Innocent Surrender
The Virgin’s Proposition
Anne McAllister
The Virgin and His Majesty
Robyn Donald
Untouched Until Marriage
Chantelle Shaw

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

The Virgin’s Proposition

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Virgin and His Majesty

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Untouched Until Marriage

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Copyright

The Virgin’s Proposition

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.

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 The usual polite hushed voices of guests had been replaced by raucous cracks of masculine laughter and high-pitched flirty feminine giggles.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.

What was it? He wanted to know.

So he deepened the kiss, trying to discover more, trying to capture whatever was tantalizing him. He touched his tongue to hers and a second later felt the swirl of hers touching his.

At its touch his whole body responded with an urgency that surprised him. He might have deliberately forgotten these things, but his body hadn’t.

It knew precisely what it wanted.

It wanted Anny. Now.

But as much as he was willing to take her to bed, he resisted his body’s urgent demands to simply have his way with her right then and there.

Granted, this was going to be a one-off. But it wasn’t a sleazy one-night stand, a quick mindless exercise in sexual gratification.

She wanted it for reasons of her own. And Demetrios, understanding them, decided she had a point. Yes, he was older and wiser now. But he could still appreciate the hopeful young man he’d once been. There was something satisfying about paying tribute to that man.

But it wasn’t just about the past. It was about the present—the woman in his arms and making it beautiful for her as well. If he was going to be her memory, by God, he wanted to be a good one.

So he drew a deep breath and told himself to take his time as he let his hands slide slowly up her arms and over her back as he molded her to him.

She was warm and soft and womanly—and wearing far too many clothes. Demetrios couldn’t ever remember seducing a woman who had been wearing so many clothes. Anny was still wearing her jacket, for heaven’s sake.

Of course, he wasn’t actually seducing her. He was enjoying what had been offered, and giving pleasure—and memories—in return.

In doing so, Demetrios discovered how much pleasure there was in removing all those clothes. First he eased her jacket off, slowly peeling it off her shoulders and down her arms, then tossed it aside. His fingers eased themselves beneath the hem of her silk top and brushed her even silkier skin.

He caressed it with his fingers as he kissed his way down to nuzzle her neck. He traced the line of her bra beneath, brushed his fingers over her nipples, and smiled at the quick intake of her breath and the way her fingers clutched at his back.

He drew back to share the smile with her. She stared up at him, her lips parted in a small O that made him bend his head and touch his lips to hers.

This time her tongue was there first, tasting, teasing. And he felt his body quicken in response. The last thing he wanted now was to go slow. He wanted to rip their clothes off and plunge into her as fast and furiously as he could.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. But he wanted to do more than kiss her. Soon.

“Have you got a bed somewhere, Anny Chamion?” he murmured against her lips.

She smiled as her tongue lingered against his lips for a second longer before she took his hand in hers. “Right this way.”

In all her years as a princess Anny had never identified with Cinderella.

That made sense, of course, because Cindy hadn’t been a princess in the beginning. She’d become one by taking a risk—daring to do what she wasn’t supposed to do—not for a happy ending, but for the joy of one single beautiful night.

And that Anny could identify with completely.

She, too, wanted a single beautiful night. A night that she could remember forever—a night that would get her through, not the endless drudgery of Cinderella’s pre-prince future or even the endless succession of royal duties and obligations that were hers, but a passionless, loveless marriage.

Oh, she supposed there was a tiny chance that Gerard might come to love her the way he had loved Ofelia. But the instant Anny allowed its theoretical possibility, she knew that in truth it was never going to happen.

If Gerard had been going to fall in love with her, he would have done so before now. He’d had years, literally, to do it. As had she. It wasn’t going to happen.

But Gerard had at least known love. Anny hadn’t.

And she wanted to. Once. Just once. She wasn’t asking for forever. Only for tonight—with Demetrios Savas.

Making love with him wouldn’t be the deep abiding love that Gerard had shared with Ofelia. Anny knew that. Besides good conversation and dinner, she and Demetrios had shared nothing at all.

But she had memories of him that their meeting today brought back to life. Ever since he’d swept her out of the hotel this afternoon, she’d felt the same sort of heady enchantment she had known from the years when everything had seemed possible.

When he’d asked what on earth she was thinking, she had told him the truth. She wanted to recapture the young woman she’d been—just for this night—and give her a taste of the joy she’d longed for. And the young Demetrios she hadn’t really known, but had only dreamed of, had been part of that young woman’s life.

All she could think was that today, when he’d walked into the Ritz, kissed her and swept her out again, it was as if God or serendipity or fate or—who knew what?—had dropped him into her life for a reason.

This reason, she thought as she lay back on her bed and took hold of his hands and drew him down beside her.

That Anny wasn’t a practiced lover was pretty much the understatement of the year. Her spine usually stiffened whenever Gerard slipped an arm around her or pressed a kiss to her cheek or lips. But now, when Demetrios kissed her, she felt as if she had no bones at all.

His lips were warm and firm and eager. And so were hers.

His had followed his fingers, kissing her shoulders, as he’d peeled off her jacket on the way to the bedroom. Now those same fingers slid beneath her silk top and his lips followed again, right up to the edge of her lacy bra.

He drew her top up and over her head with the skill of a man who knew exactly how to undress a woman. And for a brief moment Anny thought about all the beautiful women he must have known intimately—women far more practiced and appealing than she was.

And yet he didn’t seem distracted by those memories. He was focused only on her. He made Anny feel as if she were the only woman in the world.

Demetrios’s eyes, so green in the light, were dark now in the shadows. The skin seemed taut across his cheekbones. And Anny thought she felt a faint tremor in his fingers as they skimmed across her ribs, then pulled her up against him while he deftly unfastened her bra and drew it off.

He knelt on the bed beside her and pressed kisses along the line of her bare shoulders, then moved lower to her breasts, cupping them in his hands, and kissing them. The feel of his mouth on her heated flesh was more erotic than anything Anny had ever experienced. She clutched at his arms, hung on.

His hair tickled her nose as he nuzzled her. It smelled of the sea and of pine, and Anny drew a deep breath, as if she could capture the scent and save it forever. The memory would be more tangible that way.

And then he was kissing his way down the valley between her breasts all the way to her waistband. Only when his fingers sought the fastening, she caught her breath, then shook her head.

He pulled back, his brow furrowed, his hair tousled. “No?”

Anny wanted to smooth his brow. “Yes,” she assured him. “But…I don’t want to be the only one undressed.” She gave him a hopeful look, at the same time wondering if she was stepping out of bounds. She knew all the royal protocol in the world, and not a bit about whether she should be asking to take an active role in undressing the man she was in bed with. Maybe she should have been busy with his buttons already.

Demetrios’s mouth quirked briefly and she wondered if he would tell her so, but he didn’t. He just smiled and settled back on his heels, then dropped his hands to rest on his thighs. “Be my guest.”

Anny swallowed. Then she levered herself up to sit against the headboard of the bed. She felt awkward as she reached out to touch him, but her hands didn’t. They knew precisely what to do, taking hold of the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, exposing his bare chest to her gaze.

And as she parted his shirt, the tips of her fingers brushed against the wiry curling hair that arrowed down from his chest to the waistband of his jeans.

Demetrios’s jaw tightened as he watched her every move, breathing shallowly, his eyes hooded, his body totally still, as if he were steeling himself to endure some sort of pain.

“Are you all right?” she asked him worriedly.

He gave a hoarse laugh. “Oh, yeah. More than all right.” Then abruptly he shrugged his shirt off, tossed it aside, took her hands and pressed them against his chest.

His skin was hot and damp and she could feel his heart thundering beneath her palm. Instinctively Anny leaned forward and touched her lips to his chest. Kissed him there, loved the feel of his heated flesh beneath her lips. She moved higher, kissed his collarbone, then his shoulders. She kissed his neck, nuzzled against his stubbled jawline, nibbled his ear, then traced it with her tongue and felt him shudder.

His response made her smile with a heady sense of power and excitement as she understood that he wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.

And then he was bearing her back on the bed, where he made quick work of the zip on her linen trousers, hooked his thumbs in the waistband, skimmed them down her legs and dropped them onto the floor.

She should have felt self-conscious when he settled back to let his eyes roam over her. But all she felt was desire. And need.

Anny reached for his belt eagerly, but her hands weren’t expert now and she fumbled with it.

Demetrios stilled her fingers. “Let me.” He had it undone and was skinning out of his jeans in a matter of seconds. And then he was settling between her knees, running his hands up her thighs. Anny stroked his, too.

Demetrios tried to take it slow. He understood that she wasn’t in the habit of propositioning men. Her touch was tentative, but no less tantalizing for being so.

The truth was that her unpracticed touch was more erotic than anything he’d felt in years. Of course, Lissa had been a skilled lover. But knowing she’d got her skills from sleeping with dozens of men was something he’d done his best to blot out of his mind.

Anny’s touch was nothing like Lissa’s. As her fingers skimmed over his body, he felt as if she were learning him and reawakening him at the same time.

It was almost like being reborn.

After the drama and trauma of his life with Lissa, he’d deliberately and determinedly shut off that part of himself. He’d refused to touch. Refused to feel.

Until tonight. Now, tonight, with her warm smiles, her gentle demeanor and soft touch, not to mention a certain artless allure that he doubted she was even aware of, Anny had unwittingly opened that door.

She made him feel again. Need again. Ache with desire in a way he hadn’t since he was barely more than a boy. Both of them were connecting with their youthful selves tonight, Demetrios thought as he ran his hands over the line of her ribs, the slight swell of her hip, her long, lovely thigh to her knee, then slowly traced a line up the inside of that same thigh.

She quivered. So did he.

She lifted a hand and drew her fingers lightly down his chest. Lower. And as she did, the heel of her hand brushed against his erection, a simple unintentional touch nearly sending him over the edge.

His breath hissed between his teeth. “Careful,” he said, his voice shaky. “I’m a little overeager tonight. It’s been a long time.”

Her eyes widened. She looked stricken. “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, putting the meaning he hadn’t said into the words he had. She started to sit up, to pull away. “I didn’t mean—I should never have—”

But he caught her and held her right where she was. “It’s fine,” he assured her. “More than fine,” he added truthfully. “I’m…looking forward to it.”

And there was an understatement for you.

But Anny didn’t look convinced. “I never thought—”

He shook his head. “Now’s not the time to think.”

He tugged her panties down her endless legs, then stripped his boxers off as well. Her gaze went at once to his erection. She swallowed, then reached out a hand to stroke him.

“Wait. Hang on.” He was gritting his teeth as he reached down to snag his jeans and pull a condom packet from his wallet. With clumsy fingers he sheathed himself quickly, then settled between her thighs.

He wanted to simply dive in, to lose himself in her heat and her softness. But he knew better, knew that as much as he wanted this, really it was for her. And so he forced himself to slow down, to draw a line from her navel south, dipping his fingers between her thighs, watching as her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat.

She was damp, ready. Her body moved restlessly as his fingers probed her. She bit her lip and her fingers knotted in the bed clothes. Her breaths were quick and shallow. His were, too. He was dying with need, but still he waited, touched. Stroked.

And then suddenly Anny ground her teeth and reached for him. “Yes! Now. I need—” The words caught in her throat. She tossed her head.

“What do you need?” Demetrios could barely get his own words past his lips. His voice was as strained an desperate as his body felt.

“Need…you!”

No more than he needed her. He’d reached the end of his endurance, and now he drove into her, felt her stiffen, heard her gasp.

His whole body froze. She couldn’t be! Surely she wasn’t a virgin! For God’s sake! Why on earth would she have thrown her virginity away on one night with him?

It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t think. He could only feel. And want. Still. Then she shifted her body, accommodated him, settled against the mattress and dug her heels into his buttocks, driving him deeper.

He groaned. He had to be wrong. Of course he was wrong. But he tried to move slowly, carefully, to control his desperation.

But Anny’s fingers gripped his shoulders. “It’s all right,” Anny said fiercely through her teeth. “It’s all right,” she said again when he still didn’t move.

“You’re sure? You’re not—I thought you were—” But then she moved beneath him, her body seducing him, driving him insane, shattering the last of his control.

His world splintered as he buried himself inside her. He knew he had left her behind. He had failed.

“Oh!” There was a sudden delighted breathlessness in her voice that made Demetrios lift his head to stare at her.

“Oh?” he echoed warily.

Her face seemed to light up. “It was…wonderful.” She was smiling at him. Even in the dim glow of the streetlamp beyond the window he could see her beaming. He didn’t understand it at all.

“It wasn’t wonderful,” he told her abruptly.

Her smile vanished. “I’m sorry. I thought you…”

“I did. Obviously. And it was amazing for me,” he assured her. “Absolutely.” Mind-blowing in fact. “But that doesn’t excuse my lack of control.”

She smiled and touched a hand to his arm. “I…liked your…lack of control.”

He stared at her. She liked it? He gave a quick disbelieving shake of his head. “I don’t see why,” he muttered.

“Because…because…” But she couldn’t explain it. It was simply enough to know that he’d wanted her, had lost himself in her. “You made me happy,” she told him.

“Yeah?” He still couldn’t quite fathom that. “I’ll make you happier,” he vowed.

And he set about doing just that.

