhere for stories.

They’d been caught off guard, then, to learn last summer that he had written a screenplay, had found backing to shoot it, had cast it and, taking cast and crew to Brazil, had directed a small independent film—a film that was getting considerable interest and possible Oscar buzz, a film he was bringing to Cannes.

And now here he was.

Anny had never seen him before in person though she had certainly seen plenty of photos—had even, heaven help her, had a very memorable poster of him on the wall of her dorm room at university.

It didn’t hold a candle to the man in the flesh. The stark pain from those post-funeral photos was gone from his face now. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t have to. He exuded a charisma that simply captured everyone’s gaze.

He had a strength and power she recognized immediately. It wasn’t the smooth, controlled power like Gerard’s and her father’s. It was raw and elemental. She could sense it like a force field surrounding him as he moved.

And he was moving again now, though he’d stopped for just a moment to glance back over his shoulder before he continued into the room. He had an easy commanding stride, and though princesses didn’t stare, according to her father, Anny couldn’t look away.

A few people had picked up their conversations again. But most were still watching him. Talking about him, too, no doubt. Some nodded to him, spoke to him, and he spared them a faint smile, a quick nod. But he didn’t stop, and as he moved he scanned the room as if he were looking for someone.

And then his gaze lit on her.

Their eyes locked, and Anny was trapped in the green magic of his eyes.

It seemed to take a lifetime before she could muster her good sense and years of regal breeding and drag her gaze away. Deliberately she consulted her watch, made a point of studying it intently, allowed her impatience full rein. It was better than looking at him—staring like a besotted teenager at his craggy hard compelling face.

Where in heaven’s name was Gerard, anyway?

She looked up desperately—and found herself staring straight into Demetrios Savas’s face.

He was close enough to touch. Close enough that she could see tiny gold flecks in those impossibly green eyes, and pick out a few individual grey whiskers in rough dark stubble on his cheeks and jaw.

She opened her mouth. No sound came out.

“Sorry,” he said to her, a rueful smile touching his lips. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Me? she wanted to say, swallowing her serene princess smile. Surely not.

But before she could say a thing, he wrapped an arm around her and drew her into his, then pressed hard warm lips to hers.

Anny’s ears buzzed. Her knees wobbled. Her lips parted. For an instant she thought his tongue touched hers!

Her eyes snapped open to stare, astonished, into his.

“Thanks for waiting.” His voice was the warm rough baritone she’d heard in movies and on television. As she stared in silent amazement, he kept an arm around her waist, tucked her firmly against him and walked her briskly with him toward the shops at the far end of the lobby. “Let’s get out of here.”



Demetrios didn’t know who she was.

He didn’t care. She was obviously waiting for someone—he’d seen her scanning the room almost the moment he’d walked in—and she looked like the sort of woman who wouldn’t make a fuss.

Not fussing was at the top of his list of desirable female attributes at the moment. And amid all the preening peacocks she stood out like a beacon.

Her understated appearance and neat dark upswept hair would have screamed practical, sensible, unflappable, and calm if they had been capable of screaming anything.

As it was, they spoke calmly of a woman of quiet composed sanity. One of the hotel concierge staff, probably. Or a tour guide waiting for her group. Or, hell, for all he knew, a Cub Scout den mother. In other words, she was all the things that people in the movie industry generally were not.

And she was, whether she knew it or not, going to be his salvation. She was going to get him out of the Ritz before he lost his temper or his sanity or did something he would no doubt seriously regret. In her proper dark blue skirt and casual but tailored cream-colored jacket, she looked like exactly the sort of steady unflappable professional woman he needed to pull this off.

He had his arm around her as he walked her straight down the center of the room. It was as if they were parting the seas as they went. Eyes widened. Murmurs began. He ignored them.

In her ear he said, “Do you know how to get out of here?” Even as he spoke, he realized she might not even speak English. This was France, after all.

But she didn’t disappoint him. She didn’t stumble as he steered her along, but kept pace with him easily, turning her head toward him just enough so that he could see a smile on her face. She had just the barest hint of an accent when she said, “Of course.”

He smiled, then, too. It was probably the first real smile he’d managed all day.

“Lead the way,” he murmured and, while to casual observers it would appear that he was directing their movements, he was in fact following her. The murmurs in the room seemed to grow in volume and intensity as they passed.

“Ignore them,” he said.

She did, still smiling as they walked. His savior seemed to know exactly where she was going. Either that or she was used to being picked up by strange men in hotel lobbies and had a designated spot for doing away with them. She led him through a set of doors and down another long corridor. Then they passed some offices, went through a storeroom and a delivery reception area and at last, when she pushed open one more door, came to stand on the pavement outside the back of the hotel.

Demetrios took a deep breath—and heard the door lock with a decisive click behind them.

He grimaced. “And now you can’t get back in. Sorry. Really. But thank you. You saved my life.”

“I doubt that.” But she was smiling as she said it.

“My professional life,” he qualified, giving her a weary smile in return. He raked fingers through his hair. “It’s been a hellish day. And it was just about to get a whole lot worse.”

She gave him a speculatively raised brow, but made no comment other than to say, “Well, then I’m glad to have been of service.”

“Are you?” That surprised him because she actually sounded glad and not annoyed, which she had every right to be. “You were waiting for someone.”

“That’s why you picked me.” She said it matter-of-factly and that surprised him, too.

But he grinned at her astute evaluation of the situation. “It’s called improvisation. I’m Demetrios, by the way.”

“I know.”

Yes, he supposed she did.

If there was one thing he’d figured out in the past forty-eight hours it was that he might have fallen off the face of the earth for the past two years, but no one seemed to have forgotten who he was.

In the industry, that was good. Distributors he wanted to talk to didn’t close their doors to him. But the paparazzi’s long memory he could have done without. They’d swarmed over him the moment they’d seen his face. The groupies had, too.

“What’d you expect?” his brother Theo had said sardonically. He’d dropped by Demetrios’s hotel room unannounced this morning en route sailing from Spain to Santorini. He’d grinned unsympathetically. “They all want to be the one to assuage your sorrow.”

Demetrios had known that coming to Cannes would be a madhouse, but he’d told himself he could manage. And he would be able to if all the women he met were like this one.

“Demetrios Savas in person,” she mused now, a smile touching her lips as she studied him with deep blue eyes. She looked friendly and mildly curious, but nothing more, thank God.

