Read the book: «Greek Bachelors: Buying His Bride»

USA Today bestselling author SARAH MORGAN writes lively, sexy stories for both the Mills & Boon Modern and Medical Romance lines. As a child, Sarah dreamed of being a writer and, although she took a few interesting detours on the way, she is now living that dream. With her writing career, she has successfully combined business with pleasure and she firmly believes that reading romance is one of the most satisfying and fat-free escapist pleasures available.

CHAPTER ONE

‘I’VE FOUND HER, Angelos. And she’s a goddess.’

Hearing the sound of his father’s voice, Angelos Zouvelekis interrupted his conversation with the Greek ambassador to France and turned. ‘Found who?’ The fact that his father had made an effort to come tonight was a good sign. A few months ago he had been a broken man, unwilling to leave his isolated villa after his second painful divorce in six years.

‘The perfect woman for you.’ His father shook his head in disbelief, but the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. ‘Sometimes I wonder if you’re really my son. This place is full of gorgeous, beautiful women and what do you do? You talk to boring men in suits. Where did I go wrong with you?’

Seeing the surprise in the ambassador’s eyes, Angelos smoothly excused himself and drew his father to one side. ‘For me, tonight is about business. I hold this ball every year. The purpose is to part the rich and famous from their money.’

‘Business, business, business.’ Visibly exasperated, his father raised his hands in despair. ‘Does business keep you warm at night? Does it cook you dinner? Does it raise your children? Always with you it is business, Angelos, and already you are a billionaire! You have enough money! You don’t need any more money! What you need is a good woman!’

Several heads turned in their direction, but Angelos simply laughed. ‘Tonight I’m not making money. I’m giving it away. And you’re shocking everyone. Behave yourself,’ he said mildly, ‘or I’ll tell Security to remove you from the building.’ But it had been such a long time since his father had summoned sufficient energy to nag him about marriage that he felt nothing but relief. ‘And I don’t need you to find me a woman.’

‘Why? Do you find one on your own? No, you don’t. Not a proper one. You spend your time with women who would not make suitable wives.’

‘That’s why I pick them,’ Angelos murmured, but his father frowned his disapproval, dismissing his comment with another wave of his hand.

‘I know who you pick! The whole world knows who you pick, Angelos, because the stories are in every newspaper. One week it is a Savannah, the next it is a Gisella—never the same woman for more than a few weeks, and always they are thin, thin, thin.’ His Greek accent thickening his words, Costas Zouvelekis made a disparaging noise. ‘How can you be happy with a woman who doesn’t enjoy her food? Does a woman like that cook for you? No. Does she enjoy life? No, of course not. How can a woman enjoy life when she is starving hungry? The women you pick have the legs and the hair, and they are like athletes in the bedroom, but would they care for your children? No. Would they—?’

‘I don’t need a woman to cook. I have staff for that purpose.’ Angelos wondered briefly whether inviting his father to this particular function might have been a mistake after all. ‘And I don’t have any children for a woman to care for.’

His father gave a snort of exasperation. ‘I know you don’t, and I want you to have children. That is the point I am making! You are thirty-four years old and how many times have you been married? None. I am sixty-three and how many times have I been married? Three. It is time you started catching up, Angelos. Make me a grandfather!’

‘Ariadne has already made you a grandfather twice.’

‘That’s different. She’s my daughter and you are my son. I want to hold the sons of my son in my arms.’

‘I’ll get married when I find the right woman, not before.’ Angelos drew his father onto the balcony that circled the ballroom and refrained from pointing out that his father’s last two attempts at marriage had created emotional and financial devastation.

There was no way he was making that mistake.

‘You won’t find the right woman by dating the wrong ones! And what are we doing in Paris? Why can’t you hold this ball in Athens? What is wrong with Athens?’

‘The world is bigger than Greece.’ Angelos suppressed a yawn as the conversation shifted onto another familiar topic. ‘I conduct business all over the globe.’

‘And I never understand why! Did I have to leave Greece to make my first million? No!’ Costas peered into the ballroom. ‘Where has she gone? I can’t see her.’

Angelos raised his eyebrows in question. ‘Who are you looking for?’

‘The goddess with the body. She was perfect. And now she has disappeared. She was all eyes and curves and soft-looking. Now, that girl would make a good mother. I can imagine her with your children snuggled on her lap and a moussaka cooling on your table.’

Angelos glanced at his father with amusement. ‘I suggest you don’t tell her that. These days it is heresy to make that sort of comment to a woman. They invariably have rather different aspirations.’

‘The women you pick have different aspirations.’ His father’s voice was fierce as he searched the room with his eyes. ‘Believe me, this one was built to be a mother. If you don’t want her, then I might be interested myself.’

All trace of amusement left him, and Angelos inhaled sharply. ‘Not again!’ Didn’t his father ever learn? ‘Promise me that this time you’ll just take her to bed. Don’t marry her,’ he advised, taking a glass of orange juice from a passing waiter and swapping it for the glass of champagne in his father’s hand.

‘You only think about bed and sex, but I have more respect for women than that.’

‘You need to develop a more cynical approach to the opposite sex,’ Angelos advised. ‘What respect did Tara show you when she left you after six months, taking with her enough money to keep her going for life?’

His father’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the stem of the glass. ‘We both made a mistake.’

Mistake? Angelos ground his teeth. He was sure that as far as Tara was concerned the marriage had been a resounding success. She was now an extremely rich young woman.

His father deflated before his eyes, his vulnerability exposed. ‘She was very mixed up. She didn’t know what she wanted.’

‘She knew exactly what she wanted—’ Angelos broke off, trapped between the option of upsetting his father still further by highlighting the ruthless efficiency of Tara’s campaign, or of letting the subject drop and risking the possibility that, even after two such divorces, his trusting father still hadn’t learned the lessons that needed to be learned.

Costas sighed. ‘A relationship should be about love and caring.’

Angelos winced at this sentimental and dangerous observation and made a mental note to instruct his security team to screen all women showing the slightest interest in his father in order to protect him from further unscrupulous individuals. ‘Didn’t your last two marriages teach you anything about women?’

‘Yes. They taught me that you can’t trust a thin one.’ Costas regained some of his spirit. ‘They want to be size zero—but why is it called that? Because they are zero use to anyone! They are too thin and hungry to live the life a woman is supposed to live. Next time I marry she will be a proper shape.’

‘After everything that has happened over the past six years, you still believe that love exists?’