If their first lovemaking had been short and, for him, desperate, this time Demetrios had considerably more finesse. More control. He kissed her thoroughly, taking his time, enjoying the soft sounds she made as he roused her desire. He let her slip the condom on him this time, and tried not to shudder with the desire her soft hands provoked.

She was perfect, fresh, beautiful, and responsive. And Demetrios was determined to give her the memories she’d asked him for.

As he made love to her he thought about the young woman she must have been then, and found himself wishing that he’d known her. At the same time he didn’t imagine she’d changed much. There was an innocent sweetness about her even now. He didn’t let himself think about the future she had predicted for herself. That was her choice—her life—not anything to do with him.

What he could do for her was what she’d asked—give her a night to remember.

He loved her completely, thoroughly, made her need his touch so that finally she clutched at his hips and drew him in.

“Yes.” The word hissed through her teeth as she shattered around him. And as he brought her to climax, he understood her satisfaction at his own earlier loss of control.

It meant as much—even more—to give pleasure as to receive it, he thought even as his own climax overtook him and he buried himself in her body and felt himself wrapped in her arms.

Making love with Demetrios was everything Anny had ever dreamed of. More. It was as perfect as Cinderella’s night at the ball.

She wanted to cry and at the same time she’d never felt happier—or more bereft—in her life because it was so wonderful and she knew it couldn’t last.

Had always known, she reminded herself. Had gone into it with her eyes wide open. It was what she’d wanted, after all.

Memories.

Well, now she had them. In spades. She would remember this night always. Would savor it a thousand times. A million. All her life and the eternity that stretched beyond it. She would never forget.

Even now as she lay beneath Demetrios’s sweat-slicked body and ran her still trembling hands down his smooth hard back, she focused on every single sensation, storing up the sound of his breathing, the weight of his body pressing on hers. She memorized the feel of his hair-roughened calves beneath her toes, the scent of the sea that seemed inexplicably so much a part of him, the scrape of his jaw against her cheek.

She catalogued them all, wishing she could create some tangible reminders to take out whenever she wanted to relive these moments. She was in no hurry at all to have him roll off her, create a space between them, smile down at her and say he had to go.

And when at last his breathing slowed and he rolled off, she felt an instant sense of loss. She wanted to clutch him back, to cling, to beg for more.

She didn’t. He had given her what she asked for. He had given her the most memorable night of her life. Anny told herself not to be greedy, but to be grateful. And content.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He seemed surprised. He raised up on one elbow and regarded her from beneath hooded lids. His mouth quirked at one corner. “I think I’m the one who should be saying thank you.” For all that he smiled, his words were grave.

Still, they made her happy. She was glad he’d enjoyed their lovemaking. She didn’t expect he would hang on to the memories forever as she would, but she hoped he might have occasional fleeting fond thoughts of this night—of her.

“You gave me wonderful memories,” she assured him.

He opened his mouth, as if he might say something. But then he closed it again and simply nodded. “Good.”

He didn’t move. Neither did she. They stared at each other. Under Demetrios’s gaze, for the first time Anny felt self-conscious. None of the royal protocol she’d ever learned—not even her year in the Swiss finishing school—had prepared her for the proper way to end this encounter.

Perhaps because it hadn’t been proper in the least.

But she didn’t regret it. She would never regret it.

“I should go,” Demetrios said.

She didn’t hang on to him. She stayed where she was in the bed, but she watched his every move as he dressed. This night was all she was going to have—she didn’t want to so much as blink.

He didn’t look at her or speak until he had finished dressing and was slipping on his shoes. Then his gaze lifted and his eyes met hers.

“You…should maybe rethink this marriage you’re planning, ” he said.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t want to spoil the present by thinking about the future. Silently she got out of bed and wrapped herself in the dressing gown she’d left hanging over the chair. Then she crossed the room to him and took his hands in hers.

“Thank you,” she said again, refusing to even acknowledge his comment. He opened his mouth as if he would say something else, then shut it firmly and shook his head. His gaze was steely as he met hers.

“It’s your life,” he said at last.

Anny nodded, made herself smile. “Yes.”

She didn’t say anything else. She needed him to go while she still had the composure she’d promised herself she would hang on to. It was only one night, she told herself.

It wasn’t, she assured herself, as if she was in love with him.

That would teach him, Demetrios thought when he got back to his hotel. He flung himself over onto his back and stared at the hotel room ceiling. Though what he’d learned this evening he wasn’t exactly sure.

Probably that women were the most confusing difficult contrary people on earth.

He should have known that already, having been married to Lissa. But Anny had seemed totally different. Sane, for one thing.

And yet all the while they’d been sitting there and he’d been thinking she was simply enjoying dinner and his company and having a good time she’d been thinking about inviting him into her bed.

It boggled the mind.

Still, when she explained, he’d understood. God knew sometimes over the past three years he’d yearned for the days when he’d believed all things were possible.

He didn’t believe it anymore, of course. He wasn’t looking for a relationship again. He’d done that with Lissa. He’d been the poster boy for idealism in those days—and look where it had got him.

No more. Never again.

From here on out he wanted nothing more than casual encounters. No hopes. No dreams. No promises of happily ever after.

Exactly what he’d had tonight with Anny.

Who was getting married, for God’s sake! Talk about mind-boggling. But he supposed she was more of a realist than he had been. Though why the hell a beautiful, intelligent young woman was marrying some elderly widower was beyond him.

And why was the elderly widower marrying her?

Stupid question. Why wouldn’t any man—who still believed in marriage—want to marry a bright fresh beautiful woman like Anny?

But if he had been the marrying kind and engaged to her, Demetrios knew damned well he wouldn’t leave her feeling lukewarm and desperate enough to invite another man into her bed!

He was sure she didn’t do that very often. Or ever.

For a minute there, when he’d entered her, he’d thought she was a virgin. But that didn’t make sense.

He wished he knew what was going on.

Was her family destitute? Did they owe money to this man? Was Anny being bartered for their debts?

It certainly didn’t look as if they had money worries from the apartment she was living in. Of course she’d told him at dinner that she was staying in the flat of her late mother’s best friend, Anny’s own godmother, a woman she called Tante Isabelle. While Isabelle was in Hong Kong doing something for a bank, she’d lent Anny her apartment for the year.

So why wasn’t Tante Isabelle, who obviously cared enough for Anny to provide her a place to live, objecting to her goddaughter’s loveless marriage?

Did she even know it was a loveless marriage?

Where was Anny’s father? He was still living, Demetrios knew that. Anny had mentioned him in the present tense. He was married again. She’d mentioned a stepmother and three little stepbrothers.

Was she doing it for them?

Whatever the “good reasons” were, she didn’t seem to be doing it for herself. So who was she doing it for? And why?

Stop it! he commanded himself roughly. It wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t his problem.

He’d done his part. He’d taken her to bed. He’d made love with her and had, presumably, reminded her of the idealistic girl she’d been. He’d given her the memories she wanted.

He had a few himself. Not that he intended to bring them out and remember them. And yet, when he attempted to shut them away, they wouldn’t go. He could still see her in his mind’s eye—bright-eyed and laughing, gentle and serene, eager and responsive.

They were far better memories than those he had of Lissa.

They should have relaxed him, settled him. His body was sated. It was his mind that wouldn’t stop replaying the evening.

He tossed and turned until eventually the bed couldn’t confine his restlessness. He got up to prowl the room, to open the floor-to-ceiling window that opened overlooking La Croisette and the sea.

To the west he could see the shape of the Palais du Festival beyond the boulevard. Past that was the harbor where Theo was on his sailboat. Beyond that the hill and buildings of Le Soquet rose against the still dark sky.

Anny was there.

He could be, too, he thought. He was sure she would have let him stay the night.

But he didn’t want to stay the night, he reminded himself. He wanted brief encounters. No involvement. He shoved away from the window and shut it firmly.

He wasn’t going to care about any woman ever again. Not even sunny, smiling Anny Chamion with her upcoming loveless marriage, her hidden dreams and her memories of the lovemaking they’d shared.

It was going on five. He had a breakfast meeting at eight with Rollo Mikkelsen, who was in charge of distribution for Starlight Studios. He needed to be sharp. He needed to have his wits about him. He didn’t need to be thinking about Anny Chamion.

He yanked on a pair of running shorts and tugged a T-shirt over his head. Maybe running a few miles could do what nothing else had done.

He pocketed his room key and went downstairs into the cool Cannes morning. He crossed La Croisette and bounced on his toes a few times, then he set out at a light jog. The pavement was nearly deserted still. In a couple of hours it would start to get busy. The day would begin.

He would meet with Rollo. There would be more meetings after that. Lunch with a producer he hoped to work with down the road. And late this afternoon the screening.

Afterward he’d go see Franck. He was tempted to see if Franck wanted to come to the screening, but it wasn’t an action hero story. It was a dark piece—the only sort of thing he had been capable of writing in the aftermath of his marriage and circumstances of Lissa’s death. It was a cautionary tale.

Not exactly fodder for a teenager who still had his life ahead of him. No. Better that he go see Franck after.

Would Anny be there?

It didn’t matter if she was.

Demetrios picked up his pace, refusing to let himself think about that. He didn’t care. They’d had one evening. One night of loving. One night in which they’d each recaptured a part of the young idealistic people they’d once been.

They’d given that to each other. But now it was over.

Time to move on.

CHAPTER FOUR

ANNY DIDN’T SEE Demetrios again.

She didn’t really expect she would.

But as she went about her business, as she walked to the clinic, did her grocery shopping, worked on her dissertation, and actually went to a screening or two at the Palais du Festival over the next ten days, she couldn’t help keeping an eye out to see if she could spot the tall dark-haired man who had so startlingly swept into her life.

He had gone back to the clinic. She knew that because Franck had been full of the information. And he hadn’t only come the next day as he’d promised, but also several times over the past week and a half.

Yesterday, Franck had told her gleefully this afternoon, he had commandeered a wheelchair and taken Franck down to the dock.

“A wheelchair? You went to the dock?” Anny, who had never been able to get Franck to go anywhere because he was too self-conscious, could barely believe her ears. “Whatever for?”

“We went sailing.”

Then she really did gape.

Franck nodded eagerly. “We went in his brother’s sailboat.”

He recounted his amazing day, his eyes shining as he told her how Demetrios and his brother Theo—“a racing sailor,” Franck reported—had simply lifted him out of the wheelchair and into the boat, then set out for a sail around the Îles de Lérins.

Anny was still stuck imagining Franck allowing himself to be lifted, but apparently, as far as Franck was concerned, Demetrios and his brother could do anything. “Didn’t he tell you?” Franck demanded.

Anny shook her head. “I haven’t seen him.”

He looked surprised. “You should have come in the mornings. He always came then.”

Of course he did. Because he knew when she went to see Franck. She’d told him. If Demetrios had wanted to see her, he could have. He knew where she lived.

He hadn’t. And she hadn’t sought him out, either.

She’d had her night. She’d relived it ever since.

Of course she couldn’t deny having wished it had lasted longer—even wishing it had had a future. But she knew it didn’t.

So it was better that she not encounter him again. So even though she had kept an eye out for him over the following week and a half, she’d carefully avoided attending any parties to which he might have gone.

Of course, she knew he’d come to Cannes to work, not to party. But she also knew that sometimes going to parties was part of the work. Some years it had even been part of her own. Fortunately her father had decided not to host one this year.

And now the festival was over. Demetrios, she was sure, was already gone. He’d got what he came for. News stories early this week had reported that he’d landed a big distributor for the film he’d brought to Cannes. And yesterday she’d read that he’d found backing for his next project.

She was happy for him. She almost wished she had seen him again to tell him so. But what good would that have done, really?

It would only have been embarrassing. He might even have believed she was stalking him.

No. She’d already had her own personal fairy tale with Demetrios Savas. One night of lovemaking.

That was enough.

But when Gerard had called her that afternoon and announced, “We will be hosting a party on the royal yacht this evening,” she wasn’t quite as sanguine as she’d hoped.

She’d told herself that she would go to her fate gracefully and willingly. He was a good man. A kind man.

But the truth was, she’d barely given him a thought since the night she’d had dinner with Demetrios.

Now she felt oddly cold and disconnected as she repeated, “We?” Did he meant the royal “we” or “the two of them”?

“My government,” Gerard clarified briskly. “The party was planned to occur whether I was here or not. We hoped to attract film companies, you know. The revenues are an excellent boost to the economy.”

“Yes, of course.” Her father believed that, too.

“And since I’ve finished my work in Toronto, I’m able to be here. And it will be a wonderful opportunity for us to host it together.” He sounded delighted.

Anny wasn’t certain. “Are you sure I should host it with you?” she asked. “I mean, we’re not married.” As if he needed reminding.

“Not yet,” Gerard agreed. “But soon. That is something we need to discuss, Adriana.”

“What is?”

“The date of our wedding.”

“I thought we agreed we’d wait until after I finished my doctorate.”

“Yes, but we can make plans. It will not be an elopement, you know.”

“Of course not. But there will be time—”

“Yes,” Gerard said cheerfully. “Tonight. After the party.”

“But—”

“So, no, you will not be my official hostess,” he went on, “but we have waited long enough. I’ve missed you, Adriana.”