“At least you’re not giddy with excitement about it,” he said drily with a self-deprecating grin.

“I might be.” A dimple appeared in her left cheek when her smile widened. “Maybe I’m just hiding it well.”

“Keep right on hiding it. Please.”

She laughed at that, and he liked her laugh, too. It was warm and friendly and somehow it made her seem even prettier. She was a pretty girl. A wholesome sort of girl. Nothing theatrical or glitzy about her. Fresh and friendly with the sort of flawless complexion that cosmetic companies would kill for.

“Are you a model?” he asked, suddenly realizing she could be. And why not? She could have been waiting for an agent. A rep. It made sense. And some of them could contrive to look fresh and wholesome.

God knew Lissa had.

But this woman actually looked surprised at his question. “A model? No. Not at all. Do I look like one?” She laughed then, as if it were the least likely thing she could think of.

“You could be,” he told her.

“Really?” She looked sceptical, then shrugged “Well, thank you. I think.” She dimpled again as she smiled at him.

“I just meant you’re beautiful. It was a compliment. Do you work for the hotel then?”

“Beautiful?” That seemed to surprise her, too. But she didn’t dwell on it. “No, I don’t work there. Do I look like I could do that, too?” The smile that played at the corners of her mouth made him grin.

“You look…hospitable. Casually professional.” His gaze slid over her more slowly this time, taking in the neat upswept dark brown hair and the creamy complexion with its less-is-more makeup before moving on to the curves beneath the tastefully tailored jacket and skirt, the smooth, slender tanned legs, the toes peeking out from her sandals. “Attractive,” he said. “Approachable.”

“Approachable?”

“I approached,” he pointed out.

“You make me sound like a streetwalker.” But she didn’t sound offended, just amused.

But Demetrios shook his head. “Never. You’re not wearing enough makeup. And the clothes are all wrong.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

They smiled at each other again, and quite suddenly Demetrios felt as if he were waking up from a bad dream.

He’d been in it so long—dragged down and fighting his way back—that it seemed as if it would be all he’d ever know for the rest of his life.

But right now, just this instant, he felt alive. And he realized that he had smiled more—really honestly smiled—in the past five minutes than he had in the past three years.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Anny.”

Anny. A plain name. A first name. No last name. Usually women were falling all over themselves to give him their full names, the story of their lives, and, most importantly, their phone numbers.

“Just Anny?” he queried lightly.

“Chamion.” She seemed almost reluctant to tell him. That was refreshing.

“Anny Chamion.” He liked the sound of it. Simple. But a little exotic. “You’re French?”

“My mother was French.”

“And you speak English perfectly.”

“I went to university in the States. Well, I went to Oxford first. But I went to graduate school in California. At Berkeley. I still am, really. I’m working on my dissertation.”

“So, you’re a…scholar?”

She didn’t look like any scholar he’d ever met. No pencils in her hair. There was nothing distracted or ivory towerish about her. He knew all about scholarly single-mindedness. His brother George was a scholar—a physicist.

“You’re not a physicist?” he said accusingly.

She laughed. “Afraid not. I’m an archaeologist.”

He grinned. “Raiders of the Lost Ark? My brothers and I used to watch that over and over.”

Anny nodded, her eyes were smiling. Then she shrugged wryly. “The ‘real’ thing isn’t quite so exciting.”

“No Nazis and gun battles?”

“Not many snakes, either. And not a single dashing young Harrison Ford. I’m working on my dissertation right now—on cave paintings. No excitement there, either. But I like it. I’ve done the research. It’s just a matter of getting it all organized and down on paper.”

“Getting stuff down on paper isn’t always easy.” It had been perhaps the hardest part of the past couple of years, mostly because it required that he be alone with his thoughts.

“You’re writing a dissertation?”

“A screenplay,” he said. “I wrote one. Now I’m starting another. It’s hard work.”

“All that creativity would be exhausting. I couldn’t do it,” she said with admiration.

“I couldn’t write a dissertation.” He should just thank her and say goodbye. But he liked her. She was sane, normal, sensible, smart. Not a starlet. Not even remotely. It was nice to be with someone unrelated to the movie business. Unrelated to the hoopla and glitz. Down-to-earth. He was oddly reluctant to simply walk away.

“Have dinner with me,” he said abruptly.

Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened. Then it closed.

Practically every other woman in Cannes, Demetrios thought grimly, would have said yes ten times over by now.

Not Anny Chamion. She looked rueful, then gave him a polite shake of the head. “I would love to, but I’m afraid I really was waiting for someone in the hotel.”

Of course she had been.

“And I just shanghaied you without giving a damn.” He grimaced. “Sorry. I just thought it would be nice to find a little hole-in-the-wall place, hide out for a while. Have a nice meal. Some conversation. I forgot I’d kidnapped you under false pretenses.”

She laughed. “It’s all right. He was late.”

He. Of course she was waiting for a man. And what difference did it make?

“Right,” he said briskly. “Thanks for the rescue, Anny Chamion. I didn’t offend Mona Tremayne because of you.”

“The actress?” She looked startled. “You were escaping from her?”

“Not her. Her daughter. Rhiannon. She’s a little…persistent.” She’d been following him around since yesterday morning, telling him she’d make him forget.

Anny raised her brows. “I see.”

“She’s a nice girl. A bit intense. Immature.” And way too determined. “I don’t want to tell her to get lost. I’d like to work with her mother again…”

“It was truly a diplomatic maneuver.”

He nodded. “But I’m sorry if I messed something up for you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She held out a hand in farewell, and he took it, held it. Her fingers were soft and smooth and warm. He ran his thumb over them.

“I kissed you before,” he reminded her.

“Ah, but you didn’t know me then.”

“Still—” It surprised him how much he wanted to do it again.

But before he could make his move, she jerked, surprised, and stuck her hand into the pocket of her jacket.

“My phone,” she said apologetically, taking it out and glancing at the ID. “I wouldn’t answer it. It’s rude. I’m so sorry. It’s—” She waved a hand toward the hotel from which they’d come. “I need to get this.”

Because it was obviously from the man she’d been waiting for. His mouth twisted, but he shrugged equably. “Of course. No problem. It’s been—”

He stopped because he couldn’t find the right word. What had it been? A pleasure? Yes, it had been. And real. It had been “real.” For the first time in three years he’d felt, for a few brief moments, as if he had solid ground under his feet. He squeezed her hand, then leaned in and kissed her firmly on the mouth. “Thank you, Anny Chamion.”