His father’s face fell. ‘I was in love with your mother for forty years. Of course I believe that love exists.’

Cursing himself for his lack of tact, Angelos put a hand on his father’s shoulder. ‘You should stop trying to replace her,’ he said roughly. ‘What you had was rare.’ So rare that he’d given up hope of finding it himself. And he wasn’t willing to risk settling for anything less.

‘I will find it again.’

Not before it had cost the family a fortune in divorce settlements and mental anguish.

Frustrated by his father’s misguided optimism about the female sex, Angelos ran a hand over the back of his neck. ‘Stay single. It’s less complicated.’

‘I’m not staying single. I hate being single. It isn’t natural for a man to be single. And you shouldn’t be single, either.’

Seeing that his father was about to launch into another lecture in favour of the curvaceous woman, Angelos decided that the conversation had gone on long enough. ‘You don’t need to worry about me. I’m seeing a woman.’ It wasn’t the relationship that his father was hoping for, but he didn’t need to know that.

His father scowled at him suspiciously. ‘Is she a proper shape?’

‘She is a perfect shape,’ Angelos drawled, thinking of the A list Hollywood actress who had spent two extremely exciting nights in his bed the week before. Would he be seeing her again? Possibly. She had the legs and the hair and she was definitely an athlete in the bedroom. Was he interested in marrying her? Absolutely not. They would bore each other to death within a month, let alone a lifetime.

But hope was already lighting his father’s eyes. ‘And when will I meet her? You never introduce me to your girlfriends.’

With good reason. Introducing a woman to his father would deliver the exact message he was so careful never to send. ‘When a woman is important to me, you will meet her,’ Angelos said smoothly. ‘And now I want to introduce you to Nicole. She’s my Director of Public Affairs here in Paris, and she definitely loves food. I know you’ll have plenty to say to one another.’ He guided his father towards the reliable Nicole, made the necessary introductions, and then turned back to the ballroom to continue networking.

And stopped dead, his attention caught by the woman directly in front of him.

She walked as though she owned the place, with a gentle swing of her hips and a faint smile on her glossy mouth, as if something or someone had amused her. Her blonde hair was piled on her head and her vivid red dress provided a dazzling splash of colour amidst the predictable boring black. She looked like an exotic rainforest bird let loose among a flock of crows.

Instantly forgetting the Hollywood actress, Angelos watched her for a moment and then gave a slow, satisfied smile of his own. His father would be pleased on two counts, he thought, as he moved purposefully towards the unknown woman. Firstly because he was about to stop thinking about business and turn his attentions to the pursuit of pleasure, and secondly because the source of that pleasure definitely, very definitely, had curves.

Not that he required her to perform the various domestic functions that his father had listed. Despite his father’s obvious concerns for him, he wasn’t interested in a woman’s capacity to cook, clean or raise his children. At this point in his life all he expected from a woman was entertainment, and she looked as though she’d been designed for exactly that purpose.

Smile, walk, smile, don’t panic—

It was like being back in the school playground, with the bullies circling like gladiators while the malevolent crowd of girls pressed in, watching with sadistic fascination. Waiting for the kill.

The memory was so disturbingly vivid that feelings of terror and humiliation stirred to life, catching her unawares. No matter how many years passed, her past was always there, lurking inside her like dark, filthy slime.

She struggled to throw off all her old insecurities.

It was ridiculous to think of that here, now, when that part of her life had ended long ago.

This wasn’t the playground, and she’d moved beyond that. The bullies might still be out there, but they couldn’t see her any more. Her disguise was perfect.

Or was it?

She shouldn’t have worn red. Red made her stand out like a beacon. And if she didn’t eat something soon she was going to pass out.

Didn’t anyone eat at these functions?

Wasn’t anyone else starving hungry?

No wonder they were thin.

Wishing she’d never decided to test herself in this way, Chantal attempted to stroll casually across the room. Confidence is everything, she reminded herself. Chin high, eyes up. Red is fine. They’re only people. Don’t let them intimidate you. They know nothing about you. From the outside you more or less look like them, and they can’t see who you are on the inside.

To distract herself, she played her usual game of make-believe. The game she’d invented as a means to survive in the lawless, ruthless environment she’d inhabited as a child. Her life had followed a pattern. A new playground, a new set of lies. A new layer of protection.

Who was she going to be this evening?

An heiress, maybe? Or possibly an actress?

A model?

No. Not a model. She would never be able to convince anyone that she was a model. She wasn’t tall enough or thin enough.

She paused, still pondering her options. Nothing too complicated. Not that she was worried about being found out, because she would never see any of these people again.

Just for tonight, she could be anyone she wanted to be.

A penniless Italian contessa with lots of breeding and no money?

No. This was a charity ball. It wouldn’t do to admit to having no money.

An heiress would be best.

An heiress wishing to remain incognito to avoid fortune hunters.

Yes. That was a good one.

Her excuse for not spending the money she didn’t have would be that she didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

The ballroom was amazing, with its high ceilings and glittering chandeliers. She had to remind herself not to stare at the paintings or the statues, and to adopt an expression of casual indifference—as though this was her world and such an exhibition of art and culture surrounded her on a daily basis.

As if—

‘Champagne?’ The question came from behind her and she turned swiftly, her eyes widening as she was confronted by a man so devilishly good-looking that every woman in the room was watching him longingly.

Her limbs weakened.

Arrogant, was the first word that came to mind.

Devastating, was the second.

His eyes glittered dark and he studied her with a disturbing degree of interest as he handed her a glass.

What was it about dinner jackets, she mused, that turned men into gods? Not that this man needed the assistance of well cut clothes to look good. He would have looked good in anything—or nothing. He was also the sort of man who wouldn’t have looked twice at her in normal circumstances.

Chantal felt a sudden explosion of awareness engulf her body, and a deadly sexual warmth spread across her pelvis and down her limbs. He hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t even shaken her hand. And yet—

Dangerous was the word that finally caused her to take a defensive step backwards.

‘I thought I knew everyone on the invitation list, but obviously I was wrong.’ He spoke with the easy confidence that was the natural inheritance of the rich and powerful, his voice smooth and seductive, one dark eyebrow raised in anticipation of an introduction.

Still struggling to understand the reaction of her body, Chantal ignored the question in his eyes. She wasn’t about to introduce herself—not least because she wasn’t on the invitation list. Nor was she ever likely to be on the invitation list for an event like this.