“I’ve—” Anny swallowed “—missed you, too.”

He heard the hesitation in her voice. “You are upset that I wasn’t here last week.”

“No. I—”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be,” he explained to her. “Duty called. It often does,” he added wryly. “You understand. Better than anyone, you understand.”

“Yes.”

“But I am here now. And I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight. I will be there for you at eight.” He rang off before she could object.

Object? Hardly. Gerard had the same ability to command that her father did. It came from a lifetime of expecting people to fall in with his plans. And even if he had stayed on the phone, what possible objection could she have made?

Of course he had sprung it on her at the last minute. But it wasn’t as if she couldn’t pull herself together, find a dress, be prepared to leave at eight.

Princesses were always prepared. It was part of their job description.

She just wished she felt more prepared to marry him.

“His Highness regrets that he is unable to come in person,” the driver said respectfully as he bowed, then helped Anny into the back of the black sedan that had arrived outside her flat at precisely 8:00 p.m. “He is hosting a dinner meeting. He will be on the yacht when you arrive.”

Anny tried to look regretful, too. But what she felt was relief. While she could make conversation with anyone anywhere, thinking about being alone with Gerard in the confines of the car had made her edgy for the past three hours.

He would be all that was proper and polite. And so would she. They would make small talk. Discuss the weather. His trip to Toronto. Her latest chapter notes on her dissertation.

Or their upcoming wedding.

She flashed a quick smile at the driver. “C’est bien. Merci.”

He shut the door, and immediately the silence enveloped her. Sometimes riding in cars like this suffocated her. She felt as if she were buffered from the real world, isolated, with the sounds and commotion beyond the doors held firmly at bay.

But right now, for a few minutes, she welcomed it. The short ride to the harbor would give her a chance to compose her thoughts, to prepare herself, to become the princess of Mont Chamion she would have to be this evening.

But as the car approached the harbor, she became distracted by the rows of yachts and sailboats, thinking about how Demetrios and his brother had brought Franck here. Now she scanned the multitude of boats as if, just by looking, she might be able to tell which one was Theo’s.

Of course chances were very good Demetrios’s brother was already gone. And it didn’t matter anyway. The memories of her night with Demetrios had been intended for her to take out and savor, yes. But they weren’t intended to distract her from the obligations at hand.

Now, though, even when she turned her gaze away from the harbor and stared resolutely straight ahead, it wasn’t the driver she saw. In her mind’s eye she still saw Demetrios making love with her.

“Go away,” she muttered under her breath.

The driver glanced around at the sound of her voice and met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness?”

“Nothing.” Anny pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling a heachache coming on. “I was simply thinking aloud.”

And she needed to stop. Now.

A small launch carried her to where the royal yacht lay at anchor. As they approached the yacht she could see tuxedo-clad staff scurrying around. She caught snatches of the lively sounds of live music. Maybe she and Gerard would dance. He would hold her in his arms and they would find love together. It had happened that way for Papa and Mama. Her father had assured her it was so. Their marriage had been arranged and it had been wonderful. It could happen.

Determinedly Anny lifted her chin and made herself smile at the prospect.

She even made a point of minding her royal manners and staying primly seated until the crew brought the launch alongside the yacht when she would have preferred to stand up and let the wind whip through her hair or, worse yet, be the one to throw the line and clamber aboard the way she always had on her father’s smaller yacht when she was a child.

So she was definitely in princess mode when she heard Gerard say, “Ah, wonderful. Here you are at last.”

He was waiting on deck and gave her his hand to help her aboard, then let his gaze travel in slow admiration down the length of her navy blue dress with its galaxies of scattered silver sequins for a long moment before he kissed her on both cheeks.

Then, to her surprise, he wrapped her in a gentle embrace. “It’s so good to see you again, my dear.”

He truly did look pleased.

He was a lovely man, Anny reminded herself guiltily. Kind. Gentle. Capable of love. He had after all, by all accounts, loved his first wife very very much.

“Gerard,” she greeted him warmly, and smiled not only with her lips but her voice as well.

He linked his arm through hers and drew her onto the deck beside him. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to come and get you in person. But I had a dinner meeting with Rollo Mikkelsen. Come. I want you to meet him. Rollo is the head of Starlight Studios. He’s interested in possibly setting future projects in Val de Comesque.”

Anny smiled. “What wonderful news.”

“It is.” Gerard opened the door to the main salon where a table had been set for perhaps ten people. The meal was over now and the dinner guests had left the table to chat in small groups. “Rollo.” He drew Anny with him toward the nearest group of men. “I’d like you to meet my fiancée.”

They all turned as Gerard slipped an arm around Anny’s waist and said proudly, “Her Royal Highness, Princess Adriana of Mont Chamion, may I present Rollo Mikkelsen, head of Starlight Studios.”

A man took her hand.

Anny didn’t see him at all. He was nothing but a blur. Her heart pounded. She smiled perfunctorily, murmured politely, “Mr. Mikkelsen, a pleasure.”

“And Daniel Guzman Alonso, the producer,” Gerard said, introducing the next man.

Another blur. Another hand shook hers. Now her ears were ringing as well. Her voice worked, though, thank God. “Mr. Guzman Alonso, I’m delighted to meet you.” Years of social deportment practice had something to recommend it, after all.

“And of course you must recognize Demetrios Savas,” Gerard was saying jovially, “whose latest film Rollo has just agreed to distribute.”

Demetrios was not a blur at all. Sharp and clear, tall and imposing. And, judging from the hard jade glare in those amazing eyes, somewhere between stunned and furious. His gaze raked her accusingly.

Anny could barely breathe. Nor could she stop her own eyes from fastening on him, hungrily, devouring him. Wanting him again so badly that how she could ever have thought one night would be enough, she hadn’t a clue.

“Mr. Savas.” She held out her hand to him, polite, proper, sounding—she hoped—perfectly composed.

Demetrios crushed it in his. “Your Highness,” he said through his teeth. “Imagine meeting you here.”

A princess?

Anny Chamion was a princess?

She was the “delightful fiancée Princess Adriana” that Gerard had mentioned over dinner?

His fiancée would be joining them later, the crown prince of Val de Comesque had said. She was busy with her day job—unspecified—and since he hadn’t given her any warning, he’d only asked her to come to the party, not appear for dinner.

“Even we royals have to work hard these days,” he’d joked. “You will meet her tonight.”

Now here she was, with Gerard’s arm around her, looking serene and elegant and every bit as royal as the man she was marrying.

Which made Gerard her “elderly widower”?

Demetrios’s teeth came together with a snap. Maybe she hadn’t used the term “elderly,” but that was what he’d thought.

The slim fingers he was crushing between his were trying unsuccessfully to ease out of his grasp. For a moment he didn’t even realize he was still gripping them.

Then, still staring into Anny’s—no, Princess Adriana’s—wide eyes, he dropped them abruptly, took a step back and shoved his hands into his pockets.

It was probably some sort of social solecism, to have his hands in his pockets in front of a princess, but short of strangling her, he could think of nothing else to do with them.

Besides, as far as social gaffes went, it was no doubt a bigger one to have slept with her!

He shot her a glare. He doubted she noticed. She wasn’t looking at him. She was smiling at Rollo Mikkelsen, answering a question he’d asked her, her voice low and melodious, steady and completely at ease—just as if she were not standing between the man she was going to marry and the man she’d taken to her bed!

And he’d thought Lissa was a lying cheat!

Abruptly he said, “Excuse me. I see someone I need to speak to.” And he turned and walked out of the room as fast as he could.

It was no bigger lie than hers. And almost at once he did see someone he knew. Mona Tremayne was standing on deck by herself, looking at the sunset, and even if it meant listening to her extol the virtues of her darling starlet daughter Rhiannon, he was determined to do it.

It was better than standing there listening to the lying Princess Adriana charm all and sundry while her fiancé looked on!

Mona was delighted to see him. She kissed him on both cheeks, then patted his arm. “It’s lovely to see you, dear boy. I’m glad you’re back among the living.”

Demetrios took a careful breath and tried to focus solely on her. “It wasn’t that bad,” he told her. He liked Mona, always had. She called a spade a spade, and she couldn’t help it if her daughter was a ditz.

“Maybe not for you. But we can’t afford to let talent go to waste,” she said with a throaty laugh caused by too many years of cigarettes. “You do good work. You’ve been missed.”

“Thanks.” His heart was still pounding, but he refused to look back toward the salon. He didn’t gave a damn where the princess was. He slanted Mona a grin. “Does that mean I can toss an idea at you?”

“You want to marry my daughter?” Another wonderful husky Mona Tremayne laugh.

Demetrios managed a laugh of his own as he shook his head. “I’m through with marriage, Mona.” Truer words had never been spoken.

“I’m not surprised,” Mona said briskly, her eyes telling him that she knew more than he had said. Then she smiled and added, “Well, if you ever change your mind, you’ve got a fan in my household. More than one.”

Demetrios smiled, too. “Thanks.”

She leaned against the railing and stared out across the water before slanting him a sideways glance. “So toss me the idea,” she suggested. “I’m listening.”

It was the sort of chance he’d been waiting for all week. Mona at his disposal, her daughter nowhere to be found. And he did have an idea for her. He tried to pitch it.

He’d have done better if, a few minutes later, he hadn’t been instantly distracted by the sound of Anny’s voice nearby and the knowledge that she and Gerard had come out onto the deck.

He lost his train of thought as he glanced over his shoulder to see where she was. His fingers strangled the railing because he still wanted to grab her and shake her and demand to know why the hell she hadn’t bothered to tell him who she really was. Not to mention what she thought she’d been doing inviting him into her bed!

He was still steaming. Still furious.

And not paying any attention at all to whatever Mona was saying in reply to his movie pitch.

“—think I’ll jump overboard,” Mona ended conversationally and looked at him brightly.

In the silence Demetrios recollected himself and tried to get a grip. “Huh?”

“Oh, my dear.” Mona patted his cheek. “We should talk another time—when you can focus.”

“I’m focusing,” he insisted.

But only, it seemed, on Anny. He couldn’t seem to make sense of anything beyond her soft voice somewhere behind him, followed by the melodious sound of her laughter. Then he heard Gerard, too, chiming in, speaking rapidly in French to whoever they were talking to, and then Anny switched to French as well. Their conversation went too quickly for him to have any idea what they were saying.

She sounded happy, though. Was she happy? What about her loveless marriage?

“But if I drowned, I couldn’t be in your film then, could I?” Mona was saying.

He stared at her blankly.

She laughed, again. “Never mind, dear.” She gave him air kisses and began to move away. “Another time. I think I’ll find another drink.”

“I’ll get you a drink,” he said hastily.

“No, dear boy. I’m fine. You stay here and entertain royalty.” And giving his cheek one more pat, she swept away.

He turned to protest again—and came face-to-face with Anny.

Her wide eyes were searching his face. Her smile, so polished earlier, looked slightly more strained now. “Demetrios.”

He drew himself up straight. “Your Highness,” he said stiffly.

“Anny,” she corrected, her voice soft, the way it had been in bed.

He ground his teeth. “I don’t think so.” His voice was, he hoped, pure steel. He braced his back and elbows against the railing, and glared down at her.

“Anny,” she insisted. “It’s who I am.”

“Certainly not all of who you are,” he reminded her sharply. “You could have told me.” He looked around for Gerard, expecting him to appear at her side. But her prince had moved away and on the other side of the deck, deep in conversation with Rollo and another studio executive Demetrios knew.

“I could have,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to. Why should I?” Her tone was indifferent, as if it could make her idiocy appear perfectly reasonable.

“Because I might have liked to know?” he snapped.

No one was close to them. The sextet had begun to play. A clarinet was warbling. Thank God, because this wasn’t a conversation anyone should be overhearing.

“I asked you to tell me what I should know about you,” he reminded her.

“You didn’t need to know that.”

“You asked me to sleep with you!”

Color flared in her cheeks. She glanced around quickly as if fearing people would hear.

A corner of his mouth twisted. “Something else you don’t want anyone to know? Afraid your elderly widower will learn what you were up to?”

“My what?” She looked confused.

“Your fiancé,” he bit out. “The man who is oh-so old and decrepit and who doesn’t love you.”

“I never said he was elderly or decrepit. Gerard is twenty-one years older than I am,” she said through her teeth. “Which may not seem like much to you, but it is a different generation.”

He grunted, acknowledging that. But it didn’t explain the rest. “So why are you marrying him? Daddy forcing you? Are you making a governmental alliance?” He spat the words.

“Something like that.”

He snorted. “Give me a break. This is the twenty-first century!”

“It can still happen,” she maintained.

“You’re saying your old man sold you off to the highest bidder?”

“Of course not! It was simply…arranged. It’s good for both countries.”

“Countries? That’s what matters? Not people?”

She lifted her chin. “Gerard is a fine man.”

“Whom you betrayed by sleeping with me,” he pointed out sardonically.

She opened her mouth as if she would deny it, but then she closed it again, her lips pressing into a thin line. The color was high in her cheeks. She looked indignant, furious, and incredibly beautiful.

“Obviously I made a mistake,” she said tightly, hugging her arms across her chest. “I was out of line. I never should have suggested anything of the sort. It was…” She stopped, her voice not so much trailing off as dropping abruptly.