Her eyes widened in shock.

He smiled. Then for good measure, he kissed her again, and enjoyed every moment of it, pleased, he supposed, that he hadn’t entirely lost his touch.

The phone vibrated in her hand long and hard before she had the presence of mind to answer it in rapid French.

Demetrios didn’t wait. He gave her a quick salute, pulled dark glasses out of his pocket, stuck them on his face, then turned and headed down the street. He had gone less than a block when he heard the sound of quick footsteps running after him.

Oh, hell. Was there no getting away from Rhiannon Tremayne?

He badly wanted Mona for a part in his next picture. To get her, he couldn’t alienate her high-strung, high-maintenance, highly spoiled daughter. But he was tired, he was edgy and, having the sweet taste of Anny Chamion on his lips, he didn’t relish being thrown to the jackals again. He spun around to tell her so—in the politest possible terms.

“I seem to have the evening free.” It was Anny smiling, that dimple creasing her cheek again as she fell into step beside him. “So I wondered, is that dinner invitation still open?”




CHAPTER TWO


PRINCESSES DIDN’T INVITE themselves out to dinner!

They didn’t say no one minute and run after a man to say yes the next. But she’d been given a reprieve, hadn’t she? The phone call had been from Gerard, who was going straight to Paris to get a good night’s sleep before his flight to Montreal.

“I’ll see you on my way back,” he’d said. “Next week. We need to talk.”

Anny had never understood what people thought they were doing on the phone if not talking, but she said politely, “Of course. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

She hung up almost before Gerard could say goodbye, because if she didn’t start running now, she might lose sight of Demetrios when he reached the corner. She’d never run after a man in her life. And she knew perfectly well she shouldn’t be chasing one now.

But how often did Demetrios Savas invite her out to dinner—at the very moment her prince decided not to show up?

If that didn’t confirm the universe’s benevolence, what did?

Besides, it was only dinner, after all. A meal. An hour or two.

But with Demetrios Savas. The fulfillment of a youthful dream. How many women got invited to dinner by the man whose poster they’d had on the wall at age eighteen?

As a tribute to that idealistic dreamy girl, Anny couldn’t not do it.

He spun around as she reached him, his jaw tight, his eyes hard. It was that same fierce look that had made his name a household word when he’d played rough-edged bad-ass spy Luke St. Angier on American television seven or eight years ago.

Anny stopped dead.

Then at the sight of her, the muscles in his jaw eased. And she was, quite suddenly, rewarded by the very grin that had had thousands—no, millions—of girls and women and little old ladies falling at his feet.

“Anny.” Her name on his lips sent her heart to hammering. “Change your mind?” he asked with just the right hopeful note.

“If you don’t mind.” She wasn’t sure if her breathlessness was due to the man in front of her who was, admittedly, pretty breathtaking, or to her own sudden out-of-character seizing of the moment.

“Mind?” Demetrios’s memorable grin broadened. “As if. So?” He cocked his head. “Yes?”

“I don’t want to presume,” she said as demurely as possible.

“Go ahead and presume.” He grinned as he glanced around the busy street scene. Then his grin faded as he realized how many people were beginning to notice him. One of a gaggle of teenage girls pointed in their direction. Another gave a tiny high-pitched scream, and instantly they cut across the street to head his way.

For an instant he looked like a fox with the hounds baying as they closed in. But only for a moment.

Then he said, “Hang on, will you? I’m sorry but—”

“I understand,” Anny replied quickly. No one understood better the demands of the public than someone raised to be a princess. Duty to her public had been instilled in her from the time she was born.

That hadn’t been the case for Demetrios, of course. He’d become famous in his early twenties, and as far as she knew he’d had no preparation at all for how to deal with it. Still, he’d always handled fame well. Even in the tragic circumstances of his wife’s death, he’d been composed and polite. And while he might have gone to ground afterward, as far as Anny was concerned, he’d had every right.

He’d come back when he was ready, obviously. And while he clearly hadn’t sought this swarm of fans, he welcomed them easily, smiling at them as they surged across the street toward him

Confident of their welcome, they chattered and giggled as they crowded around. And Demetrios let them envelop him, jostle him as he laughed and talked with them in Italian, for that was what they spoke.

It wasn’t good Italian. Anny knew that because she spoke it perfectly. But he made the effort, stumbled over his words and kept on trying. If the girls hadn’t already been enchanted, they would be now.

And watching him, listening to him, Anny was more than a bit enchanted herself.

Of course he’d been gorgeous as a young man. But she found him even more appealing now. His youthful handsome face had matured. His cheekbones were sharper, his jaw harder and stronger. The rough stubble gave him a more mature version of the roguish look he’d only begun to develop in the years he’d played action hero Luke St. Angier. Hard at work on her university courses, Anny had rarely taken the time to watch anything on television. But she had always watched him.

Demetrios Savas had been her indulgence.

Looking at him now, admiring his good looks, mesmerizing eyes, and easy grin, as well as that enticing groove in his cheek that appeared whenever the grin did, it wasn’t hard to remember why.

But it wasn’t only his stunning good looks that appealed. It was the way he interacted with his ever-so-eager fans.

He might have run from the sharklike pursuit of some intense desperate starlet, but he was kind to these girls who wanted nothing more than a smile and a few moments of conversation with their Hollywood hero.

Actually “kind” didn’t begin to cover it. He actually seemed “interested,” and he focused on each one—not just the cute, flirty ones. He talked to them all, listened to them all. Laughed with them. Made them feel special.

That impressed her. She wondered where he’d learned it or if it came naturally. Whichever, it didn’t seem to bother him. Somehow he’d learned the very useful skill of turning the tables and making the meeting all about them, not him. For once she got to simply lean against the outside wall of one of the shops and enjoy the moment.

It was odd, really. She’d barely thought of him in years. Responsibilities had weighed, duties had demanded. She’d fulfilled them all. And she’d let her girlish fantasies fall by the wayside.

Now she thought, I’m having dinner with Demetrios Savas, and almost laughed at the giddy feeling of pleasure at the prospect. It was as heady as it was unlikely.

She wondered what Gerard would say if she told him.

Actually she suspected she knew. He would blink and then he would look down his regal nose and ask politely, “Who?”