She studied him for a moment, taking in the lean perfection of his bone structure and the lazy amusement in his eyes. He was looking at her in the way a man looked at a woman he was interested in taking to bed, and for a moment Chantal forgot to breathe.

Definitely dangerous.

The chemistry between them was so intense and so inexplicable that she felt flustered and hot.

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.

He was handsome, yes, but there was also a hardness to him. An outer shell that she guessed wouldn’t be easily penetrated. Perhaps she recognised it because she’d developed the same shell herself.

‘Maybe you’re moving in the wrong circles. Or perhaps there’s something about you that attracts a particular type of woman.’

‘That would be my wallet.’ His smile was impossibly sexy, and Chantal was captivated by the unexpected glimpse of humour that lay beneath his sophisticated exterior.

In fact she was enjoying the conversation so much that she just couldn’t quite bring herself to end it, even though she knew she should. Talking to him had restored her much needed confidence. He made her feel beautiful, and the attraction between them was something she’d never encountered before. Powerful, intoxicating….

‘So I assume that’s why people are staring at us,’ she said lightly. ‘They’re wondering whether I’m about to put my hand in your pocket and rob you.’

Without warning he lifted a hand and gently trailed ran his finger over the curve of his jaw, a thoughtful look in his eyes. ‘The men are staring because you’re the most beautiful woman in the room.’

The unexpected compliment took her breath away. ‘Really?’ She struggled to keep her tone light. ‘So why aren’t they all queuing up to drag me onto the dance floor?’

‘Because you’re with me.’ His tone was casual, but there was a steely undertone that instantly dismissed the competition.

Possessive, she thought to herself, trying desperately to ignore the thrill of excitement that buzzed through her body like an electric current.

He was the most confident, self assured man she’d ever met, and he was way out of her league. She was playing a dangerous, dangerous game by lingering, and she knew that she ought to walk away before the situation grew more complicated.

Before her lies exploded in her face.

But Chantal couldn’t move. She felt more alive then she’d ever felt before. ‘That doesn’t explain why the women are glaring at me.’

The gleam in his eyes suggested that he considered her question ridiculously naive. ‘The women are glaring because they’re nervous about their men. You are serious competition. And they’re trying to work out which designer is responsible for your incredible dress.’

Chantal wasn’t sure whether it was his words or the seductive stroke of his fingers that caused the sudden rush of heat through her body.

‘My dress is a one off, designed specifically for me,’ she said truthfully. ‘And I have a feeling that the women are glaring at me because I’m talking to you.’ And she couldn’t blame them for that. He was a man who would incite jealousy wherever he went.

He was breathtakingly gorgeous and she wondered briefly about his nationality. He wasn’t French and didn’t look English. But his English was perfect. The product of a first-class education.

At that unsettling thought, her insecurities sprang to life again and she reminded herself that for now, at least, he was with her. Yes, they were surrounded by stick-thin, stunning model types, but she was the one he was smiling at.

And she didn’t even bother trying to subdue the little flicker of triumph that accompanied that realisation.

Perhaps it had been worth coming after all, just to experience this one perfect moment.

In a room full of the very cream of society, he’d singled her out.

Knowing that, wasn’t it time she left her insecurities in the past?

‘They’re not looking at me.’ His hand fell to his side and there was a cynical gleam in his eyes. ‘Or if they are then they’re not seeing me. They’re seeing my wallet. When it comes to dress size they want to see one zero, but when it comes to a man’s wallet they’re rather more ambitious.’

Chantal laughed, and refrained from pointing out that he could be penniless and women would still stare. ‘If you’re so rich that women can’t see past your wallet, then there’s an obvious solution.’ Her eyes twinkling, she stood on tiptoe and spoke softly in his ear, ‘Give away all your money.’

His head turned fractionally, so that his lips almost brushed her cheek. ‘You think I should do that?’

He smelt amazing, Chantal thought dizzily, resting a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. ‘It would stop women stereotyping you as a rich, available man.’

‘How do you know I’m available?’

Feeling distinctly light-headed, Chantal stepped away slightly, deciding regretfully that it really was time to move on from this conversation and this man. Before she forgot who she really was. ‘Because if you weren’t, some extremely jealous woman would have stabbed me in the back with her cutlery by now.’

His eyes were on her mouth. ‘So your advice is to give away my money?’

‘Absolutely. Only then can you be sure of a woman’s motives.’

The musicians started to play the seductive, powerful notes of a tango, and Chantal closed her eyes for a moment, wishing they hadn’t chosen that particular moment to perform that number.

It reminded her of Buenos Aires.

She’d spent two months travelling around Argentina, and she loved South American music.

The rhythm was so familiar that her body swayed instinctively, and the next moment the glass was removed from her hand and she felt her mysterious companion slide a hand around her back and pull her close. So close that, had the dance not been a tango, their contact would have drawn comment.

Her eyes opened. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Dancing. With you.’

‘You didn’t ask me.’

‘I never ask a question when I already know the answer. It wastes time.’

‘Arrogant,’ she murmured, and he gave a slow smile.

‘Self-aware.’

‘Over-confident.’ Laughing, she tilted her head to look at him. ‘I might have said no.’ She could feel the warmth of his hand on the bare skin at the base of her spine and the contact sent spirals of heat coursing through her body.

‘You wouldn’t have said no.’

And he was absolutely right.

There was no way she would have been able to say no to this man.

The throbbing, sexy music coiled itself around them and Chantal was breathlessly conscious of the strength and power of his body pressed against hers.

He clasped her hand in his and drew her nearer still, until it felt as though there wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t touching him. The music washed over them and he moved in response to that intoxicating rhythm, using subtle changes in pressure to lead her around the dance floor.

She was so aware of him that she couldn’t breathe. He was in her personal space and she felt suffocated and seduced at the same time, intoxicated and drugged by the powerful chemistry that had erupted between them from the first moment they’d met.

What they were doing ceased to feel like dancing. It was—

An exploration of sexuality?

Her body slid over his, his leg following her leg, his hands on her hips. He moved with a confidence and innate sensuality that left her in no doubt that this man would be an incredible lover.

For some lucky woman.

And that woman would never be someone like her.

But for now—just for now—he was hers. And she was going to make the most of the moment.

They danced chest to chest, eyes locked, breath mingling, the heat and their chemistry turning the dance into something close to a primal mating ritual.