“What was it?” Demetrios asked her, trying to fathom what was going on in that beautiful head of hers.

She shook it. “Nothing. Never mind. Forget it.”

“Will you?” he asked her.

“Yes.” The word came out quickly. Then her gaze dropped. So did her voice. “No.”

At her soft yet stark admission, his own eyes jerked up to search her face, to try to understand her. Once he’d caught on to Lissa’s duplicitous behavior, he began to have an inkling what she was up to, though God knew he’d had no idea how far she would go.

But Anny didn’t sound like she was lying now. Not this time.

“Did it solve anything?” he pressed her.

She didn’t answer. Finally, when he thought she wasn’t going to reply at all, she shrugged. “I don’t know.” She wasn’t looking at him now. She’d come to stand next to the railing, too, and now stared across the water toward the lights of Cannes. Her shoulders were slumped.

Demetrios was still angry, though whether he was more annoyed at her or at himself, he couldn’t have said. After Lissa, he damned well should have known better. And what the hell was Anny doing, letting herself be a pawn?

It was none of his business, he reminded himself. He should turn and walk away. But his feet didn’t take the hint. They stayed right where they were. Behind them the sextet had segued into something lilting and jazzy.

Anny didn’t seem to notice. Her gaze never wavered from the shore.

“Fascinating, is it?” he demanded when she still didn’t look at him.

“It’s beautiful,” she replied simply.

He grunted. “All lit up like a fairy tale,” he said mockingly, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

“Some would say that,” she agreed quietly.

“Not you?” He pressed her. The breeze lifted her hair. It smelled of citrus and the sea. He wanted to touch it, to brush it away from her face, hook it behind her ear, touch her cheek. Touch her.

He knotted his fingers together instead.

“I’m not a big believer in fairy tales,” she said in a soft monotone.

“Except for one night,” he reminded her harshly.

“I’m sorry. You could have said no,” she pointed out.

His jaw tightened. “Should have said no,” he corrected.

The breeze caught her hair again and tossed tendrils of it against his cheek. More citrus scent assailed his nostrils. Demetrios turned his head away, but just as quickly turned back to breathe in the scent again, to feel the softness touch his face.

She took a careful breath. “I want to thank you for going back to see Franck.”

“No thanks necessary. I didn’t do it for you,” he said flatly.

“I know that. But even so, it means a great deal. To him,” she added. “And taking him sailing.” She turned her head to smile at him. “Brilliant. I can’t believe you got him to do it. But he loved every minute.”

Demetrios didn’t want her thanks. He didn’t want her smiles. He shrugged irritably. “I was glad to do it. He’s a good kid. Smart. He’s got a lot of potential.”

“Yes.” Anny smiled slightly. “I agree. I’m afraid he doesn’t.”

“He’s angry. Given what happened to him, why shouldn’t he be?” Demetrios remembered all the times in the past three years when his own anger had stopped him cold, threatening to derail his dreams. There were too many to count. Now he took a slow careful breath. “He’ll find his way,” he said. They continued to stare at the seafront in silence for a long moment, then he added, “He’ll get there with some support from friends like you.”

“And you,” Anny added.

Demetrios shook his head. “I’m leaving. Bright and early tomorrow morning. I’m taking my brother’s boat to Santorini.”

“But you won’t forget Franck.” She sounded certain.

How could she know him well enough to be sure of that when he felt like she didn’t know him at all? Demetrios didn’t know. But he had to admit she was right in this case. “No, I won’t forget him. I’ll stay in touch.”

She smiled, satisfied. “He’ll like that.” She stared down at the water, unspeaking for a long moment, but she didn’t walk away.

Neither did he. He didn’t feel as angry now. He couldn’t have said why, except that this Anny, princess or not, was the one he remembered.

She brushed a lock of hair away from her face. “I thought you’d be gone by now. You got what you came for—excellent distribution, a highly acclaimed film.”

“Rollo’s taking it on, yes. And the critics have been kind.”

“I’m sure it’s not just kindness.”

“You didn’t see it?” Surely princesses could see whatever they wanted. Royal prerogative or some such thing.

“No. I—I wanted to. But I didn’t want you to think—” She stopped.

“Think what?” he demanded.

She shrugged awkwardly. “That I was…chasing you. I meant what I said, one night. I told you the truth, Demetrios. I just…didn’t tell you all of it.” She had turned and was looking at him intently now, as if she were begging him to believe her.

Did he? Or was she as good an actress as Lissa?

It didn’t matter, he reminded himself. Princess or not, she wasn’t part of his life. Not after tonight.

But he couldn’t stop himself saying, “Look, Anny. You can’t do this if you’re not sure. Gerard might be a great guy. But marriage is—” He let out a harsh breath, knowing he was the last person on earth who should be offering advice on marriage. But then, who knew better the mistakes you could make even when you thought you were marrying for love?

“Marriage is what?” she asked when he didn’t go on.

“Marriage is too damned hard to risk on flimsy hopes!” He blurted the words angrily, not at her, but at Lissa.

Of course Anny didn’t know that. She stared at him, eyes wide at his outburst.

Demetrios stared back. It was none of his business. None of his business. The words echoed over and over in his head.

“Adriana!” Gerard’s voice behind them made them both start.

“I have to go,” Anny said quickly.

Demetrios straightened up at once, and gave her a polite distant nod. “Of course.”

But still she didn’t move away. She faced him and looked into his eyes for a long moment, a slight smile on her face. “Thank you.”

He raised a brow. “For the memories?” he said sardonically.

She nodded. Their gazes locked.

“Adriana!” Gerard’s voice came again, more insistent this time. Anny turned to go. Demetrios caught her hand and held her until she looked back at him. “Don’t regret your life, princess.”

Demetrios kept away from her the rest of the evening.

Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? He thought she’d used him and lied by omission. It hadn’t felt like a lie. It had felt like being able—for once—to share herself, the woman, not the princess, that she really was.

But she didn’t suppose Demetrios saw it that way. He was probably avoiding her. Or maybe he had forgotten her already. She was the one who had vowed to remember. And dear God, she was. Every single second Anny knew exactly where he was. She saw who he talked to, who talked to him.

As Gerard’s unofficial hostess she was required to focus on other things, on all his guests. And no one could have faulted her attention to her role. She chatted with his guests, gave them what she hoped appeared to be her undivided attention—even when it was being shared with the tall, lean man with wind-blown hair talking to this producer or that actress.

Gerard kept her close, smiling at her and nodding his approval. “Your papa is right. You are marvelous,” he told her.

Yes, Papa would be proud. But Anny’s heart wasn’t in it. Her soul wasn’t in it. Only later that evening when, shortly before midnight, she saw Demetrios board the launch back to the harbor, did her heart and soul let her know where they were. A hollow desperate ache opened up inside her.

He wasn’t for her. She knew that.

She repeated it over and over in her head even as she continued smiling brightly at the couple telling her about their South Pacific cruise. She nodded, commented, laughed at a witty remark and didn’t miss a beat.

But she didn’t miss the sight of Demetrios standing alone on the deck of the launch looking back at the yacht, either.

As soon as she could, she made her excuses and slipped away to stand in the bow of the royal yacht to catch a last glimpse of the launch as it grew smaller and smaller and finally merged with the lights of the harbor, and he was gone.

They were ships that passed in the night, she told herself. One night.

“Adriana!” Gerard’s voice called to her once more.

She swallowed, then called, “Je viens. I’m coming.”

She heard Demetrios’s words echo in her mind. Don’t regret your life, princess.

She prayed desperately that she wouldn’t.

CHAPTER FIVE

DEMETRIOS WAS up at dawn.

He wanted an early start. He hadn’t slept well. Not true. He hadn’t slept at all. He’d gone to bed determined not to spare a thought for Her Royal Highness Princess Adriana.

And he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

Of all the irritating demanding things that he’d anticipated having to cope with during these past two weeks in Cannes, dealing with a princess—or any woman at all, for that matter—had never made the list.

After Lissa, he couldn’t imagine one breaching his defenses.

He’d allowed himself the one night with Anny because it had been clearly one night. No strings. No obligations. No relationship.

It still wasn’t, he tried to tell himself. But until last night he’d managed to convince himself that she’d known what she was doing.

Now he didn’t believe it for a minute. And he couldn’t get her out of his head!

Fine, he’d get an early start. The sooner he set sail, the sooner he’d put Cannes—and Her Royal Highness—behind him.

He flung the last of his clothes into his bag and checked out of the small hotel where he’d spent the past two weeks. Then, hefting his duffel bag, he headed for the harbor. The morning was still and quiet, almost soundless so far. Few cars moved through the streets. A lone cyclist rode past him.

When he crossed La Croisette, there was a bit of traffic, a few pedestrians walked briskly on morning constitutionals, a couple of joggers ran by and he saw a man walking a dog. Cannes getting back to normal.

Demetrios wanted to get back to normal, too. He quickened his pace, eager to board the boat and be at sea at last.

Near the Palais du Festival, work crews were beginning to gather to take down the hospitality tents. He skirted them, heading for the dock where Theo had left his sailboat.

It was a magnificent boat—a bit over forty feet, sleek and trim, with two small cabin spaces fore and aft, and a main cabin that could sleep an extra kid or two if required. It was fast and fun and yet it could still accommodate Theo’s new lifestyle as a married man with kids. He and Martha had two now—Edward, who was five, and Caroline, not quite three.

Demetrios had always figured himself for the family man, while Theo would always be the family’s nautical equivalent of the Lone Ranger. That wasn’t the way it had turned out.

“Lucky you,” Demetrios had said, feeling a small stab of envy at Theo’s life.

“Yeah.” Theo hadn’t misunderstood. “I hate taking the time to sail to Santorini with Martha and the kids there already. From here by myself it’ll take me almost two weeks.”

“Tell them to come here. Make a holiday of it.”

Theo shook his head. “Caro’s getting over croup. Martha worries. She’s got commissions to work on. And Eddie gets seasick.”

“Your son gets seasick?” Demetrios’s mind boggled.

“He’ll grow out of it. But we hate seeing him miserable. It isn’t fun. And you know how it can blow this time of year.”

They both had experienced their share of gale-force winds in the Mediterranean during frequent visits to Greece to see their mother’s parents when they were children. “It’s worse other times,” he said truthfully.

Theo shrugged. “Fine. You do it.”

Demetrios had thought he was joking.

“Never been more serious in my life. You want to sail her to Santorini after the festival, she’s all yours.”

Demetrios hadn’t hesitated. “You bet.”

The last time he’d sailed any great distance, it had been not long after his wedding. He’d chartered a sailboat so he and Lissa could sail from Los Angeles to Cabo.

“It’ll be fantastic,” he’d promised Lissa.

It had been a disaster—one of many in their short marriage.

But this trip wouldn’t be. It wouldn’t be a piece of cake to do it solo, but he had plenty of experience and, after Cannes, a real desire to be on his own. It was the carrot he’d held out for himself for the past two weeks, every time the festival threatened to drive him crazy.

Now he reached the dock and could spot Theo’s boat tied up in a slip at the far end. A couple of men from the crew of one of the nearer yachts were already making ready to sail. They gave him a wave as he passed. He waved back, but kept moving, The red-orange rays of sunrise were turning the gleaming hulls bright pink against still cerulean water. It looked like a painting.

Until someone stood up and moved away from where they had been sitting on the stern of the boat.

Demetrios stopped dead, disbelieving his eyes. He frowned, gave his head a shake, then came closer to be sure.

And she—he could tell it was a female, could even tell which female—came toward him, too. Even though she looked totally different.

Gone was the midnight blue dress that glittered like starlight when she moved. Gone were the diamond necklace and dangling diamond earrings. Gone was the sophisticated upswept hairstyle with its few escaping tendrils. There wasn’t a hint of Princess Adriana in evidence anywhere.

Nor was there a hint of the classy competent professional woman he’d met that day at the Carlton. No blazer, no linen skirt, no casual dress shoes.

This Anny was wearing jeans and running shoes, a light-colored T-shirt with a sweatshirt knotted around her hips. And her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Tendrils still escaped, but they made her look about fifteen.

Hell’s bells, he thought. All the roles she played, she could give Lissa a run for her money!

“What are you doing here?” He was equal parts suspicion and annoyance. He was tempted to just brush right past.

“I came to say thank you.”

His gaze narrowed. “For what? Sleeping with you? My pleasure.” He made sure it didn’t sound like it. “But don’t come around thinking it’s going to happen again.”

“I know that,” she said, with as much impatience in her voice as he had in his. “I didn’t come for that.”

“What then?

She hesitated a split second, then looked right up into his eyes. “For courage.”

Demetrios didn’t like the sound of that. He gave her a short, hard look, grunted what he hoped was a sort of “that’s nice, now go away” sound. Then he did brush past her, tossing his duffel bag onto the deck and jumping on after it.

He heard her feet land on the deck barely a second after his. He spun around and confronted her squarely, stopping her in her tracks. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Telling you what happened.”

He scowled at her. He supposed it was useless telling her he didn’t want to know what happened. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the rail. “So tell me.”

“I…talked to Gerard last night. After the party. I told him I couldn’t marry him.”