Or maybe she was selling him short. Maybe he did know who Demetrios was. But he certainly wouldn’t expect his future wife to be having dinner with him. Not that he would care. Or feel threatened.

Of course he had no reason to feel threatened. It wasn’t as if Demetrios was going to sweep her off her feet and carry her away with him.

All the while she was musing, though, the crowd around him, rather than dissipating, was getting bigger. Demetrios was still talking, answering questions, charming them all, but his gaze flicked around now and lit on her. He raised his brows as if to say, What can I do?

Anny shrugged and smiled. Another half a dozen questions and the crowd seemed to double again. His gaze found her again and this time he mouthed a single word in her direction. “Taxi?”

She nodded and began scanning the street. When she had nearly decided that the only way to get one was to go back to the Ritz-Carlton, an empty one appeared at the corner. She sprinted toward it.

“Demetrios!”

He glanced up, saw the cab, offered smiles and a thousand apologies to his gathered fans, then managed to slip after her into the cab.

“Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes it’s a little insane.”

“I can see that,” she said.

“It goes with the territory,” he said. “And usually they mean well. They’re interested. They care. I appreciate that.” He shrugged. “And in effect they pay my salary. I owe them.” He flexed his shoulders against the seat back tiredly. “And when it’s about my work, it’s fine. Sometimes it’s not.” His gaze seemed to close up for a moment, but then he was back, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Sometimes it’s a little overwhelming.”

“Especially when you’ve been away from it for a while.”

He gave her a sharp speculative look, and she wondered if she’d overstepped her bounds. But then he shrugged. “Especially when I’ve been away from it for a while,” he acknowledged.

The driver, who had been waiting patiently, caught her gaze in the rearview mirror and asked where they wanted to go.

Demetrios obviously knew enough French to get by, too, because he understood and asked her, “Where do we want to go? Some place that’s not a madhouse, preferably.”

“Are you hungry now?” Anny asked.

“Not really. Just in no mood to deal with paparazzi. Know any place quiet?”

She nodded. “For dinner, yes. A little place in Le Soquet, the old quarter, that is basically off the tourist track.” She looked at him speculatively, an idea forming. “You don’t want to talk to anyone?”

A brow lifted. “I want to talk to you.”

Enchanted, Anny smiled. “Flatterer.” He was amazingly charming. “I was thinking, if you’re really not hungry yet, but you wouldn’t mind talking to a few more kids—not paparazzi, not journalists—just kids who would love to meet you—”

“You have kids?” he said, startled.

Quickly Anny shook her head. “No. I volunteer at a clinic for children and teenagers with spinal injuries and paralysis. I was there this afternoon. And I was having a sort of discussion—well, argument, really, with one of the boys…he’s a teenager—about action heroes.”

Demetrios’s mouth quirked. “You argue about action heroes?”

“Franck will pretty much argue about anything. He likes to argue. And he has opinions.”

“And you do, too?” There was a teasing light in his eye now.

Anny smiled. “I suppose I do,” she admitted. “But I try not to batter people with them. Except for Franck,” she added. “Because it’s all the recreation he gets these days. Anything I say, he takes the opposite view.”

“He must have brothers,” Demetrios said wryly.

But Anny shook her head. “He’s an only child.”

“Even worse.”

“Yes.” Anny thought so, too. She had been an only child herself for twenty years. Her mother had not been able to have more children after Anny, and she’d died when Anny was twelve. Only when her father married Charlise seven years ago had Anny dared to hope for a sibling.

Now she had three little half brothers, Alexandre, Raoul, and David. And even though she was much older—actually old enough to be their mother—she still relished the joy of having brothers.

“Franck makes up for it by arguing with me,” she said. “And I was just thinking, what a coup it would be if I brought you back to the clinic. You obviously know more about action heroes than I do so you could argue with him. Then after, we could have dinner?”

It was presumptuous. He might turn her down cold.

But somehow she wasn’t surprised when he actually sat up straighter and said, “Sounds like a deal. Let’s go.”

The look on Franck’s face when they walked into his room was priceless. His jaw went slack. No sound came out of his mouth at all.

Anny tried not to smile as she turned back toward Demetrios. “I want you to meet a friend of mine,” she said to him. “This is Franck Villiers. Franck, this is—”

“I know who he is.” But Franck still stared in disbelief.

Demetrios stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said in French.

For a moment, Franck didn’t take it. Then, when he did, he stared at the hand he was shaking as if the sight could convince him that the man with Anny was real.

Slowly he turned an accusing gaze on Anny “You’re going to marry him?”

She jerked. “No!” She felt her cheeks flame.

“You said you had to leave early because you were going to meet your fiancé.”

Oh God, she’d forgotten that.

“He got delayed,” Anny said quickly. “He couldn’t come.” She shot a look at Demetrios.

He raised his brows in silent question, but he simply said to Franck, “So I invited her to dinner instead.”

Franck shoved himself up farther against the pillows and looked at her. “You never said you knew Luke St. Angier. I mean—him,” he corrected himself, cheeks reddening as if he’d embarrassed himself by confusing the man and the role he’d played.

Demetrios didn’t seem to care. “We just met,” he said. “Anny mentioned your discussion. I can’t believe you think MacGyver is smarter than Luke St. Angier.”

Anny almost laughed as Franck’s gaze snapped from Demetrios to her and back again. Then his spine stiffened. “Could Luke St. Angier make a bomb out of a toaster, half a dozen toothpicks and a cigarette lighter?”

“Damn right he could,” Demetrios shot back. “Obviously we need to talk.”

Maybe it was because he, like Anny, treated Franck no differently than he would treat anybody else, maybe it was because he was Luke St. Angier, whatever it was, the next thing Anny knew Demetrios was sitting on the end of Franck’s bed and the two of them were going at it.

They did argue. First about bomb-making, then about scripts and character arcs and story lines. Demetrios was as intent and focused with Franck as he had been with the girls.

Anny had thought they might spend a half an hour there—at most. Franck usually became disgruntled after that long. But not with Demetrios. They were still talking and arguing an hour later. They might have gone on all night if Anny hadn’t finally said, “I hate to break this up, but we have a few more people to see here before we leave.” Franck scowled.

Demetrios stood up and said, “Okay. We can continue this tomorrow.”

Franck stared. “Tomorrow? You mean it?”

“Of course I mean it,” Demetrios assured him. “No one else has cared about Luke that much in years.”