Chantal ceased to register the other people on the dance floor and suddenly there was just the two of them, their bodies moving together in perfect understanding as they executed something far deeper and more complex than a few dance steps. It was erotic, passionate and deeply intimate. They’d never met before this evening, and yet instinctively she knew what he wanted from her and moved in response to his demands.

Her senses were heightened and she was lost in the music and the moment as they danced with fluency and sensuality. One moment they were chest to chest and she could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat against hers, and then he would turn her and she could feel the seductive slide of his hands over her hips as he moved her body in a dance that only just bordered on the socially acceptable. The movement of his leg drew the silk of her dress up her own leg, and the warmth of his breath against her neck made her shiver. How was it possible to be hot and cold at the same time?

How was it possible to feel this way about a man she’d never met before and wouldn’t ever meet again?

Perhaps that was why, she mused, gasping slightly as he tipped her slightly off balance, forcing her to lean into his body. Because she would never see him again, she could let go and enjoy herself.

For tonight, she was this man’s dance partner.

And dancing with him was shameful, sinful and like nothing she’d ever experienced before.

Her mind and body moved into a different place altogether and when the music finally shifted to a different rhythm it took her a moment to register her surroundings and return to reality.

They stared at each other for an endless moment, and then he released her and stepped away from her.

There was a strange light in his dark eyes as he studied her.

‘I’ll fetch us both a drink.’ His tone was noticeably cooler than it had been before they’d danced.

He strode off and she blinked several times, disorientated by the sudden change in his attitude. A moment ago they’d been in another world, just the two of them, and now—

She took a few deep breaths, trying to settle the intense reaction of her body. He seemed angry—but why would he be angry?

It had been his choice to dance, not hers.

And she hadn’t trodden on his toes or fallen on the floor.

Wondering what she’d done to bring about such a change in him, she was about to melt into the background when a woman approached her.

‘I’m Marianna Killington-Forbes.’ She spoke in a lazy English upper-class accent, and the smile that touched her mouth went nowhere near her eyes. ‘You look very familiar. Have we met?’

Oh, yes, they’d met.

Chantal’s legs started to shake as her disguise fell away. She felt naked and exposed, her past no longer safely concealed but rising in front of her like some vile, malevolent demon. She was going to die of embarrassment and humiliation. Right now. Right here. ‘I—’

‘She doesn’t speak much English, Marianna. I told her to stay with me and not wander off, but we were separated in the crowd.’ The heavily accented voice came from directly behind her, and Chantal turned to find a man by her side. She guessed him to be in his seventies, but he was still ridiculously handsome and his eyes were kind as he smiled down at her. He said something to her in a language that she didn’t understand and then took her freezing cold hand in his, tucking it firmly into the bend of his arm as he drew her close. ‘Marianna?’ His eyes lost some of their warmth as he looked at her tormentor. ‘Is there something that you wish to say? I can try and translate, if you would like?’

The woman’s mouth tightened. ‘She didn’t seem to be having any problems communicating with Angelos.’

The man smiled. ‘As you no doubt noticed, they use an entirely different method of communication.’

Jealousy flashed in the other woman’s eyes and she turned her attention back to Chantal. ‘Well, I wish you luck with your relationship. The ability not to converse could stand you in good stead, given that Angelos never expects conversation from his women anyway.’

Still frozen with horror that Marianna had recognised her face, Chantal watched with relief as the other woman stalked away, apparently unable to recall her name or exactly how she knew her.

‘You’re shaking.’ The man’s voice was soft, and Chantal clung to his arm, struggling to pull herself together. Desperately hoping that her dance partner wasn’t going to choose that moment to reappear, she took several deep breaths.

‘Do you think—could you just stay with me for a minute?’ Her voice cracked. ‘I don’t want to be left on my own just now.’

‘You are not on your own.’ His hand covered hers, and she felt the warmth of his fingers thaw the chill in her bones.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, so pathetically grateful for his intervention that she almost hugged him on the spot. ‘I don’t know why you did that, but I’ll never forget it. You’ve been so, so kind. How did you know I needed rescuing?’

‘When she walked up to you, your face turned white. I thought you were going to faint. You don’t like her, no?’

‘Well, I—’

‘Don’t be embarrassed. I don’t like her either,’ the man said firmly. ‘I never could stand that woman. I wonder why she was invited.’

Chantal thought back to the misery of her schooldays. ‘Her daddy is very rich.’

‘Really? He clearly didn’t spend his money feeding his family.’ The man made a disparaging noise. ‘To look at her you’d think she was starved from birth. Her bones should be classified as a lethal weapon. If you bumped into her, you’d be bruised all over.’

Despite her insecurities, Chantal couldn’t help laughing. He was not only kind, he was also funny. She glanced at him curiously, thinking that he reminded her of someone. ‘I’d better leave—’ She started to move, but he tightened his grip on her arm.

‘If you leave,’ he said softly, ‘then they’ll think they’ve won. Is that what you want?’

She stilled, wondering how he knew what she was feeling. ‘Everyone is staring at me—’

‘So smile,’ the man instructed calmly. ‘Lift your chin and smile. You have as much right to be here as the rest of them.’ Without giving her the chance to argue, he led her to two vacant chairs. ‘Sit for a moment and keep a lonely old man company. I hate these things. I always feel out of place.’

‘That can’t possibly be true. You look as confident as anyone here.’

‘But appearances can be deceptive, can’t they?’ His gentle comment made it clear that he was aware of how uncomfortable and insecure she felt.

His unusual insight probably should have worried her, but it didn’t. All she felt was the most profound gratitude. Not only had he rescued her from a potentially embarrassing situation, he was now pretending that her fears and insecurities were nothing out of the ordinary.

‘Why are you being so kind to me?’

‘I’m not being kind. I hate these events. You can’t blame me for enjoying myself with the best-looking woman in the room.’

She wished her hands would stop shaking. ‘If you hate them, why did you come?’

‘To please my son. He is worried that I haven’t been getting out enough lately.’

‘In that case he won’t want to see you wasting your time with me.’ And she should be leaving. Before Marianna remembered who she was.

‘That dance—’ The man glanced towards her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘It was like watching one person. The rhythm was perfect, the chemistry between the two of you—Only lovers can dance the Argentine tango like that.’

Lovers?

Chantal opened her mouth to tell him that they hadn’t even exchanged names, but then decided that it would be embarrassing to admit that she’d danced like that with a total stranger.