Demetrios stared at her, aghast. Of course he’d seen her turmoil. But that didn’t mean she needed to burn her bridges!

“Why?” he demanded harshly, suspiciously.

At his tone, her eyes widened. “You know why! Because I don’t love him. Because he doesn’t love me.”

“So? You knew that last week. Hell, you probably knew it last year! Didn’t stop you then.”

“I know, but—”

But Demetrios didn’t want to hear. He spun away, grabbing his duffel and tossing it into the cockpit. Then he straightened and kneaded tight muscles at the back of his neck, thinking furiously. Finally he turned to nail her with a glare.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with me,” he told her as flatly and uncompromisingly as possible.

“You gave me the courage.”

Not what he wanted to hear. He said a rude word. “Don’t be stupid.”

“You told me not to regret my life.”

“I didn’t expect you to turn it upside down!”

“Maybe I’m turning it right side up,” she suggested.

He raked fingers through his hair. He supposed he had said some damn stupid thing like that. Giving her the benefit of his own regrettable experience, no doubt. And she, foolishly, interpreted it as him having some common sense.

“So everyone left and you just walked up to him and said, ‘Oh, by the way, Gerry, I can’t marry you’?”

She looked taken aback at his tone, not understanding what the problem was. Of course she didn’t understand—because the problem was his, not hers.

“I wasn’t quite that blunt,” she said at last. “It just…happened.” She gave him a sort of sad reflective smile. “He’d said he wanted to discuss things between us—about the wedding. He wanted to set a date—a specific time. And—” she shook her head helplessly “—I couldn’t do it.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he said again, “Not because of me.”

A tiny line appeared between her brows for a moment. And then she seemed to realize what he was getting at. “You mean, did I suddenly realize I’d rather have you?” She laughed. “I’m not that presumptuous.”

“Good,” he said gruffly, embarrassed at having made the leap at the same time he was relieved it had been in error.

“Well, good for you,” he said finally, at length. What was he supposed to say? He gave her a quick approving nod, then climbed down into the cockpit, unlocked the door to the companionway and kicked his duffel down into the cabin.

“It is good,” she said, her voice brighter now. “It was the right thing to do.” Behind him Demetrios heard her take an expansive breath. “In fact, it feels wonderful.”

He grunted. He supposed it must. Like dodging a bullet. The way he’d feel if he’d never married Lissa. He glanced up at her. “Congratulations.”

She grinned. “Thank you.”

He cocked his head, considering how simple it had been. Maybe too simple? “And Gerard was okay with your breaking it off?”

“Well, not exactly,” she admitted. She shoved a tendril of hair that had escaped her ponytail away from her ear. “He said all brides have jitters. That I should think things over. Take some time. Get to know my own mind.” She snorted—a ladylike snort. “I do know my own mind.”

Did she? Demetrios doubted it. She’d agreed to marry Gerard, hadn’t she? She must have thought it was a good idea at one point. And Gerard obviously expected her to come to her senses.

“And your father?” Demetrios demanded. “What did he say?” When she didn’t answer at once, he narrowed his gaze. “You did tell him?”

Anny tossed her ponytail. “I sent him an e-mail.”

Demetrios gaped. “You sent your father—the king—an e-mail?”

She shrugged, then squared her shoulders and lifted her chin defiantly. “He might be everyone else’s king, but he’s my father. And I didn’t want to talk to him.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t.”

“He’ll understand. He loves me.”

No doubt he did. But he was also king of a country. A man who was used to ruling, commanding, telling everyone—especially his daughter—what to do. And he had told her to marry Gerard.

“He’ll get used to it.” But Demetrios thought Anny’s words were more to convince herself, not him. “It will just take a little time. He might be…upset…at first, but—” another shrug “—that’s why I’m leaving.”

He looked up at her. “What do you mean, leaving?”

Anny turned and hopped back down onto the deck, and for the first time Demetrios noticed the backpack and the suitcase sitting on the far side of the dock.

As he watched, she shouldered the pack, then picked up the suitcase. “I’m going away for a while.”

He came to rest his elbows on the back of the cockpit and stare at her. “You’re leaving Cannes?”

She nodded grimly. “Papa will be on my doorstep as soon as he gets the e-mail, finds his pilot, and fuels the jet. I don’t intend to be here when he comes.” She shrugged. “He will need time to come to terms. So I’m off. I just—” she smiled at him “—didn’t want to leave without telling you, saying thank you.”

Frankly, he thought she was carrying the etiquette a bit too far. And You’re welcome didn’t seem much of an answer. Whatever advice he’d given her had been based on his messed-up marriage and might have nothing to do with hers. What the hell had he thought he was doing?

“Maybe you should give it some time,” he said now. “Don’t be too hasty. Think for a while, like Gerard said. Then decide.”

She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I’m not being hasty. And I have thought! We’ve been engaged three years. First I wanted to finish grad school. Then I wanted to finish my dissertation. ” She paused, then met his gaze squarely. “I did decide, Demetrios. I think I decided—in my gut—a long time ago, which is why I kept putting it off. You’re just the one who gave me the courage to say it.”

They stared at each other until finally, abruptly, Anny stepped back and gave him a small salute. She smiled. “‘Bye, Demetrios. Thanks for the courage.” The smile broadened. “And the memories.”

Then she squared her slender shoulders, shifted the backpack slightly, picked up the suitcase, and marched back up the dock toward La Croisette.

Demetrios stared after her, unmoving, while his brain whirled with fifty thousand sane reasons to turn around and start getting the boat ready to sail.

But not one of them was proof against the fear of what could happen to her if he did.

Damn it!

“Anny!” He vaulted out of the cockpit, then scrambled off the boat onto the dock. “Where are you going?”

A small figure halfway down the dock turned back. She shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

She didn’t sound as if it mattered.

Demetrios knew it did. His stomach clenched. Scowling now, annoyed that she could be so blasé about something that important, he stalked down the dock after her. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

He knew the hard edge to his voice made her eyes widen, but she didn’t shrink away from him.

She simply set the suitcase down and faced him. “Exactly what I said. I haven’t a clue. I just need to go somewhere Papa won’t expect me to be. He’ll look in all the places, the likely places,” she allowed. “So I’ll just go someplace else. It’s not like I made plans, you know.”

He knew. And he didn’t like it one bit. She was a young woman alone. Kind, trusting. Not to mention rich—and a princess, besides. She’d be prey for more unsavory characters than he wanted to think about.

“I thought I might hitchhike,” she said blithely in the face of his ominous silence.

“Hitchhike!” He spat the word, furious.

She burst out laughing. “I’m not going to hitchhike, Demetrios,” she assured him. “I was joking. You looked so intense. I’ll be fine. Don’t get so worked up.”

“I’m not worked up!” He was very calmly going to strangle her.

She was still smiling. “Right. Okay. You’re not worked up.” She gave him a sideways assessing look. Then she tried more reassurance. “You don’t need to worry. You are worrying,” she pointed out in case he hadn’t noticed.

“Because you’re acting like an idiot! You don’t just pack up and head out at the drop of a hat. You need plans. A place to go. Bodyguards!”

She blinked. “Bodyguards?”

“You’re a princess!”

“I haven’t had a bodyguard since I left university. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” She smiled again. It was a regal smile. It made Demetrios’s teeth ache they were grinding together so hard.

“But thank you for your concern,” she added, in that proper bloody well-brought-up royal tone of voice she could put on when she wanted to. Then, as if he were some mere peasant she’d just dismissed, she picked up the suitcase and started away again.

Demetrios muttered something unprintable under his breath, then stalked after her and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her to a stop. “Then you’re coming with me.”

Her head whipped around. She stared at him, eyes wide, mouth agape. “With you? To Greece?”

“Why not?” he demanded. “You don’t have a plan of your own. You can’t just wander around Europe. It’s not safe.”

“I’m not a fool, Demetrios. I went to Oxford by myself. I went to Berkeley!”

“With watchdogs,” he reminded her.

“I was young then. Almost a child. I’m not a child now.”

“No. You’re a raving beauty and any man with hormones can see that!”

“I meant I’m not going to be anyone’s prey.”

“Right. You’re big and strong and tough. That’s why I practically kidnapped you right in the middle of a hotel lobby!”

“You did not!”

“I walked off with you!”

“Because I let you. I knew who you were. I could have screamed,” she told him haughtily.

He snorted. “Everyone would have thought you were an overexcited fan.”

“I can take care of myself. I don’t get into cars with strangers. I don’t make foolish decisions.”

“Really?” He gave her a sardonic look. “You were going to marry Gerard. You propositioned me. You went to bed with me.”

She glared at him. “Up until now, I didn’t consider that a foolish decision.”

“Think again.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Look. You’re a damned appealing woman, princess. You swept me off my feet, didn’t you?” he said.

She made a face at him. “I promise you, you were the one and only. Besides, I’ve got my memories now.”

He didn’t let himself think about that. “What if someone else wants a few of his own? If anything happens to you out in the big bad world, it will be my fault!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You have an outrageous sense of your own importance. What I do is my responsibility, not yours.”

“But you owe it to me,” he reminded her. “You said you did. That’s what you came down here for—to thank me!”

Anny folded her arms across her breasts and glowered at him. “Obviously a mistake. So much for etiquette.”

“Next time don’t be so damn polite.” He picked up her suitcase, then hung on determinedly as she tried to grab it out of his hand. “This is going to look great on all the paparazzi shots,” he reminded her silkily.

Abruptly, she let go and glanced around, looking hunted, then annoyed. “There are no photographers!”

He shrugged, unrepentant. “There could be. You want them following you all over Europe? Bet Papa can ask them where you’re hiding.” He gave her a mocking look over his shoulder and kept walking.

For a long moment he was afraid she’d just let him go off with her suitcase while she went in the other direction. But finally he heard her footsteps coming after him.

“This is insane,” she told him. “You don’t want me with you.”

“More than I want you dead in the gutter.” He heard the explosion of breath that meant she was gearing up for another round, so he turned and forestalled her. “Look, blame it on my mother. It wouldn’t matter if it was really my fault or not, I’d think it was. She’d think it was.”

“You’d tell her?”

“I wouldn’t have to. She’d know.”

Malena Savas had eyes in the back of her head and she knew what all of her children were thinking before they ever thought it. Demetrios knew his mother had a far greater understanding of what he’d been through these past three years than he’d ever told her. Or ever would tell her. She understood at least a part of what he’d gone through—and she didn’t blame him, which he considered a miracle.

But if he left Anny alone now, she’d have his head.

“She doesn’t know about me,” Anny protested.

“Not yet.”

Anny muttered under her breath. He just kept walking. Every step took them closer to the boat.

“I suppose it will be safer for you if I come along,” she said at last.

“Safer?”

“The boat will be easier to sail if there are two of us. Although I’m sure you could do it on your own.”

“I could. But, you’re right,” he added. If that convinced her, who was he to argue?

“Still, you said you wanted solitude,” she reminded him.

“Maybe you won’t talk all the time,” he retorted in exasperation.

She smirked. “And maybe I will.”

“Then I’ll put you off on Elba.”

“Like Napoleon?” Her lips twitched.

“Exactly.” Their gazes met. Locked. Dueled.

“Napoleon escaped,” Anny said loftily.

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“When I leave you, I’ll tell your father where you are.”

They were joking. But they weren’t joking at the same time. He meant it—and he could tell from the look on her face that Anny knew it. Stalemate.

At long last she let out a sigh. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re going to stand here and argue with me for as long as it takes.”

“Not that long. I might just throw you over my shoulder and dump you in the boat.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Want to try me?” He gave her his best Luke St. Angier hardass hero look.

She narrowed her gaze at him, then she said finally, “If I come, you won’t think it’s because I want to go to bed with you again?”

“What?” He stared at her.

“Because I don’t want you thinking I’m stalking you.”

“Wouldn’t matter if you did,” he told her flatly. “I’m immune.”

“Yes, I could tell,” she said drily.

He scowled. “I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy sex with a beautiful woman. I said, I don’t want anything more than that.”

That made her blink. “Ever?”

“Never.” No compromise there.

Anny cocked her head and studied him carefully, as if her scrutiny might detect cracks in his armor. He could have told her there were no cracks. Not after Lissa.

He didn’t. But he stood firm and unyielding under her gaze.

“You shouldn’t say ‘never’ like that,” she told him, her tone gentle, as if she intended to comfort him. “Never is a long time and you might meet someone you love as much. Differently,” she added quickly. “But as much.”

Demetrios stared, jolted. But he didn’t correct her misunderstanding. She only knew what the press had printed, after all. She’d got the story of their marriage that Lissa had wanted read. And after Lissa’s death, he’d had nothing to gain from airing their private problems.

Saying something wouldn’t change things now, either. So he just waited, let her think what she liked.

“What about sex?” she said abruptly

His mouth fell open. He couldn’t help it. “What?”

“I’m not asking you for sex,” she assured him quickly. “I just want to know what’s expected.”

So do I, Demetrios felt like saying because God’s own truth was, if he lived to be a hundred, he doubted he would be able to predict the next words out of Princess Adriana’s mouth.

“It’s up to you, princess,” he told her gruffly. “I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it. I can’t say I’m not willing. But I’m not falling in love with you. So don’t get your hopes up.”