Franck’s eyes shone. He looked over at Anny as they were going out the door and he said something she thought she would never hear him say. “Thanks.”

She thanked Demetrios, too, when they were out in the hall again. “You made his day. You don’t have to come back. I can explain if you don’t.”

He shook his head. “I’m coming back. Now let’s meet the rest of the gang.”

Naturally he charmed them, one and all. And even though many of them didn’t know the famous man who was with Anny, they loved the attention. Just as he had with Franck and with the Italian girls, Demetrios focused on what they were telling him. He talked about toy cars with eight-year-old Fran¸ois. He listened to tales about Olivia’s kitten. He did his “one and only card trick” for several of the older girls. And if they weren’t madly in love with Demetrios Savas when he came into their rooms, they were well on the way by the time he left.

Anny, for all her youthful fantasies about Demetrios Savas, had never really imagined him with children. Now she thought it was a shame he didn’t have his own.

It was past nine-thirty when they finally stepped back out onto the narrow cobbled street in Le Soquet and Anny said guiltily, “I didn’t mean to tie up your whole evening.”

“If I hadn’t wanted to be there,” he said firmly, “I could have figured out how to leave.” He took hold of her hand, turning her so that she looked into those mesmerizing eyes. She couldn’t see the color now as the sun had gone down. But the intensity was there in them and in his voice when he said, “Believe me, Anny.” How could she not?

She wetted her lips. “Yes, well, thank you. It hardly seems adequate, but—”

“It’s perfectly adequate. You’re welcome. More than. Now, how about dinner?”

“Are you sure? It’s getting late.”

“Not midnight yet. In case you turn into a pumpkin,” he added, his grin flashing.

Was she Cinderella then? Not ordinarily. But tonight she almost felt like it. Or the flipside thereof—the princess pretending to be a “real” person.

“No,” she said, “I don’t. At least I haven’t yet,” she added with a smile.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Then his voice gentled. “Are you having second thoughts, Anny? Afraid the missing fiancé will find out?”

He still held her hand in his, and if she tugged it, she would be making too much of things. She swallowed. “He wouldn’t care,” she said offhandedly. “He’s not that sort of man.”

He cocked his head. “Is that good?”

Was it good? Anny knew she didn’t want a jealous husband. But she did want a husband to whom she mattered, who loved her, who cared. On one level, of course, Gerard did.

“He’s a fine man,” she said at last.

“I’m sure he is,” Demetrios said gravely. “So if I promise to behave in exemplary fashion with his fiancée, will you have dinner with me?”

He held her hand—and her gaze—effortlessly as he hung the invitation, the temptation, dangling there between them. He’d already asked before. She’d said no, then yes. And now?

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I would like that.”

She wasn’t sure that she should have liked the frisson of awareness she felt when he gave her fingers a squeeze before he released them. “So would I.”

He wanted to keep holding her hand.

How stupid was that?

He wasn’t a besotted teenager. He was an adult. Sane, sensible. And decidedly gun-shy. Or woman-shy.

Which wasn’t a problem here, Demetrios reminded himself sharply, determinedly tucking his hands in his pockets as he walked with Anny Chamion through the narrow steep streets of the Old Quarter. She was engaged and thus, clearly, no more interested in anything beyond dinner than he was.

Still, the desire unnerved him. He’d had no wish to hold any woman’s hand—or even touch one—in over two years.

But ever since he’d kissed Anny Chamion that afternoon, something had awakened in him that he’d thought stone-cold dead.

Discovering it wasn’t jolted him.

For as long as he could remember, Demetrios had been aware of, attracted to, charmed by women. He’d always been able to charm them as well.

“They’re like bowling pins,” his brother George had grumbled when they were teenagers. “He smiles at them and they topple over at his feet.”

“Eat your heart out,” Demetrios had laughed, always enjoying the girls, the giggles, the adulation.

It had only grown when, after college where he’d studied film, he’d taken an offer of a modeling job as a way to bring in some money while he tried to land acting roles. The modeling helped. His face became familiar and, as one director said, “They don’t care what you’re selling. They’re buying you.”

The directors had bought him. So had the public. They had found him even more engaging in action than in stills.

“The charisma really comes through there,” all the casting directors were eager to point out. And it wasn’t long before he was not just doing commercials and small supporting parts, he was the star of his own television series.

Three years of being Luke St. Angier got him fame, fortune, opportunities and adulation, movie scripts landing on his doorstep, plus all the women he would ever want, including the one he did—the gorgeous and talented actress, Lissa Conroy.

The last woman he had felt a stab of desire for. The last one he’d cared for. The last one he would ever let himself care for.

But this had nothing to do with caring. This was pure masculine desire confronted with a beautiful woman. He couldn’t expect his hormones to stay dormant forever, he supposed, though it had been easier when they had.

He glanced up to see that the distraction herself had stepped over to talk to the waiter in a small restaurant where they’d stopped. The place was, as she’d promised, no more than a hole in the wall. It had a few tables inside and four more, filled with diners, on the pavement in front.

She finished talking to the waiter and came back to him. “They know me here. The food is good. The moussaka is fantastic. And it’s not exactly on the tourist path. They have a table near the kitchen. Not exactly the best seat in the house. So if you would prefer somewhere else…”.

Demetrios shook his head. “It’s fine.”

And if not perfect because the table really was right outside the kitchen door, no one paid any attention to them there. No one expected a film star to sit at the least appealing table in the place, so no one glanced at him. The cook and waiter were far too busy to care who they fed, but even though they seemed run off their feet, they doted on Anny. Menus appeared instantly. A wine list quickly followed.

“You come here often?”

“When I don’t cook for myself, I come here. They have great food.” And she ordered the bouillabaisse without even looking at anything else. “It’s always wonderful.”

He was tempted. But he was more tempted by the moussaka she had mentioned earlier. No one made it like his mother. But he hadn’t been home in almost three years. Had barely talked to his parents since he’d seen them after Lissa’s funeral. Had kept them at a distance the entire year before.

He knew they didn’t understand. And he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t make them understand about Lissa when he didn’t even understand himself. And after—after he couldn’t face them. Not yet.

So it was easier to stay away.

At least until he’d come to terms on his own.

So he had. He was back, wasn’t he? He had a new screenplay with his name on it. He had a new film. He’d brought it to Cannes, the most public and prestigious of film festivals. He was out in public, doing interviews, charming fans, smiling for all he was worth.