What had Marianne called him? Angelos?

So she’d been right about one thing; he definitely wasn’t English.

What would it be like, she mused dreamily, to be loved by a man like that?

‘And even now you can’t stop thinking about him, can you?’ The man sounded pleased. ‘You share something deep. He cares. I can see with my own eyes. The way he looked at you. The way you looked at him. The way you moved together, as if there was no one else in the room. The body says more than words. I can see from watching you that your relationship is serious.’

His observation shocked her out of her dreams. ‘Oh. Well, no, it isn’t exactly—’

‘You don’t have to be secretive with me. I may be old enough to be your father, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in love. I want to know how you felt the first time you saw him. Tell me!’

Chantal hesitated and then smiled, drawn by the kindness in his eyes. It was strange, she mused. She didn’t make friends easily, and yet after only five minutes in his company she would have died for this man. ‘I thought he was amazing,’ she said honestly. ‘He was charming, clever and surprisingly easy to talk to.’

‘And sexy?’

‘Oh, yes. Incredible.’ She lowered her voice, afraid that the people around them might overhear. ‘I’ve never been so attracted to anyone in my life before.’

The man nodded with satisfaction. ‘I knew it. And you’re crazy about him, aren’t you?’

‘Well—’ Chantal gave a helpless shrug. ‘Yes. But we haven’t exactly known each other for—’

‘It’s either right or it’s wrong! All these long engagements—all nonsense. If a man and woman are right together, they’re right straight away—not in six months or six years.’

Slightly disturbed by that comment, Chantal thought for a moment. Right together? Hardly. If he was as rich as she suspected, then she couldn’t think of two people less suited.

She would never be comfortable in his world. And he wouldn’t want her in his.

If he knew who she was then he’d join the crowd at the edge of the playground.

Dismissing that thought, she glanced at the man next to her. He really did remind her of someone. ‘So, if you’re such an expert on body language, why do you think he looked so angry?’ She wondered why she was asking the advice of a total stranger. But he didn’t feel like a stranger, and talking to him seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

‘That’s easy enough to answer. A man never likes to admit that he’s well and truly fallen for a woman. I was the same when I met my wife. I struggled for weeks. Loving a woman makes a man vulnerable, and a strong man doesn’t like to be vulnerable. I resisted her.’

‘So what did your wife do to win you over?’

‘She did what women always do when they want something. Talk, talk, talk until a man’s resistance is ground into the dust.’

Chantal laughed. ‘Are you still together?’

‘We had forty years.’ The man’s smile faded. ‘She died fifteen years ago and I’ve never met anyone else to touch her. But I haven’t given up trying. And I can still remember how it feels to move around a dance floor.’

Moved by the emotion in his voice, Chantal stood up impulsively and held out her hands. ‘Show me.’ She angled her head and listened to the music. ‘It’s a waltz. Do you waltz?’

He laughed with delight. ‘You want me to waltz with you?’

‘Why is that funny?’

‘I’m seventy three.’

‘There’s no man in the room I’d rather dance with.’

‘Then you are a brave woman, because Angelos is an extremely possessive man. He would not be amused if I took you onto the dance floor. But I can see now why you’ve succeeded where so many have failed. I’m sure it’s that wonderful spirit of yours that has made you different from all the others.’

‘All the others?’ Chantal frowned. ‘All what others?’

‘All the other women who have aspired to be where you are tonight. By his side. In his heart.’ The man’s eyes misted and Chantal felt her stomach lurch.

‘You know him well?’ Who exactly was this man? Desperately she tried to rerun the conversation. Exactly what had she said? ‘You didn’t mention that you knew him well.’

‘If I’d done that you might not have talked so freely, and that would have been a pity. It was a most illuminating conversation.’ The older man was still smiling, and at that moment Chantal saw her dance partner approach, the expression on his handsome face dark and forbidding.

He stopped in front of them, broad shouldered and powerful, an ominous frown touching his dark brows as he saw their clasped hands.

Chantal instantly withdrew her hands, her heart starting to thud. Why was he looking at her like that? The man she was sitting with was clearly a man of mature years. What possible reason was there for the shimmering anger she saw in the eyes of her handsome dance partner?

He couldn’t possibly be jealous. That would be too ridiculous for words.

She didn’t know what to say, so she just sat holding her breath, waiting for him to speak.

An expression of grim disapproval settled on his face as he glanced between the two of them and finally, after what seemed like an age, straightened his shoulders and spoke.

‘I see you’ve met my father.’

CHAPTER TWO

CHANTAL served the group of tourists seated at the table and then sank into a chair at an adjacent table, staring blankly at an empty coffee cup.

It didn’t matter how much time passed, she still felt horribly, miserably embarrassed. And sad. Really, really sad. As if she’d lost something special that she’d never be able to get back.

What was the matter with her?

Two weeks had passed since the ball. Two weeks since she’d gate-crashed the most prestigious social event of the year—

Why couldn’t she just forget it and move on?

Why couldn’t she just forget him?

Without thinking, she slipped a hand into the pocket of her skirt and touched the piece of torn newspaper she’d been carrying around for the past two weeks. She’d touched and stared at the picture so many times that it was crumpled and thin, and in immediate danger of falling apart. Now she wished that she’d bought a hundred copies of the newspaper and stored them safely, so that when she was old and grey she could remind herself of that one perfect night.

That one perfect man.

The memory of that dance still made her nerve-endings tingle. The chemistry that had sizzled between them had been the most exciting, astonishing experience of her life. Even now, as she remembered the seductive, intoxicating feel of his body against hers, her heart-rate increased.

But it hadn’t just been the chemistry that had kept her by his side long after she should have made her escape. She’d liked him. She’d liked his sharp observations, his intelligence and his dry sense of humour.

Angelos Zouvelekis.

Thanks to the article in her pocket, she now knew exactly who he was.

Billionaire and philanthropist. Greek billionaire and philanthropist.

Of course. Greek. The clues had all been there, if she’d only looked for them. His hair was the deep, glossy black of a Kalamata olive and his bronzed skin hinted at a life spent bathed in the warmth of the Mediterranean sun.

She’d fallen for a Greek billionaire as well known for his bachelor status as for his phenomenal business success.

And, for her, the fairy tale ended there—because she couldn’t have picked a more unsuitable man if she’d tried.

Tears stung her eyes and she blinked rapidly. Ironic, really, she thought to herself. Every other woman would have considered Angelos Zouvelekis to be the most suitable man on the planet. Every other woman would have known immediately who he was.