Color flared in her cheeks. “As if!”

He grinned, then shrugged. “Just saying. You brought it up. Fine. If this is going to work, we need some plain speaking. I’m telling you right now I’m not getting involved. I’m bringing you along to keep you safe. Period.”

“Whether I like it or not,” she said in a mocking tone of her own.

“Whether you like it or not,” he agreed. “As for sex—” he shrugged “—I have no expectations. Whatever happens on board, princess, is entirely up to you.”

She blinked. Then she seemed to consider that. Her brow actually furrowed and she thought about it for long enough that Demetrios had time to wonder what the hell she could possibly be thinking.

But then she smiled, nodded and stuck out her hand. “Deal.”

Out of the frying pan.

Into the fire.

Her life was turning into one big cliché.

Anny knew she should have said no. She should have turned and walked away and kept right on walking.

More to the point, she should never have come down to the harbor to find Demetrios in the first place.

She had because…because, she forced herself to admit, he was the only one she knew who would understand. He was, as she’d told him, the one who had given her the courage to do it.

He and Franck.

But she could hardly talk to Franck about this. She was supposed to be his support, not the other way around. She hadn’t been expecting support, per se, from Demetrios, either. Well, nothing beyond a “good for you,” which in fact he’d given her.

That was all she was hoping for. All! She had definitely not expected Demetrios to insist that she come with him.

She ventured a glance at him now as he prepared to leave the harbor. He was paying her no attention at all. He was stowing gear and checking charts and going over things that Anny knew were important and knew equally well she would be in the way of if she tried to help.

So she kept out of the way and waited until he gave her directions. She was by no means a solo sailor. But she’d been on boats since she was a child. And while Mont Chamion’s royal yacht had a very competent crew, she had taken orders from her father when he and she and her mother had gone sailing. She was sure she could help Demetrios here.

That wasn’t going to be the problem.

She wasn’t a fool, Anny had been at pains to assure him. But what else could you call a woman who went from a three-year engagement to a man she didn’t love to a two-week solo boat trip with a man who would never love her?

Not, Anny assured herself, that she was in love with him.

But she wasn’t indifferent to him.

She…liked him. Had once had a crush on him. He had, as she’d told him in somewhat vague terms, been the dream of her youth.

And even now she respected him for his career. She admired him for coming back from the devastating personal tragedy that had been his wife’s death. She certainly esteemed him for his kindness to Franck over the past couple of weeks, and—let’s be honest—for his generosity to her. In and out of bed.

But she didn’t love him. Not yet.

Not ever, Anny told herself sharply.

She was, despite what her dutiful engagement to Gerard might say about her, basically a sensible woman. She didn’t dare fate or walk in front of buses.

Now she considered herself warned. It was more than a little humbling to hear him spell out his indifference in such blunt terms. As if there were no way on earth he might ever fall in love with the likes of her.

Fine. So be it.

Right now she was looking for a respite—some peace and quiet and a chance to learn the desires of her own heart.

So she would take what he offered: two weeks of solitude during which her father would never be able to find her. Two weeks to formulate plans that would allow her to make her own way in her adult life.

Yes, marriage, she was sure, would be a part of it. But not marriage to Gerard. Despite his suggestion that she take some time and reconsider, Anny knew she’d made the right decision. She only regretted that it had taken her so long to come to her senses and realize she needed more than duty and responsibility to get her to the altar.

She’d suspected it, of course. But it had taken her night with Demetrios to show her that passion, too, had to play a part.

The passion, the desire, hadn’t dissipated since that night.

How she was going to handle that for the next two weeks, she wasn’t sure. Had he meant it when he said it was up to her?

Demetrios started the engine. The boat’s motor made the deck vibrate beneath Anny’s feet.

“Hey, princess, cast off.” Demetrios was at the wheel, but he jerked his head toward the line still wrapped around the cleat at the stern.

Anny clambered off, unwound the line, and jumped back aboard.

He throttled the engine ahead. The boat began to move slowly out of the slip. Anny felt the cool morning breeze in her face, smelled the sea, felt a heady excitement that was so much better than the dread with which she’d awakened every morning for too long.

She knew how Franck had felt when he’d gone sailing—alive.

But she knew, too, that it was a risk.

Spending two weeks alone on a sailboat with Demetrios Savas could be the closest thing to heaven, or—if she fell in love with him—to hell that Anny could imagine.

CHAPTER SIX

MALENA SAVAS, Demetrios’s mother, was fond of crisp character assessments of her children. Theo, the eldest, was “the loner,” George, the physicist, was “the smart one.” Yiannis was “our little naturalist” because he was forever bringing home snakes and owls with broken wings. Tallie was, of course, “baby girl.”

And Demetrios, her gregarious, charming middle child?

“Impulsive,” his mother would say fondly. “Kindhearted, honorable. But, dear me, yes, Demetrios tends to leap before he looks.”

Apparently that hadn’t changed, the middle child in question thought irritably now as he edged the boat out of the slip and headed her toward the open sea. You’d have thought that by the age of thirty-two he’d have got over it. His marriage to Lissa should have cured him of impetuosity once and for all.

But no. He’d actually gone after Anny—Princess Adriana—and insisted she spend the next two weeks on a damn sailboat alone with him!

What the hell had he been thinking?

Exactly what he’d told her—that sweet and kind and innocent, she was far too trusting to be let out on her own. And that it was his fault.

Not the sweet and kind and trusting bit—that was Anny. But the “out on her own bit” he felt responsible for. Hell, she’d thanked him for making it possible!

So he’d opened his mouth—and now here she was, standing in the cockpit waiting for him to tell her what to do. She was smiling, looking absolutely glorious in the early morning light, the light breeze tangling her hair. He remembered its softness when his own fingers had tangled in it.

They’d happily tangle in it again. And more. But fool that he was, while he’d insisted she be on his boat for two weeks, he’d left the sleeping arrangements up to her!

Refusing to think about it, Demetrios concentrated on getting the boat out into open water. He tried not to look at her at all. But if he so much as turned his head, there she was.

“Maybe you should take your stuff below,” he said, “in case anyone does recognize you while we’re still in the harbor.” Barely a creature was stirring on the docks or on any of the boats. But all it took was one nosy person…“I’ll call you when I need your help with the sail.”

She smiled. “Thanks.” And picking up her suitcase, she started to carry it down the companionway steps. They were too steep. He started to offer to help, but Anny simply dropped it down the steps with a thud. Then she and her backpack disappeared after it.

Well, she was resourceful. He would give her that. And he breathed easier when she was below. It was almost possible—for a few seconds at a time—to pretend that he was still alone on the voyage.

But then as he moved beyond the harbor, he spotted the royal yacht of Val de Comesque on its mooring. And as he motored slowly past it, Demetrios could see the crew were already up and stirring.

Was Gerard up, too? Was he prowling the decks worrying about Anny?

Or did he simply think she’d gone home, gone to bed and would come to her senses in short order?

According to Anny, he’d said for her to think about it. Obviously he was confident she’d change her mind. She had sounded confident she would not.

But was that true or mere momentary bravado?

Demetrios wasn’t surprised she’d balked. But he didn’t share her confidence when it came to being sure she wouldn’t change her mind.

It was one thing to say you weren’t going to marry a powerful wealthy, admittedly kind man like Prince Gerard and another thing to hold fast to the notion.

Maybe she really did just need time to think, to be sure.

Sure, yes? Or sure, no?

Not his problem, Demetrios told himself firmly. He believed she was right to take the time and consider her options. God knew he should have taken a couple of weeks to think about what he was doing when he’d married Lissa!

He might have come to his senses. Something else he wasn’t going to think about. Too late now.

He drew a deep breath of fresh sea air and shut Lissa out of his mind. She was the past. He had a future ahead of him.

He had a new screenplay to work on. And two weeks of sea time to ponder it.

And, heaven help him, Anny.

“Anny!” He shouted her name now that they were well past the royal yacht.

Instantly she appeared in the companionway, looking at him expectantly.

“Still want to help?”

“Of course.” She scrambled up into the cockpit.

He nodded at the wheel. “Steer this course while I hoist the sail.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Steer?” She looked surprised, then delighted, stepping up to put her hands on the wheel. Her face was wreathed with a smile.

“You do know what you’re doing?” he said a little warily.

“I think so,” she said. “But usually no one wants me to do it. ‘Can’t let the princess get her hands dirty.’ That sort of thing.”

“For the next couple of weeks, you’ll have dirty hands,” he told her.

“Fine with me. I’m happy to help. Delighted,” she said with emphasis. “I was just…surprised.” She shot him a grin. “But thrilled.”

Her grin was heart-stopping. Eager. Apparently genuine. It spoke of the sort of enthusiasm that he’d once dreamed Lissa would show toward their sailing trip to Mexico.

“Show me,” she demanded.

So he showed her the course he was sailing and how to read it on the GPS. She asked questions, didn’t yawn in his face and file her fingernails, and nodded when he was finished. “I can do that,” she said confidently.

He hoped so. “Just keep an eye on the GPS,” he told her, “and do what you need to do with the wheel. I can straighten it out if you have a problem.”

“I won’t,” she swore.

He went forward to hoist the sail, pausing to shoot her a few quick apprehensive glances, hoping she really did know what she was doing.

She seemed to have no qualms about the task, keeping her eye on the GPS and her hand on the wheel. She had pulled on a visor of Theo’s that hid most of her face from him, but as he watched, she tipped her head back and lifted her face so that the sun touched it. His breath caught at the sight.

Demetrios was accustomed to beautiful women. He’d worked with them, he’d directed them. He’d been married to one.

Flawless skin, good bones, perfect teeth all mattered. But facial features were only a part of real beauty. The superficial part. And Anny had them.

But more than that, she had a look of pure honest joy that lit her face from within. It was an uncommon beauty. She was an uncommon beauty.

She was also a princess who had just made a serious, life-changing decision if she decided it was the right one to make. She didn’t know her own mind.

Demetrios knew his. However beautiful, sexy and appealing she was, he wasn’t getting involved with her.

But he was already beginning to realize that unless Anny decided to share his bed it was going to be a very long two weeks.

Anny was exultant, loving every minute, beaming as the sun touched her face and the breeze whipped through her hair.

She felt free—blessedly unburdened by duty and responsibility for the moment at least. She had also forgotten how much she loved to get out on the water and really sail.

Her most recent experiences on boats had all been parties like the one on Gerard’s yacht last night. They were so elegant and controlled that they might as well have been in hotel dining rooms. If she hadn’t had to take the launch to get to the yacht and back, she would have forgotten she was even on a boat.

It certainly hadn’t been going anywhere.

Now she was moving. The boat, once Demetrios had the mainsail and jib raised, was cutting through the water at a rate of knots, and Anny gripped the wheel, exhilarated. It was glorious.

When he dropped into the cockpit beside her she relinquished the wheel, but couldn’t act as if it was no big deal.

“I feel alive!” she said over the wind in her ears. “Reborn!” And she arched her back, opened her arms wide and spun around and around, drinking in the experience. “Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

He gave her a sceptical, wary look—one that reminded her of the way he’d looked at her the night she’d asked him to make love to her, that said he was seriously concerned that she’d lost her mind.

“Don’t worry about me!” she said, beaming. “Truly!”

Demetrios still looked sceptical, but he didn’t reply, just moved his gaze from the GPS to the horizon, then made adjustments as required.

Anny stood watching, drinking in the sight of him as eagerly as she did the whole experience. She’d seen him in a number of roles in films over the years. He’d done slick and sophisticated, hard-edged and dangerous, sexy and imbued with deadly charm. She’d seen him in a lot of places—big cities, high deserts, dense jungles, and bedrooms galore—but she’d never seen him at sea before.

It was a perfect fit. He looked competent in whatever role he played. But he wasn’t playing a role now, and he seemed perfectly suited to the task.

“I didn’t realize you were such a sailor,” she said.

He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the horizon “Grew up sailing. We always have. It’s bred in the bone, I guess.” There was a slight defensive edge to his tone that surprised her.

She smiled. “I can see that,” she said. “Lucky you.”

Now he slanted a glance her way, his brows raised as if her comment surprised him. “It doesn’t appeal to everyone. Some people find it boring.”

It was her turn to be surprised at that. “I can’t imagine,” she said sincerely. “It seems liberating to me. Maybe it’s because, being…who I am—” she could never bring herself to say “being a princess” “—when I was home as a child, I always felt hemmed in. But when my parents and I went sailing—even on one of the lakes—it was like we suddenly could be ourselves.”

“Getting away from it all.” He nodded.

“Yes. Exactly.”

“I didn’t think of it that way until I’d been ‘famous’—” his mouth twisted on that word the way hers would have if she’d said “princess” “—for a while. But I know what you mean. I thought getting out and sailing was a way of getting back to who I was…” His voice rose slightly at the end of the statement as if he were going to say more. But he didn’t. He just lifted his shoulders and looked away again.

“Did you have time to sail much?”

He shook his head. “Not often. Once.” Something closed up in his expression. His jaw tightened. Then he fixed her with his green gaze. “Did you get everything sorted out below? Unpacked? Settled in? It’s not a palace.”

The change of subject was abrupt, as was the sudden rough edge to his tone. Anny wondered what caused it, and knew better than to ask.