And tonight moussaka sounded good. Smelled good, too, he thought as he detected the scent mingling with other aromas in the kitchen. It reminded him of his youth, of happier times. The good old days.

Maybe after he was finished at Cannes, he’d go see Theo and Martha and their kids in Santorini, then fly back to the States and visit his folks.

He ordered the moussaka, then looked up to see Anny smiling at him.

“What?” he said.

She shook her head. “Just bemused,” she told him. “Surprised that I’m here. With you.”

“Fate,” he said, tasting the wine the waiter brought, then nodding his approval.

“Do you believe that?”

“No. But I’m a screenwriter, too. I like turning points.” It was glib and probably not even true. God knew some of the turning points in his life had been disasters even if on the screen they were useful. But Anny seemed struck by the notion.

The waiter poured her wine. She looked up and thanked him, earning her a bright smile in return. Then she picked it up and sipped it contemplatively, her expression serious.

He wanted to see her smile again. “So, you’re writing a dissertation. You volunteer at a clinic. You have a fiancé. You went to Oxford. And Berkeley. Tell me more. What else should I know about Anny Chamion?”

She hesitated, as if she weren’t all that comfortable talking about herself, which was in itself refreshing.

Lissa had commanded the center of attention wherever they’d been. But Anny spread her palms and shrugged disingenuously, then shocked him by saying, “I had a poster of you on my wall when I was eighteen.”

Demetrios groaned and put his hand over his eyes. He knew the poster. It was an artistic, tasteful, nonrevealing nude, which he’d done at the request of a young photographer friend trying to make a name for herself.

She had.

So had he. His brothers and every male friend he’d ever had, seeing that poster, had taunted him about it for years. Still did. His parents, fortunately, had had a sense of humor and had merely rolled their eyes. Girls seemed to like it, though.

“I was young and dumb,” he admitted now, ruefully shaking his head.

“But gorgeous,” Anny replied with such disarming frankness that he blinked.

“Thanks,” he said a little wryly. But he found her admiration oddly pleasing. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard the sentiment before, but knowing a cool, self-possessed woman like Anny had been attracted kicked the activity level of his formerly dormant hormones up another notch.

He shifted in his chair. “Tell me about something besides the poster. Tell me how you met your fiancé?” He didn’t really want to know that, but it seemed like a good idea to ask, remind his hormones of the reality of the situation.

The waiter set salads in front of them. Demetrios picked up his fork.

“I’ve known him all my life,” Anny said.

“The boy next door?”

“Not quite. But, well, sort of.”

“Helps if you know someone well.” God knew it would have helped if he’d known more about what made Lissa tick. It would have sent him running in the other direction. But how could he have when she was so good at playing a role? “You know him, at least.”

“Yes.” This time her smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes. She focused on her salad, not offering any more so Demetrios changed the subject.

“Tell me about these cave paintings. How much more work do you have to do on your dissertation?”

She was more forthcoming about that. She talked at length about her work and her eyes lit up then. Ditto when he got her talking about the clinic and the children.

He found her enthusiasm contagious, and when she asked him about the film he’d brought to Cannes, he shared some of his own enthusiasm.

She was a good listener. She asked good questions. Even better, she knew what not to ask. She said nothing at all about the two plus years he’d stayed out of the public eye. Nothing about his marriage. Nothing about Lissa’s death.

Only when he brought up not having come to Cannes for a couple of years did she say simply, “I was sorry to hear about your wife.”

“Thank you.”

They got through the salad, their entrées—the moussaka was remarkably good and reminiscent of his mother’s—and then, because Anny looked a second or so too long at the apple tart, and because he really didn’t want the evening to end yet, he suggested they share a piece with their coffee.

“Just a bite for me,” she agreed. “I eat far too much of it whenever I come here.”

Demetrios liked that she had enjoyed her meal. He liked that she wasn’t rail-thin and boney the way Lissa had been, the way so many actresses felt they needed to be. She hadn’t picked at her food the way they did. She looked healthy and appealing—just right, in his estimation—with definite hints of curves beneath her tailored jacket, scoop-necked top and linen skirt.

The hormones were definitely awake.

The waiter brought the apple tart and two forks. And Demetrios was almost annoyed to discover he wasn’t going to be able to feed her a bite off his. Almost.

Then sanity reared its head. He got a grip, pushed the plate toward her. “After you.”

She cut off a small piece and carried it to her mouth, then shut her eyes and sighed. “That is simply heaven.” She ran her tongue lightly over her lips, and opened her eyes again.

“Taste it,” she urged him.

His hormones heard, Taste me. He cleared his throat and focused on the tart.

It was good. He did his best to savor it appreciatively, aware of her eyes on him, watching him as he chewed and swallowed.

“Your turn.”

She shook her head. “One bite. That’s it.”

“It’s heaven,” he reminded her.

“I’ve had my taste for tonight.” She set down her fork and put her hands in her lap. “Truly. Please, finish it.”

He took his time, not just to savor the tart but the evening as well. It was the first time he’d been out on anything remotely resembling a date since Lissa. Not that this was precisely a date. He wasn’t doing dates—not ones that led anywhere except bed now that his hormones were awake and kicking.

Still he was enjoying himself. This was a step back into the normal world he’d left three years before, made easier because of the woman Anny was…comfortable, poised, appealing. He liked her ease and her calmness at the same time he felt a renegade impulse to ruffle that calm.

The notion brought him up short. Where the hell had that come from?

He forked the last bite into his mouth and washed it down with a quick swallow of coffee.

Anny shook her head in gentle sadness. “You weren’t treating it like heaven just then.”

He wiped his mouth on the napkin, then dropped it on the table. “I realized I was making you wait. It’s nearly midnight,” he said, surprised at how the time had flown.

“Maybe I will turn into a pumpkin.” She didn’t smile when she said it.

He did. “Can I watch?”

“Prince Charming is always long gone when that happens, remember?”

He remembered. And he remembered, too, that however enjoyable it had been, unlike the Cinderella story, it wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t want it to. She didn’t want it to. That was probably what made it so damn enjoyable.

“Ready to go?”

She nodded. She looked remote now, a little pensive.

He paid the bill, told the waiter what a great meal it was, and was bemused when the waiter barely looked at him, but had a smile for Anny. “We are so happy to have you come tonight, your—You’re always welcome.” He even kissed her hand.