Not her. She hadn’t had a clue. If she had, maybe she would have walked away sooner.

Found a different man to fall in love with.

Oh, for goodness’ sake! She sucked in a breath, impatient with herself for thinking that way. No one fell in love that easily! It just didn’t happen. What she was feeling wasn’t love. It was just—just—

Rubbing a hand over her face, she struggled to pull herself together.

She didn’t actually understand what it was that she was feeling, but she wished it would stop because it was pulling her down. And anyway, what she felt about him was irrelevant, because he’d made it perfectly clear what he’d thought of her.

He’d been so, so angry.

Somehow—and she’d never actually found out how—he’d obviously discovered that she hadn’t been invited to the ball.

Chantal covered her face with her hands and shook her head, trying to erase the hideously embarrassing memory. Just remembering his hard, icy tone made her want to sink through the floor.

What had he called her? Greedy, unscrupulous and dishonest.

And perhaps she’d deserved it. After all, it had been dishonest to use a ticket that wasn’t hers.

To call her greedy and unscrupulous was a bit over the top, but, given the outrageous price of the tickets, she could see how he might have thought that about her.

And to make matters worse there had been that incredibly sticky moment when his father had expressed his undiluted joy that his son was finally in a loving relationship.

Remembering the look of thunderous incredulity that had transformed Angelos’s features from handsome to intimidating, Chantal slid lower in her seat.

That had been the biggest mistake of all: voicing her dreams and fantasies to the elderly man who had helped her so much. But she’d adored him on sight, and he’d been so kind to her. So approachable and sympathetic. Almost a father figure, although she didn’t really know what one of those looked like. As far as she was concerned, the species was extinct.

Perhaps that was why she’d been so drawn to him.

Angelos’s father.

She gave a whimper of disbelief and regret. Of all the men in the room, why had she chosen him as a sounding board for her fantasies?

Telling herself firmly that it was in the past, and she needed to forget it, Chantal straightened her shoulders and tried to think positively about the future.

Obviously she couldn’t stay in Paris. She needed to travel to somewhere remote. A place where there was absolutely no chance of bumping into one very angry Greek male. The Amazon, maybe? Or the Himalayas? Even a man with a global business wasn’t likely to have an office in Nepal, was he?

She sat for a moment, trying to stir up some enthusiasm for her next step.

It was exciting to be able to travel anywhere and be anyone. She was lucky to be free to make the decisions she wanted to make. How many other people had absolutely no ties? Most people had jobs to restrict their movements, or families to think of. She had no such restrictions.

She had no family to answer to. No one who cared what she did. She could move continents tomorrow without having to ask anyone’s permission, and she could be anyone she wanted to be.

Chantal waited for the usual buzz of excitement that came from the prospect of reinventing herself yet again, but nothing happened. Instead of the thrill of adventure, her mood was totally flat.

She felt as though she’d lost something and she didn’t understand why she would feel that way.

What had she lost?

‘Chantal!’ The café owner’s voice cut through the embarrassing memories like a sharp knife. ‘I am not paying you to rest! We have customers. Get on your feet and serve them! This is your last warning.’

Chantal sprang to her feet, realising with another spurt of embarrassment that she’d sat down at the table she was supposed to be cleaning.

Her cheeks pink, she quickly gathered up the empty cup and two glasses and hurried into the kitchen.

‘More time working and less time dreaming, or I’ll be looking for a new waitress.’ The small, rotund little Frenchman gave an unpleasant smile, openly staring at the thrust of her breasts under her white blouse. ‘Unless you want to apply for a different role.’

Chantal lifted her eyes to his, his comment triggering a response so violent that it shocked her. It took her a moment to find her voice. ‘Look for a new waitress,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I resign.’ And, just to reinforce that decision, she removed the ridiculous little apron that she’d been forced to wear over the vestigial black skirt and white blouse.

The café owner thought that it attracted customers. And it did. But they were almost always the type of customer she would have chosen to avoid.

Vile self-loathing curled inside her and she thrust the apron into his hands, not even bothering to ask for the money he owed her.

She didn’t care about the money.

She just wanted to get away. The truth was that Chantal, waitress, had never really worked for her. Neither had Chantal, chambermaid, or Chantal, barmaid.

The darkness of her past pressed in on her and she hurried towards the door, desperately needing to be outside in the warm Paris sunshine.

The café owner was subjecting her to a tirade of fluent French, but Chantal ignored him and virtually ran out of the door.

She’d move on. Travel somewhere exotic where she knew no one.

Maybe Egypt would be exciting. She could see the pyramids and swim in the Red Sea—

Calming down slightly, she left the café without glancing back and started to walk along the wide boulevard that led towards the Eiffel Tower. The trees were in full leaf, and the fountains bubbled and gushed, the sound soothing and cooling in the warm air.

It was lunchtime, and tourists mingled with elegantly dressed Parisian mothers taking their toddlers for a stroll. A little blonde girl tripped and fell, and instantly her mother was by her side, gathering her into her arms for a hug.

Just for an instant Chantal watched, and then she put her head down and hurried on, ignoring the faint stab of envy that tore at her insides.

She was twenty-four; far too old to be envying a child her mother.

She quickened her pace, dodging a group of teenagers who were gliding in circles on rollerblades. They mocked each other and laughed, their effortless camaraderie making her feel even more wistful.

None of them looked displaced or insecure.

They all belonged.

Above her the Eiffel Tower rose high, but Chantal didn’t spare it a glance. In the two months she’d spent in Paris she hadn’t once joined the throngs who jostled with each other in long queues for a chance to reach the top. She’d avoided the standard tourist traps and opted instead to discover the hidden Paris.

But now it was time to move on.

Not thinking or caring about her destination, she just walked, determined to enjoy her last moments in a city she’d grown to love.

Eventually she reached the river Seine, and she paused for a moment on the embankment, watching the way the sun glinted on the water. Behind her cars roared past, weaving in and out of lanes in an alarmingly random fashion. Horns blared, and drivers shook their fists and yelled abuse at each other through open windows.

It was a typical day in Paris.

She crossed the river and made her way up to the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré with its designer shops. This area was the heart of Paris design and fashion; Chanel, Lanvin, Yves St Laurent, Versace—they were all here. She paused outside a window, her attention caught by a dress on display, her brain automatically memorising the cut and the line.

