The Virgin's Proposition. Anne McAllister
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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