Outside she stopped and offered that same hand to him. “Thank you. For the dinner. For coming to the clinic. For everything. It was a memorable evening.”

He took her hand, but he shook his head. “I’m not leaving you on a street corner.”

“My flat’s not far. You don’t need—”

“I’m walking you home. To your door.” In case she had any other ideas. “So lead on.”

He could have let go of her hand then. He didn’t. He kept her fingers firmly wrapped in his as he walked beside her through the narrow streets.

In the distance he could still hear traffic moving along La Croisette. There was music from bars, an occasional motorcycle. Next to him, Anny walked in silence, her fingers warm in his palm. She didn’t speak at all, and that, in itself, was a lovely novelty. Every girl he’d ever been with, from Jenny Sorensen in ninth grade to Lissa, had talked his ear off all the way to the door.

Anny didn’t say a thing until she stopped in front of an old stuccoed four-story apartment building with tall shuttered French doors that opened onto narrow wrought-iron railed balconies.

“Here we are.” She slipped out a key, opened the big door.

He expected she would tell him he could leave then, but she must have understood he meant the door to her own flat, because she led the way through a small spare open area to a staircase that climbed steeply up the center of the building. She pressed a light switch to illuminate the stairs and, without glancing his way, started up them.

Demetrios stayed a step behind her until they arrived at the door to her flat. She unlocked hers, then turned to offer him a smile and her hand.

“My door,” she said with a smile. Then, “Thank you,” she added simply. “It’s been lovely.”

“It has.” And he meant it. It was quite honestly the loveliest night he’d had in years. “I lucked out when I commandeered you at the Ritz.”

“So did I.” Her eyes were luminous, like deep blue pools.

They stared at each other. The moment lingered. So did they.

Demetrios knew exactly what he should do: give her hand a polite shake, then let go of it and say goodbye. Or maybe give her a kiss. After all, he’d greeted her with a kiss before he even knew who she was.

But now he did know. She was a sweet, kind, warm young woman—who was engaged to someone else. The last sort of woman he should be lusting after.

But even knowing it, he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.

Just a taste. What the hell was wrong with a taste? He wasn’t going to do anything about it.

Just…taste.

And this one couldn’t be like the first time he’d kissed her. That had been for show—all determination and possession and public display.

Or like the second when he’d left her on the street corner with her phone buzzing in her hand. One quick defiant kiss because he couldn’t help himself.

This time he could certainly help himself. But he didn’t, because he wanted it.

He wanted to taste her. Savor her. Remember her.

And so slowly and deliberately he took Anny’s lips with his.

She tasted of wine and apple and a sweetness that could only be Anny herself. He savored it more than he’d savored the tart. Couldn’t seem to stop himself, like a parched man after years in the desert given the clearest most refreshing water in the world.

He would have stopped if she’d resisted, if she’d put her hands against his chest and pushed him away.

But she put her hands against his chest and hung on—clutched his shirt as if she would never let go.

He didn’t know which of them was more surprised. Or which of them stepped back first.

His hormones were having a field day. After so long asleep, they were definitely wide-awake and raring to go.

Demetrios tried to ignore them, but he couldn’t quite ignore the hammer of his heart against the wall of his chest, or keep his voice steady as he said, “Good night, Anny Chamion.”

For a moment she just looked stunned. She barely managed a smile as she swallowed and said, “Good night.”

There was another silence. Then he tipped her chin up with a single finger, and leaned down to give her one last light chaste kiss on the lips—the proper farewell kiss he should have given her moments ago.

“I owe you,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“You rescued me, remember?”

She shook her head. “You fed me dinner. You went to see Franck.”

And you brought the first evening of joy into my life in the last three years. Of course he didn’t say that. He only repeated, “I owe you, Anny Chamion. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just ask.”

She stared at him mutely.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card, then scrawled his private number on it, tucking it into her hand. “Whatever you need. Whenever. You only have to ask. Okay?”

She nodded, her eyes wide and almighty enticing. She had no idea.

“Good night,” he said firmly, deliberately—as much to convince his hormones as to say farewell to her. But he waited for her to go inside and shut the door. Only when she had did he turn and walk toward the stairs.

He had just reached them when the door jerked open behind him.

“Demetrios?” she called his name softly.

He stiffened, then turned. “What?”

He waited as she came toward him until she stood bare inches away, close enough that he could again catch the scent of the apple tart, of a faint hint of citrus shampoo.

Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him. “Anything?”

“What?” He blinked, confused.

“You said you’d do anything?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

She wetted her lips. “Whatever I ask?”

“Yes,” he said firmly.

“Make love with me.”




CHAPTER THREE


SHE COULDN’T BELIEVE she’d said the words. Not out loud.

Thought them, yes. Wished they would come true, absolutely. But ask a man—this man!—to make love with her?

No! She couldn’t have.

But one look at his face told her that, in fact, she had. Oh, dear God. She desperately wanted to recall the request. Her face burned. Her brain—provided she had one, which seemed unlikely given what she’d just done—was likely going up in smoke.

What on earth had possessed her?

Some demon no doubt. Certainly it wasn’t the spirit of generations of Mont Chamion royalty. They were doubtless spinning in their graves.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” She had always thought people who fanned themselves were silly and pretentious. Now she understood the impulse. She started to back away.

But Demetrios caught her hand. “You didn’t mean…?” Those green eyes bored into hers.

She tried to pull away. He let go, but his gaze still held her. “I…never should have said it.” She wanted to say she didn’t mean it, but that wasn’t true, so she didn’t say that.

“You’re getting married,” he said quietly.

She swallowed, then nodded once, a jerky nod. “Yes.”

“And you’d have meaningless sex with me before you do?”

That stung, but she shook her head. “It wouldn’t be meaningless. Not to me.”

“Why? Because you had my poster on your wall? Because I’m some damned movie star and you think I’d be a nice notch on your bedpost?” He really was furious.

“No! It—it isn’t about you,” she said, trying to find the words to express the feeling that had been growing inside her all evening long. “Not really.”

“No?” He looked sceptical, then challenged her. “Okay. So tell me then, what is it about?”

She took a breath. “It’s what you made me remember.”

His jaw set. “What’s that?” He leaned back against the wall, apparently prepared to hear her out right there.

She sighed. “It’s…complicated. And I—I can’t stand here in the hallway and explain. My neighbors don’t expect to be disturbed at this time of night.”