Why were people prepared to pay such an indecent sum of money for something so simple? she mused. A length of fabric and a reel of cotton thread could produce the same for a fraction of the amount.

The dress she’d made for the ball had been a huge success, and no one had seemed to recognise it as an old piece of discarded curtain lining.

The low growl of a powerful engine broke her concentration, and she glanced behind her as a shiny black Lamborghini jerked to a halt in the road.

Chantal felt her heart skitter, and slowly the world around her faded into the background. She was oblivious to the fact that several other women had turned to stare and equally oblivious to the cacophony of car horns as other drivers registered their protest.

She knew that car.

She’d seen it two weeks before—at the ball she hadn’t been invited to.

It belonged to the man that she hadn’t been supposed to dance with.

The son of the man she wished she’d never talked to.

His attention caught by the gleaming blonde hair and long, long legs of the woman staring into the shop window, Angelos Zouvelekis slammed his foot on the brake and brought the car to an abrupt halt.

Ignoring the sudden swivel of heads that followed his action, he stared hard at the woman.

Was it her?

Had he finally found her, or was it wishful thinking on his part?

She looked different. Wondering if he’d made a mistake, Angelos narrowed his eyes and imagined this woman with her hair piled on top of her head and her arms and shoulders revealed by the clever cut of her couture dress.

And then her eyes met his, and all doubt faded. Even from this distance he caught a flash of sapphire-blue—the same unusual colour that had caught his attention that fateful night at the ball.

Her eyes were unforgettable.

Finally he’d found her. And where else but shopping in one of the most expensive districts of Paris?

It should have been the first place he’d instructed his security team to look, Angelos thought cynically, wondering which deluded fool had provided the money she was clearly about to spend.

The fact that he’d been compelled to search for her at all made the anger explode inside him and he switched off the engine and sprang from the car, as indifferent to the ‘No Parking’ signs as he was to the gaping audience of admiring women who were now watching his movements with lustful interest.

At that precise moment he wasn’t interested in any woman except the one who was staring at him, and he almost laughed as he saw the shock in her eyes.

It didn’t surprise him that she was shocked to see him, given the way they’d parted company.

He was shocked, too. In normal circumstances he went out of his way to avoid women like her. If anyone had told him a month ago that he would have used all his contacts to track down someone whose behaviour appalled and disgusted him, he would have laughed.

But here he was, about to make her day. Thanks to a twist of fate, he was about to give her all she’d dreamed of and more.

As he walked purposefully towards her he consoled himself with the knowledge that although she had won the first round, the second, third and fourth were going to be his.

She was also about to discover the truth behind that famous saying Be careful what you wish for…

This woman had made her wishes perfectly clear, but he was absolutely sure that by the time he’d finished with her she would be wishing she’d targeted a man less able to defend himself.

Angelos ground his teeth, furious and frustrated at the position he now found himself in. She was obviously the sort of woman who devoted her life to leeching from those better off than her. A woman with no scruples and no morals. She was the lowest of the low, and the knowledge that he’d been well and truly manipulated for the first time in his life did nothing for his temper.

If there was one word he would never have applied to himself, it was gullible.

He looked straight at her, and was instantly gripped by a spasm of lust so powerful that his brain momentarily ceased to function.

She was all woman.

From the tumbling blonde hair to the generous swell of her breasts and the soft curve of her narrow waist, she was entirely and uncontrovertibly feminine.

Over the past two weeks he’d been so furiously angry with her that he’d forgotten how incredibly beautiful she was. Her assets would not have been valued by any of the glossy magazines—her shape was too feminine for that—but she was a woman that any red-blooded male would fantasise about taking to bed.

Appalled at himself, Angelos dragged his gaze away from her and tried to refocus his mind.

It had been a long two weeks, he reminded himself as he searched for a logical explanation for his unwelcome and wholly inappropriate reaction to her. An extremely long two weeks.

Back in control, he risked another glance at her. This time he thought he saw guilt in her eyes and had to remind himself that guilt was connected to conscience, and this woman wasn’t familiar with either word.

‘Isabelle.’ He was unable to keep the contempt out of his voice and for a moment she just stared at him, wide eyed, her expression faintly puzzled.

Then she spoke, and her voice was husky and feminine. ‘Who is Isabelle?’

The denial on her part was entirely predictable, but all the same temper exploded inside him. ‘We are no longer playing “Guess the Identity”.’

‘But I’m not—’

‘Don’t!’ Driven to the limits of his self control, he growled the warning and she backed away a few steps.

As well she might, Angelos thought grimly, after the stunt she’d pulled.

‘Get in the car.’ He was too angry to bother with pleasantries, and he saw a flicker of panic in her eyes.

‘You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone else.’

He reached into his pocket and removed the evidence. ‘There’s no mistake. Next time you’re trying to remain incognito, don’t drop your ticket.’

She stared at the ticket in his hand, and it was clear that she didn’t know what to say.

‘Now I understand why you were so reluctant to introduce yourself.’ He watched the various emotions flicker across her eyes. Consternation, confusion—fear? ‘So now we’ve cleared up the sticky subject of your identity, let’s go.’

She was still looking at the ticket. ‘Go where?’

‘With me. This is your lucky day.’ He wondered whether it was possible for words to actually choke a man. ‘You’ve hit the jackpot.’

Her gaze shifted from the ticket to his face. ‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.’

So, not only had she won this round, but she intended to make him suffer by rubbing it in.

He was so livid that had he been a lion he would have savaged her on the spot and left her body for the hyenas.

As it was, the desire to walk away was so powerful that he actually stepped back from her. Then a vision of his father flew into his head and he reminded himself of the reason he was standing here now.

Cursing softly, he ran a hand over the back of his neck, wondering if there had been any change in his father’s condition.

Reminding himself that the sooner this was sorted, the sooner he could return to Greece and monitor his father’s progress in person, Angelos stood his ground. ‘Amazing though it seems, I’m about to further the acquaintance that you saw fit to initiate.’ Furious at finding himself manipulated by a set of circumstances that were now far beyond his control, he tightened his jaw. ‘Get in the car.’

‘I really need to tell you something—’ she sounded young, and just a little bit desperate, but he was too angry to feel sympathy.

He knew from personal experience that youth and greed existed happily together. Thanks in part to the numerous glossy magazines that made their profit from fuelling envy, there were plenty of people who wanted maximum lifestyle for minimum effort.

