Greek Bachelors: Buying His Bride: Bought: The Greek's Innocent Virgin / His for a Price / Securing the Greek's Legacy

Common sense told her that this was the time to make an elegant excuse and move on. She couldn’t afford to indulge in a flirtation with anyone, because to draw that much attention to herself was to risk being exposed. ‘Obviously you’re a man who likes to be in control of his environment.’

‘Am I?’

‘If you’re expecting to know everyone on the invitation list, then yes. That suggests a need to be in control, don’t you think?’

‘Or perhaps I’m just selective about who I spend time with.’

‘Which means that you prefer the predictable to the possible. Knowing everyone surely limits the opportunity for surprises?’

His dark eyes gleamed with appreciation. ‘I’m not easy to surprise. In my experience, the possible almost always turns out to be the probable. People are boringly predictable.’ His mouth was a sensuous curve and she knew—she just knew—that this man would know everything there was to know about kissing a woman.

For a moment the mental image of his handsome dark head bending towards hers was so vivid that she couldn’t formulate a reply, and his eyes drifted to her mouth, as if he were enjoying a similar fantasy.

‘What? No argument? No desire to prove me wrong?’ His gaze slid to the curved neckline of her dress and rested for a moment on her narrow waist. ‘Tell me something about yourself that’s likely to surprise me.’

Just about anything about her would have surprised him.

Her background.

Her true identity.

The fact that she wasn’t supposed to be here.

‘I’m starving,’ she said truthfully, and he laughed with genuine amusement.

The sound turned heads in their direction, but he didn’t seem to care. ‘That’s you at your most surprising?’

She glanced around her, her eyes resting on the impossibly slender frame of the nearest woman. ‘It’s pretty surprising to admit to liking food in this sort of company. I don’t see a single woman here who is likely to be battling an addiction to chocolate truffles.’

‘You don’t see a single real woman. If you’re hungry, then you must eat.’ He lifted a hand and attracted the attention of a waiter with the natural confidence of someone used to being in control. She watched enviously, wishing she possessed even a fraction of his poise.

‘I assumed the canapés were just for show.’

‘You think their purpose is to test the self control of the guests?’

‘If so, then I’m about to fail that test.’ Smiling at the waiter, Chantal handed him her empty glass and piled several morsels on her napkin, resisting the temptation to snatch the entire trayful and put them in her handbag for later. ‘Thank you. These look delicious.’ The waiter bowed and moved away.

‘So why are you hungry?’ The man’s eyes lingered on her hair. ‘You haven’t eaten all day because you were at the hairdresser’s?’

She hadn’t eaten all day because she’d worked a double shift serving food to other people. And because there was no point in wasting money on food when you knew a free meal was coming.

‘Something like that.’ Sliding a morsel of warm pastry into her mouth, Chantal struggled not to moan with delight as the texture and flavour exploded on her palate. ‘These are delicious. Aren’t you going to try one?’

His eyes were on her lips, and that simple connection was enough to stoke the flames that were licking around her pelvis.

They were in a crowded ballroom. So why did it feel as though it was just the two of them?

Flustered, she realised that she really, really needed to leave—but at that moment he helped himself to a canapé from her napkin, and the gesture was strangely intimate. Chantal was wondering how eating could be intimate when he smiled at her, and that smile was so irresistibly sexy that she couldn’t do anything except smile back.

‘You’re right, they are delicious.’ He lifted his hand and gently brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. ‘So far all I know about you is that you like food and that you don’t spend all day obsessing about your figure. Are you going to give me any more clues about yourself?’

‘Why?’

‘I’d like an introduction.’

She felt her heart skip and jump. ‘If I tell you my name then you’ll have to tell me your name, and it’s much more fun if we remain strangers.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘You don’t know my name?’

‘Of course not.’

The faint gleam in his eyes told her that this wasn’t the answer he’d expected. ‘All right,’ he drawled softly, ‘no names. So, how would you describe yourself?’

A liar, a cheat and a fraud?

‘A person’s perception of themselves is almost always at odds with how others perceive them,’ Chantal murmured, choosing to be intentionally vague. ‘But I like to think of myself as—adaptable.’

‘You’re not going to tell me who you really are?’

She didn’t want to think about who she really was. Suppressing a shudder, Chantal gave what she hoped was a mysterious smile. ‘Does it matter? Perhaps I’m a princess? Or maybe I’m the CEO of a corporation? Or an heiress determined to hide her identity?’

‘All of those people were included on the invitation list. So which are you? Princess, heiress or CEO?’ His tone was dry, but his eyes were sharp and assessing and Chantal knew that she ought to end the conversation and move on immediately. This man’s intelligence was not in dispute, and it wouldn’t take him long to work out that there was something about her that didn’t ring true.

It didn’t matter how much she struggled to bury it, the darkness of her past was always there—a constant reminder that all this was all a pretence.

‘I’m a woman. The sort of woman who prefers not to be stereotyped. I like to think that our horizons can be as broad as we want them to be.’

‘You think I stereotype women?’

‘I’m sure you do it all the time. Everyone does.’ Trying to look as though she belonged in this environment, Chantal pretended to smile a greeting at someone across the room. Unfortunately for her, the man in question chose that moment to look at her and smile back. Flustered, she turned away. It was definitely time to leave. ‘I don’t like labels. I prefer to be just—me.’

Now that they’d finished the canapés, the man lifted two more glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and handed her one. ‘The mere fact that you are here tells me a great deal about you.’

‘Really?’ Engulfed by a wave of horror at the thought of him knowing even the slightest bit about her, Chantal took a large mouthful of champagne.

‘Yes.’ His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as they rested on her face. ‘Tickets to this event are highly sought after and difficult to obtain. In order to have been among the lucky few, you have to be seriously wealthy.’

Chantal thought of the dingy room she’d left a few hours earlier. The landlord had increased the rent, and in two weeks’ time she’d be homeless.

The only jobs that paid decently she wasn’t prepared to do.

‘The concept of wealth means different things to different people,’ she murmured, curling her fingers around the stem of the glass. ‘Is it money or is it good health? Or perhaps a warm, loving family? To consider wealth to be the exclusive privilege of those with money is to risk missing out on a full life, don’t you agree?’

There was a cynical tone to his laugh. ‘If you truly believe that, then you’re an unusual woman. Most members of your sex think that money is the only route to a full life.’

People were openly staring at them and Chantal felt a flicker of panic. Could they see through the red dress and the make-up? She felt as though she had the word ‘impostor’ stamped on her forehead in large letters. Her hand shaking, she took another mouthful of champagne. ‘There you go again—stereotyping. Clearly you regard women as a homogonous breed, endowed with identical characteristics.’

‘Most of the women I meet are a homogonous breed,’ he said dryly, and for a moment she forgot about the people watching them and looked at him curiously, wondering what events in his life had triggered that remark.