“It’s better than a palace,” she told him sincerely. “I love it.”

He grunted, not looking completely convinced.

“I took the back cabin—the aft cabin,” she corrected herself. “It’s a bit bigger, though, so if you want it, I’ll be happy to switch. I just thought the forward cabin seemed more like it should be the captain’s. Is that okay?”

“Fine. Whichever.” He gave her a look that Anny couldn’t interpret at all. Then he stared back at the horizon again, seeming lost in thoughts that had nothing to do with the situation at hand. Was he regretting having insisted she come along?

“I’ll just go below for a while,” she said. “If you need me again, shout.”

Demetrios gave her a quick vague smile, but his mind still seemed far away. So she headed back down the companionway steps.

She had put her suitcase and laptop backpack in the aft cabin, but she hadn’t unpacked them yet. Now she did, taking her time, settling in, discovering all the nooks and crannies that made living on board a boat so intriguing.

It was a gorgeous boat. Nothing like as opulent and huge as either the royal yacht of her country or of Gerard’s, but it had a clean, compact elegance that made it appealing—and manageable. A good boat for a couple—or a young family like that of Demetrios’s brother, Theo.

She felt a pang of envy not just for Theo’s boat, but for his family. Some of her fondest early childhood memories were the afternoons spent sailing on the alpine lakes of Mont Chamion with her parents.

Now she found herself hoping that someday she and her own husband and children would do the same. Her mind, perversely but not unexpectedly, immediately cast Demetrios in the husband role. And there was wishful thinking for you, she thought.

She tried to ignore it, but her imagination was vivid and determined and would not be denied. So finally, she let it play on while she put things away.

Since she’d packed hastily in the middle of the night and had planned to escape Cannes by rail, she hadn’t brought any of the right clothes. She’d assumed she would be losing herself in a big city like Paris or Barcelona or Madrid. So most of the things she’d brought were casual but sophisticated and dressy—linen and silk trousers, shell tops, jackets and skirts. Not your average everyday sailing attire.

The jeans and T-shirt she was wearing had been chosen so she could leave town looking like a student and not draw attention to herself. Unfortunately they were the only halfway suitable things she’d brought along, and in the heat of the Mediterranean summer she was nearly sweltering in them. She would need to go shopping soon.

She just hoped no one would recognize her when she did.

In the meantime she would cope. But somehow, for a woman who had spent her life learning what to do in every conceivable social situation, she had no very clear idea how to go on in this one.

Madame Lavoisier, one of her Swiss finishing school instructors, tapping her toe impatiently and repeating what she always called “Madame’s rules of engagement.”

“You are a guest,” Madame would say. “So you must be all that is charming and polite. You may be helpful, but not intrusive. You must know how to put yourself forward when it is time to entertain, but step back—fade into the woodwork, if you will—when your hosts have other obligations. And you must never presume.”

Those were the basics, anyway. You applied them to whatever situation presented itself.

And Anny could see the wisdom of it. But still it felt lacking now—because she didn’t want to be a guest. She wanted to belong.

And how foolish was that?

Demetrios had told her clearly and emphatically that he wasn’t interested in a relationship. He could not have made it plainer.

If she let herself get involved with him now, it would not be some fairy-tale night with a silver-screen hero. Nor would it be the adolescent fantasy of an idealistic teenager. It wouldn’t have anything to do with duty and responsibility.

It would be a lifetime commitment of love to a real live flesh-and-blood man—a man who didn’t want anything of the sort.

“So just have a nice two-week holiday and get on with your life,” she told herself firmly.

She vowed she would. All she had to do was convince her heart.

About noon Anny brought him a sandwich and a beer.

“I figured you’d be getting hungry.” She set the plate on the bench seat near where Demetrios stood, then went back down to return moments later with a sandwich of her own.

“I’ve been through the provisions,” she told him. “Made a list of possible menus, and another of some things we should probably get when we go ashore.”

He stared at her.

She finished chewing a bite of sandwich, then noticed the way he was looking at her, and said, “What? Did I overstep my bounds?”

He shook his head. “I’m just…surprised.”

Anny didn’t see why. “Maybe it was presumptuous,” she went on after she’d swallowed, “but I’m a better cook than a sailor. And if I’m going to be here two weeks, I need to do my share. So I thought I’d do the meals.”

“You cook?” That seemed to surprise him, too.

She flashed him a grin. “Cordon Bleu,” she told him, causing his brows to hike clear into the fringe of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “All part of my royal education. But don’t expect that standard under these circumstances,” she warned him.

He shook his head. “No fear. I’m happy with sandwiches. I wasn’t planning on cooking.”

“I noticed,” she said drily. Besides bread, cheese and fruit, there was little in the pantry besides granola bars and protein bars and beer.

“I wasn’t expecting company.” His tone was gruff. The wind was ruffling his hair, making him look dangerous and piratical and very very appealing.

“I realize that. And I’m grateful. I—” she hesitated “—appreciate your offer to bring me along. Your insistence, actually,” she corrected. “It is a better alternative than wandering around Europe trying to stay a step ahead of Papa.”

He nodded, then looked at her expectantly because the note on which she ended made it clear she had something else to say.

Which she did. She just couldn’t seem to find the right way to say it. Finally she simply blurted it out. “But even so, I don’t think we should make love together again.”

Yet another look of surprise crossed his face, this one more obvious than the earlier two. His green eyes met hers. “You don’t?”

Anny gave a quick shake of her head. “No.”

Demetrios tilted his head to regard her curiously. “You didn’t like it?”

Anny felt her cheeks begin to burn. “You know that’s not true,” she protested. “You know I liked it. Very much.”

He scratched his head. “And yet you don’t want to do it again.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to do it again. I said I didn’t think we should.”

He stared at her. “Your logic eludes me.”

“It would mean something if we did,” she explained.

He blinked. “I thought it did mean something last time. All that stuff about your idealistic youthful self…”

“Yes, of course it meant something,” she agreed. “But it would be different if we did it again. That time it was…like…making love with a fantasy.” Now her cheeks really did burn. She felt like an idiot, didn’t want to meet his eyes. But she could feel his on her, so finally she lifted her gaze. “When we did it then, I was with the you I—I had dreamed about. The ‘fantasy’ you. The one I imagined. If we did it again, it wouldn’t be the same. You wouldn’t be the same. You’d be—you!”

“Me? As opposed to…me?” He looked totally confused now.

Anny didn’t blame him. She didn’t want to spell it out, but obviously she was going to have to. “You’d be a real live flesh-and-blood man.”

“I was before,” he told her. “Last time.”

“Not the same way. Not to me,” she added after a moment.

He still looked baffled. “And you don’t want a ‘real live flesh-and-blood man’?”

What she wanted was to jump overboard and never come up. “It’s dangerous,” she said.

“No, it’s not. Don’t worry. I won’t get you pregnant. I promise. I can take care of that.”

“Not that kind of dangerous. Emotionally dangerous.”

He looked blank. Of course he did. He was a man.

“I could fall in love with you,” she said bluntly.

“Oh.” He looked appalled. “No. You don’t want to do that.” He was shaking his head rapidly.

No, she didn’t. Not if he wasn’t going to fall in love with her in return, at least. And he’d made it clear that he had no intention of doing so. She supposed there was always the chance that she could change his mind, but from the look on his face, it didn’t seem likely.

“Like I said, dangerous,” Anny repeated. “For me.” She shrugged when he just continued to stare at her. “You said it was up to me,” she reminded him.

His mouth twisted. “So I did.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. “That’ll teach me,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry.”

He made a sound that was a half laugh and half something Anny couldn’t have put a name to. “Me, too, princess,” he told her. Then he gave her a wry smile. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Sure,” Anny said.

But it wasn’t going to happen—she hoped.

She was the most baffling woman he’d ever met.

When she didn’t know him, she wanted to make love with him. When she knew him, she didn’t want to—but only because she might fall in love with him.

Where the hell was the logic in that?

Well, perversely, Demetrios supposed, squinting at the Italian shoreline as if it might provide some answers, there was some. But it wasn’t doing his peace of mind much good.

It made all those glimpses of Anny he kept catching out of the corner of his eye all too distracting, though he supposed she intended nothing of the sort at all.

She wasn’t coy and flirtatious the way Lissa had been, eager and enthusiastic one minute, pouting and moody the next. With Lissa he’d never known where he stood or what she wanted.

With Anny, she flat-out told him.

When she wanted to make love, she’d said so. Now she didn’t, and she’d said that. No, he’d never met a woman even close to her.

After their discussion, she had finished her lunch, then taken both their plates below. He’d expected she would stay there to avoid him and his “dangerous” appeal. But she came back to put her feet up on one of the cockpit benches and leaned back to lift her face. She still wore Theo’s visor, but for the moment her face was lit by the sun and the wind tangled her hair.

“Isn’t this glorious?” she said, turning a smile in his direction. And there really was nothing flirtatious about the smile at all. Just pure enjoyment of the moment.

“Yeah,” Demetrios agreed, because it was.

But also because it was pretty damned glorious to stand there and simply watch her take pleasure in the moment. For the longest time she didn’t move a muscle, didn’t say a word, just sat there silently, absorbing, savoring the experience.

She didn’t glance at him to see if he was noticing. Lissa had always been aware of her audience.

He remembered when she’d badgered him to take her sailing. He had been in Paris at the time and she back in L.A., having just finished a film. And every time they talked on the phone she’d chattered about how wonderful it had been going sailing with a couple of big A-list stars.

“We could go sailing,” she’d said to him.

It was the first time she’d shown the least interest in any such thing. When he’d taken her to his parents’ place on Long Island right after they were married, she hadn’t set foot on the family boat. She’d had little to do with anyone, and she’d been eager to leave almost as soon as they’d arrived.

He’d thought at the time it was because she’d wanted to spend some more time with him alone. Only later he began to realize a family vacation on Long Island wasn’t fast-lane enough for her.

But when she’d made the remark about sailing, he’d taken her suggestion at face value and offered to charter a sailboat so they could go to Cabo San Lucas as soon as he got back home.

Lissa had been delighted.

“Ooh, fun,” she’d squealed on the phone when he’d tossed out the idea to her.

They hadn’t seen each other for more than two days at a time in the past two months. It seemed like a great way to spend some time alone with her. And he’d been delighted she was as eager for some uninterrupted time together.

“It will be wonderful!” Lissa had crowed. And he knew that tone of voice—it was the one that went with the impossibly sparkly blue eyes. She’d let out a sigh of ecstasy. “The wind. The water. The two of us. Oh, yes. Let’s. I always feel as if I’m in communion with nature.”

So two days after he got home, he’d chartered a boat, and they’d set sail to Cabo from Marina del Rey.

For the first five minutes Lissa had looked exactly as content as Anny did now. But an hour later the contentment had vanished.

The wind was too cold. The boat tilted too much. The ocean spray wasn’t good for her complexion. She was afraid of sunburn.

Demetrios had tried to be sympathetic. Then he’d tried to joke her out of it. But Lissa didn’t take teasing at all. She pouted. She wept. She slammed around and threw things when she was upset. They weren’t two hours out of Marina del Rey and she had become seriously upset.

Demetrios did his best to placate her. “I’ve missed you, Lis. I’ve been waiting for this.”

She looked at him, appalled and flung her arms in despair. “This? This? There’s nothing here!”

“We’re here. The two of us. Alone,” he reminded her. “No press. No fans. No one at all. Just us. Relax and enjoy it.”

But Lissa hadn’t relaxed and she hadn’t enjoyed it. She’d gone below, she’d come up to the cockpit. She’d flipped through a magazine, tried to read a possible script. There was no one to talk to. She was bored.

He’d offered to let her take the wheel. She’d declined. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“I’ll teach you,” he’d offered.

She hadn’t wanted that, either.

As the hours passed, she’d become more agitated. She hadn’t been able to sit still.

“When do we get there?” she’d begun asking when they’d barely left Catalina behind. She had looked around hopefully, as if their destination might materialize on the horizon. “It’s only a couple of hours to Cabo.”

Demetrios had stared at her. “Flying,” he’d agreed. “Sailing it’ll probably take us about a week.”

“A week?” Lissa’s voice was so loud and so shrill he thought they probably could have heard it in Des Moines.

“Well, depending on the winds, of course, but—”

But she hadn’t let him get any more out than that. She’d lit into him with a fury he’d only seen before on the set when she’d played a drug addict deprived of her source. She’d got an Emmy nomination for the performance.

It turned out she hadn’t been acting. It turned out Lissa had more than a small drug habit. She’d been intending to score some in Mexico, though Demetrios hadn’t known it at the time. There was a whole lot about Lissa he hadn’t known then—things that even now he wished he’d never known.

It would have made it easier to forgive her. To forgive himself.

That disastrous trip had occurred just six months into their marriage. Later he’d thought it was the beginning of the slide downhill. Even that wasn’t true. The slide had begun before she’d even walked up the aisle to become his wife.

He’d been fooled. Conned. Duped into believing he’d found the woman of his dreams.

Because he’d wanted it so much that he’d convinced himself? Or because Lissa had played the role so well?

How much had been intentional misdirection and how much had simply been bad judgment? Demetrios had no idea still.