“Then invite me in.”

Which, she realized, was pretty much what she’d already done. She shrugged, then turned and led the way back down the hall and into Tante Isabelle’s apartment. She nodded toward the overstuffed sofa and waved a hand toward it. “Sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”

“I don’t think either of us wants coffee, Anny,” he said gruffly.

“No.” That was certainly true. She wanted him. Even now. Even more. Watching him prowling around Tante Isabelle’s flat like some sort of panther didn’t turn off her desire. In fact it only seemed to make him more appealing. She had plenty of experience dealing with heads of state, but none dealing with panthers or men who resembled them. It was a relief when he finally crossed the room and sat on the sofa.

She didn’t dare take a seat on the sofa near him. Instead she went to the leather armchair nearest to the balcony, sat down and bent her head for just a moment. She wasn’t sure she was praying for divine guidance, but some certainly wouldn’t go amiss right now. When she lifted her gaze and met his again, she knew that the only defense she had was the truth.

“I am not marrying for love,” she said baldly.

If she’d expected him to be shocked or to protest, she got her own shock at his reply.

He shrugged. “Love is highly overrated.” His tone was harsh, almost bitter.

Now it was her turn to stare. This from the man whose wedding had been touted as the love match of the year? “But you—”

He cut her off abruptly. “This is not about me, remember?”

“No. You’re right. I’m the one who—who suggested…asked,” she corrected herself, needing to face her foolishness as squarely as she could. “I was just…remembering the girl I used to be.” She studied her hands, then looked up again. “I was thinking about when I was in college and I had hopes and dreams and wonderful idealistic notions.” She paused and leaned forward, needing him at least to understand that much. “Today when I saw you, I remembered that girl. And tonight, well, it was as if she was here again. As if I were her. You brought it all back to me!”

She felt like an idiot saying it, and frankly she expected him to laugh in her face. But he didn’t. He didn’t say anything at all for a long moment. His expression was completely inscrutable. And then he said slowly, almost carefully, “You were trying to find your idealistic youth?”

He didn’t sound as if he thought she was foolish. He actually seemed intrigued.

Hesitantly, Anny nodded. “Yes. And then, when you said you’d do anything…” Her voice trailed off. It sounded unutterably foolish now, what she’d wanted. “I thought of those dreams and how they were gone. And I just…wanted to touch them one more time. Before—before…” She stopped, shrugging. “It sounds stupid now. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. But it was like some fairy tale—this night—and…” She felt her face warm again “I just wished—” She spread her hands helplessly.

He was the one who leaned forward now, resting his elbows just above his knees, his fingers loosely laced as he looked at her. “So why are you marrying him?”

“There are…reasons.” She could explain them, but that would mean explaining who she was, and she’d ruined enough of her fairy-tale evening without destroying it completely. She didn’t want Demetrios thinking of her as some spoiled princess who couldn’t have her own way. For just one night she wanted to be a woman in her own right. Not her father’s daughter. Not a princess. Just Anny.

Even if she looked like an idiot, she’d be herself.

“Good reasons?”

She nodded slowly.

“But not love?” His tone twisted the word so that it still didn’t sound as if he believed in it.

But Anny did.

“Maybe it will come,” she said hopefully. “Maybe I haven’t given him enough of a chance. He’s quite a bit older than I am. A widower. His first wife died. He—he loved her.”

“Better and better,” Demetrios said grimly.

“That’s another of the reasons I asked,” she admitted. “I just thought that if I had this one night…with you…then if he never did love me, if it was always just a ‘business arrangement’ at least I’d…have had this. It’s just one night. No strings. No obligations. I wasn’t expecting anything else,” she added, desperate to reassure him.

He was silent and again she had no idea what he was thinking. And he didn’t tell her. There was nothing but silence between them.

Seconds. Minutes. Probably not aeons, but it felt that way. Millions of years of mortification. What had been a magical night had become, through her own fault, the worst night of her life.

Outside she heard the muffled sound of a car passing in the street below and, nearby, the ticking of Tante Isabelle’s ornate French Empire brass-and-ebony mantel clock. Finally she heard him draw in a slow careful breath.

“All right, Anny Chamion,” he said, getting to his feet and crossing the room to hold out his hand to her. “Let’s do it.”

She stared.

At his outstretched hand. Then her gaze slid up his arm to his broad chest, to his whisker-shadowed jaw, to that gorgeous mouth, to the memorable groove in his cheek, to those amazing green eyes, dark and slumberous now, and more compelling than ever. She swallowed.

“Unless you’ve changed your mind,” he said when she didn’t speak or even more. He looked at her, waiting patiently, and she knew he expected that she would have changed it.

But she couldn’t.

Faced with a lifetime of duty, of responsibility, of a likely loveless marriage, she desperately needed something more. Something that would sustain her, make her remember the passion, the intensity, the joy she’d believed in as a girl.

She needed something to hang on to, her own secret.

And his.

She reached up and took Demetrios’s hand. Then she stood and walked straight into his arms. “I haven’t changed my mind.”



When she slid into his embrace, Demetrios felt a shock run through him.

It was like the sudden bliss of diving into the water after a burning hot day.

It was pure and right and beautiful.

He could almost feel his body reawaken, as his eyes opened to Anny’s upturned face as she lifted her lips to his.

He took what she offered. Gently at first. With a tentativeness that reminded him of his first fumbling teenage kisses. As if he’d forgotten how.

He knew he hadn’t. He knew he’d been burned so badly by Lissa that he’d learned to equate kisses with betrayal.

But this wasn’t Lissa. These lips weren’t practiced.

These lips were as tentative as his own. Even more hesitant. Infinitely gentle. Sweet.

And Demetrios drank of their sweetness. He took his time, settling in, soaking up the sensations, remembering what it was like to kiss with hope, with joy, with something almost akin to innocence.

That was what they were giving each other tonight—a reminder of who they had been. Not to each other, but as a young man and a young woman with dreams, ideals, hopes.

He didn’t have hopes like those anymore. Lissa had well and truly ground those into the dust. But right now, kissing Anny, he could remember what it had felt like to be young, hopeful, aware of possibilities.

It was as powerful and intoxicating a feeling as any he could recall.

So why not enjoy it?

Why not celebrate the simple pleasure of one night with this woman who tasted of apple tart and sunshine, of citrus and red wine, and of something heady and slightly spicy—something Demetrios had never tasted before.




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