The Virgin's Proposition

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?