All he could remember is that she’d looked so perfect on their wedding day. So content. So happy, Anny looked that way now—happy, her eyes closed, her face in repose.

But hers was not like Lissa’s version of “happy.”

Lissa’s “happiness” had always had an effervescence to it. She had bubbled, emoted, reacted. She had acted happy.

Sitting here now basking in the sunshine, eyes shut, wind in her hair, Anny wasn’t acting. She simply was.

There was no bubbliness, no bounce. No reaction. Her emotion was quiet, accepting, serene—and, heaven help him, enticing in its very stillness.

Dangerously enticing.

And Demetrios understood quite clearly now what Anny meant about making love with him being “dangerous” because it would involve her heart.

Indulging these thoughts about Anny—seeing in her the antithesis of Lissa—was dangerous in the extreme. It could undermine his resolve. It could make him vulnerable.

She didn’t have to entice him intentionally. It was worse, in fact, that she wasn’t. It made him want things he had promised himself he would never want again.

“You’re going to get a sunburn if you keep doing that,” he said gruffly.

Anny’s eyes flicked open in surprise. She dipped her head so that Theo’s sun visor shaded her face again and she sat up straight, then smiled up at him. “You’re right,” she said, flexing her shoulders and stretching like a cat in the sun. “But it feels wonderful.”

To his ears, her voice almost sounded like a purr. He didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say in the face of such inocent happiness.

He found himself wishing she were more like Lissa so she would be easier to resist.

At the same time he couldn’t help being glad she was not.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CINDERELLA ONLY GOT a single evening to indulge her fantasy.

Anny had had her evening with Demetrios. But now, amazingly, it seemed as if she was going to get two whole weeks.

Two weeks to be simply herself—not a princess, not Gerard’s fiancée. Just plain Anny. With no demands, no expectations at all.

Not even sex.

Not that she wouldn’t have liked to enjoy sex with Demetrios. The one night she’d spent with him had been astonishing, revelatory, incomparable.

It had made her want more.

Too much more.

So much more that she had not dared to allow herself to think about it. Limiting it to one night and walking away had been possible. But indulging herself in the joy of spending two weeks of nights in his bed, in his arms, would not work.

She would want more than those two weeks.

She would want a lifetime of them. And not just of making love with Demetrios, but of being loved by him.

She wasn’t there yet. But she would be if she allowed herself to give into the temptation. And so she’d said, “No sex.”

She hadn’t explained it well. She wasn’t sure that she could ever explain it so that it made sense to him. He was a man. Men didn’t think about sex the same way. And he clearly had no problem enjoying sex with her and then walking away without a backward glance.

He’d basically promised to do just that.

Well, more power to him, Anny thought wryly. She knew her own limitations. And she knew they precluded that. So she said she was sorry and she stuck to her guns.

Having made her statement, though, she went below to work on her dissertation for a while. It seemed a good idea to give Demetrios some space to get used to a platonic two weeks.

Apparently it didn’t bother him at all because when she came back out on deck late that afternoon, he was perfectly cheerful and equable—as if it didn’t matter to him a bit.

Which she supposed it didn’t. Which served her right, Anny supposed, telling herself it was all for the best.

“When do you want to eat dinner?” she asked him.

“Up to you.”

“Are you planning to sail through the evening or moor somewhere?”

He gestured toward the shoreline. “There’s a small village with a protected harbor up ahead. We’ll moor there. Too much work to sail overnight. And what’s the point?”

She completely agreed. “Then I’ll plan on dinner for after we’re tied up.’”

“Sounds good.” He slanted her a grin that made her heart beat a bit faster.

“Will you be going ashore?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “Not unless you want something.”

She could use some clothes that were more appropriate for sailing. But she didn’t want to go ashore to get them. Not in a small village not so very far from her own country. Too many people might recognize her around here. And they would certainly recognize Demetrios. He was famous the world over.

“No,” she decided. “Call me if you need help,” she said, knowing full well he wouldn’t. Then she went back below and put together a salad and some bruschetta to go with the bread, then sliced some meat and cheese.

She was just setting the table when she heard him call her name.

Startled, Anny climbed quickly up the steps and saw that they were coming into the harbor.

“Come take the wheel while I bring down the sail,” Demetrios commanded.

She blinked in surprise. But apparently he’d taken her offer at face value and was now looking at her expectantly. So she did what she was told.

“Theo would be a purist and skip the engine,” Demetrios muttered as he started it up. Then he shrugged. “But I’m not as good at it as he is.”

He seemed fine at it to Anny. His quick efficient competence as he hove to, then brought the mainsail down over the boom, seemed nothing short of miraculous to Anny. She hung on to the helm and tried to keep the boat where he wanted it as he finished furling the jib.

And she was just congratulating herself on doing her bit and handing the wheel back over to him, when he said, “Get up on the bow. I need you to signal me which side the buoy is on and then tie on to the mooring ball.”

“Me?”

Something unreadable flickered in his gaze. Anny didn’t even try to figure it out. She just said, “Right,” and scrambled up to do what he asked.

Using her hand signals to guide him, Demetrios adjusted the course, backing down the motor as they closed in on the buoy. “Okay. Grab the mooring line,” he instructed.

She grabbed it, then, continuing to follow his directions, she passed the bridle line through the eye, and quickly, trying not to fumble, wrapped the other end securely to the bow cleat. Then she sat back on her heels and waited for something dire to happen.

Nothing did. Or if it did, she was too inept to tell.

But then Demetrios called, “Great. That’s it.”

“It is?” she asked cautiously.

A quick glance at him and she saw a grin lighting his face. It was as if she’d been awarded some distinguished medal. At his thumbs-up, Anny took a deep breath and let it out again in a whoosh. She flexed her shoulders and grinned back at him. A warm elemental sense of satisfaction filled her.

The feeling was closest, she supposed, to the satisfaction she felt when she figured out a bit more of the culture and history of the cave painters she was writing her dissertation about. It was as if a significant piece of the puzzle fell into place.

She felt like that now.

But this was more. Now she felt a physical satisfaction as well. She hadn’t done much of the sailing today. But she’d done more physical work than she ordinarily did. She was tired, her muscles had been challenged by the unaccustomed exertion. Her skin was a bit sunburned even in spite of the lotion she’d slathered on exposed body parts and the visor she wore. She felt alive, aware. Wonderful.

Free.

She opened her arms and spun around, embracing the whole world in the joy of it.

“That good, is it?” Anny heard Demetrios’s amused voice behind her.

She felt faintly embarrassed by her childish exuberance, but not embarrassed enough to pretend complacency. She turned and smiled at him. “It’s the best day I’ve had in years.”

His brows lifted and he looked at her a long moment, as if he were trying to determine if she was sincere. She met his gaze squarely, unapologetically.

Finally, slowly, a heart-stoppingly gorgeous smile lit his face. “Then that is good,” he said. “I’m glad.”

He was glad he’d brought her along.

It was better than being alone.

All the time he’d been at Cannes, he’d longed for time alone. But he knew that if he’d been here alone, he’d have been restless. He would have sailed happily enough. But he would have spent most of the time in his head thinking about work, about the new screenplay, about the distribution deal he’d just done. He would not have appreciated the moment.

Now he couldn’t help it.

It was hard not to with Anny embracing it every time he looked at her.

And he did look at her. A lot.

From the first day he’d met her, she had stirred something in him that he thought Lissa had killed. Not just his desire for sex—though admittedly Lissa had done a number on him there, too.

But Anny’s whole outlook on life was so different.

Of course it would be, he could hear Lissa scoff in his mind. Princess Adriana had never had the disadvantage of growing up illegitimate in tiny, dusty Reach, North Dakota. Princess Adriana had always had everything her little heart desired. Why shouldn’t she embrace life? It gave her everything she wanted.

Yes, he had known Lissa well enough to know exactly what she would have said about Anny. It was what she said about everyone. No one had ever had things as tough as Lissa. No one had overcome as much, had suffered more.

Admittedly his late wife had overcome her fair share of obstacles. But some of them, Demetrios knew, were of her own making. Some of them were the product of the chip on her shoulder she could never quite shake off.

“Why should I?” she’d said to him once. “It’s made me who I am.”

For better or worse, yes, it had. And what he knew above all was that it had never made her happy. She’d never felt joy like Anny had expressed tonight. She’d never opened her arms and embraced life.

“You’re very pensive,” Anny said to him now.

They were eating dinner on deck. She’d brought their salads, meat and cheese up to the cockpit because, as she’d said, “Why be down below when it’s so glorious up here?”

They’d enjoyed the sunset while they’d eaten, and his mind had drifted back to the miserable nights he’d spent sailing to Cabo with Lissa, and how different it had been from this.

“Is something wrong?” Anny asked him. “They don’t look like good thoughts.”

He flexed his shoulders. “Just thinking how much better this is than the last time I went sailing.”

“I thought you went with your brother and Franck,” she said, frowning.

“I meant the last time I went a few years ago.” But he smiled as he remembered the very last time. “When we went with Franck it was good.”

“He thought so,” she agreed. “I wish he could do more of it. Mostly he won’t leave his room.” She paused thoughtfully. “It’s easier not to, I think.”

“Yes.” It was definitely easier not to risk. Safer, as well not to want what you couldn’t have.

Demetrios drained his beer and stood up. “You cooked. I’ll clean up.”

“You worked hard all day,” Anny said, standing, too. “I’ll help.” And carrying her plate, she followed him down into the galley.

She was no help. Not to his peace of mind, anyway. Oh, she washed plates and put away food. But the galley was small—too small for them not to bump into each other. Too small for him to avoid the whiff of flowery shampoo, the occasional brush of her hair as she dodged past him to get to the refrigerator, and—once—the outright collision that brought his chest and her breasts firmly against each other.

He remembered her softness. Wanted to feel it again.

The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted to spend. And, let’s face it, the closer he wanted to spend it. He wanted to touch her fresh, soft skin. He wanted to thread his fingers through her hair. Wanted to carry her off to his bunk and know her even more thoroughly than he’d known her the one time he’d made love with her.

But it wasn’t going to happen.

She’d said so. Had explained why. He understood. He just wished his hormones did.

He stepped back out of the galley and said abruptly, “Not going to work.”

Anny blinked at him. “What’s not?”

“This.” He jerked his head toward her in the galley. “You can clean up or I will. Not both of us.”

“But—”

If she were Lissa, all this brushing and bumping would have been a deliberate tease. Not with Anny. Now he just looked at her and waited for the penny to drop.

He could tell the moment that it did. Instead of looking at him coquettishly and giving him an impish smile as Lissa would have done, Anny looked mortified.

“You think I—” Her face flamed. She shook her head. “I never—! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—Oh God!”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I can control myself. But I’d rather do the cleaning up myself.”

Her cheeks were still bright red. “Of course,” she mumbled, and she practically bolted up the companionway steps without a backward glance.

Demetrios watched her go. It was a tempting view.

He didn’t need the temptation, God knew, but there were some things a man simply couldn’t resist.

As the days went on it wasn’t only the physical Anny that Demetrios found hard to resist. She was as appealing as ever physically.

But it was something more that attracted him. She was cheerful, bright, thoughtful, fun. And he never knew what she was going to do next.

One afternoon she decided she’d fish for their dinner. He scoffed at the notion. “You fish?”

“What? You think princesses can’t fish?”

“Not in my experience.”

“Known a lot of princesses, have you?”

“One or two,” he told her. That one had been five and the other ninety-five didn’t seem worth mentioning.

“Well, live and learn,” she told him, putting the rod together and settling down on the deck. “We used to go fishing on Lake Isar in Mont Chamion. We had our own little hideaway there, a little rustic cabin my great-grandfather built.”

“No castle?” he teased.

She shook her head, smiling, but her expression softened and she got a faraway look in her eyes. “About as far from a palace as you can get and still have indoor plumbing. Grandfather had that put in,” she told him. “We loved it there—Mama, Papa and I—because we could be ourselves there. Not royal, you know?”

He didn’t, of course. Not about the “royal” bit. But Demetrios nodded anyway because since he’d become famous he’d learned all about the need to get away.

“It was the perfect place,” Anny went on. “Quiet. Solitary. Calm. I felt real there. Myself. My family. No distractions.”

“Except the fish.”

She grinned. “Except the fish.”

“I presume you brought bait for the fish there—which is going to be something of a problem here.” He nodded at the bare hook on the end of her line.

“Sometimes we did,” she agreed. “Sometimes, though,” she added saucily, “we used whatever was handy. Like now.” And she dug into her pocket and pulled out a tin of sardines she’d found below.

Demetrios laughed. “If you catch a fish with that, princess, I’ll cook it.”

She laughed, too. Then she baited her hook and cast the line over the side. It was less than half an hour later that he heard her say, “I got one!”

It was a sea bass, Demetrios told her. Spignola. “Good eating,” he said, taking if off the hook and heading down to the galley.

“I can cook it,” Anny protested.

But he insisted. Once they moored the boat for the evening, she stayed on deck and kept fishing, he baked it with a bit of olive oil, lemon, tomatoes, and basil.

“Nothing fancy. Just something I learned at my mother’s knee,” he said when he brought the plates up on deck. He’d torn up greens for a salad and had two beer bottles tucked under his arm.

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