‘I’m not interested in anything you have to say. This time I’m doing the talking, and I don’t want an audience.’

She didn’t move, and the crowd of people behind her seemed to have grown larger. ‘I don’t see what there is to talk about.’

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Unlike you, I prefer to keep my personal business personal. Let’s go.’ Before someone recognised him and took a photograph that would appear in tomorrow’s newspapers. ‘My hotel isn’t far from here.’

‘Your hotel?’ Her expression grew suddenly frosty, as if he’d delivered the worst insult possible. ‘Pick another girl, Mr Zouvelekis. I’m not the sort of woman who likes to become intimately acquainted with the inside of a man’s hotel room—even less so when that man is a stranger.’

Her prim, dignified rejection was so at odds with what he already knew about her character that he didn’t know whether to laugh or punch something.

‘A stranger?’ He failed to keep the disdain out of his voice. ‘I’m the same stranger that you danced with, and we both know where that dance would have led. If you hadn’t shown your true colours so early in the evening, we would have ended the night naked in my hotel room.’

Her lips parted in murmured denial, but although her mouth was trying to form the right words, the chemistry between them was still sizzling.

Even while struggling against a shockingly powerful urge to wring her neck, Angelos found himself being distracted by the smooth, creamy perfection of her skin and the way her full breasts pressed against her white shirt.

No wonder he hadn’t been concentrating the night of the ball.

She was spectacular.

Exasperated with himself, he forced his attention back to her eyes. ‘Even if I wasn’t already aware of your reputation, Isabelle, your performance at the ball would have been more than enough to convince me that, quite apart from being that “sort of woman”, in fact your specialist subject is the inside of men’s hotel rooms.’

‘My reputation?’ She sounded astonished, as though it were news to her that she had a reputation, and he gave her a warning glance.

‘Now I know who you are, I can understand why you went to such extraordinary lengths not to introduce yourself. Next time you want to trap a billionaire, change your name.’

Her eyes widened, and suddenly he forgot everything that he’d been intending to say.

She had the most amazing eyes he’d ever seen. Standing this close, and with the benefit of the spring sunshine to light her face, he could see that the sapphire was broken by flecks of green—as if an adoring artist had been determined to do everything possible to increase the impact of those eyes on a woefully poorly prepared male race. And as for her body—

He gritted his teeth, aware that it had been her body that had contributed to the situation they now found themselves in. His libido had smothered the sound of alarm bells ringing in his head.

His comment silenced her for a moment and she watched him, her chest rising and falling under the white lace blouse.

Aware that the audience around them was listening intently to the entire conversation, Angelos reached out and slid an arm round her waist, jerking her against him.

‘I’ll give you some more free advice,’ he murmured softly, his lips close to her ear. His actions were those of a lover, but his words were those of an aggressor, and he felt the sudden tension in her body, ‘if you want a man to believe in your virtue, don’t wear a skirt that reveals your chosen brand of underwear. Not that I’m complaining, you understand. If we have to do this, we might as well both enjoy it. In fact, I’m wondering what extras come with the waitress costume? Whipped cream? Melted chocolate?’

‘Do what? What are you talking about?’

He felt her try to pull away and pressed his hand into the hollow of her back, distracted by how small her waist was. How could anyone manage to be curvy and slender at the same time?

‘I’m talking about our new relationship, agape mou. The one you wanted so badly.’

‘You’re being ridiculous. Let me go.’

‘Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more. But unfortunately I can’t. Thanks to you, we’re both in a situation that can’t be easily solved. You’re coming with me now, so that we can analyse our extremely limited options.’ They were still locked together, the softness of her body pressed against the unyielding hardness of his, and he was finding it harder and harder to focus on what needed to be done. What had started as a means of ensuring that their conversation remained private had swiftly turned into something much, much more intimate.

It was like being back on the dance floor.

The scent of her skin and hair invaded his senses and he felt the immediate reaction of his body. Sexual awareness erupted and she obviously felt it too because she gave a moan of denial.

‘Why would you want me to come with you? I seem to remember you telling me that you would rather be celibate than spend the rest of your life with a woman like me.’

He tensed. He’d flung those words at her on the night of the ball, and having them thrown back at him now was a harsh reminder of the realities of the current situation.

‘I have no intention of spending the rest of my life with you. Just a few weeks. I’m sure that will be more than enough for both of us.’

‘A few weeks?’ She gave a brief shake of her head. ‘I still have no idea what you’re talking about, and my answer is still no.’

‘So far I haven’t asked you a question that needed an answer. Either you get in the car, or I’ll lift you into it myself.’

‘We have an audience who can see quite clearly that you are bullying me. Do you really think you can kidnap me in broad daylight?’

‘No. I plan to be a great deal more subtle than that.’ He brought his mouth down on hers and directed all the anger and frustration he was feeling into his kiss. But the moment her soft lips melded with his, his mind blanked and all control vanished. Her mouth was like a wicked, forbidden drug and even as he lost himself in the kiss he knew that the taste of her lips was going to stay with him for ever. Sweet, seductive, dangerously sinful—

Abruptly he lifted his head, astounded by his own ferocious hunger.

As he frowned down at her beautiful face, he noticed that her eyes were dazed and her cheeks were flushed. Her fingers were locked into the fabric of his shirt, as if for support.

Aware that he was fast approaching the point where he’d be prepared to risk a conviction for committing an indecent act in a public place, Angelos released her. ‘No Parisian will intervene in a lovers’ quarrel, agape mou. They know that the path of true love rarely runs smoothly, and by now they are all longing to see me ride roughshod over your objections and go for the happy ending.’

Without waiting for her response, he took her arm, controlling her easily with one hand while he used the other to open the car door.

As he propelled her into the passenger seat, a woman watching gave an envious sigh and turned to her friend.

‘L’amour,’ she said, and Angelos gave a grim smile as he slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

Not l’amour, he thought viciously as he trod hard on the accelerator and made for the hotel.

Not l’amour at all.

What he had in mind had a much less romantic description attached to it.

CHAPTER THREE

WHAT did he want with her?

The living room of his penthouse suite was bigger than her entire flat, and looked out over the whole of Paris. It was a view that only the privileged few ever enjoyed, and at any other time Chantal would have been enchanted. But not now.

Her body was still in a state of helpless excitement following that one devastating kiss.

If dancing with him had been erotic, then kissing him had been—

She couldn’t find a word for it.

Her legs still trembling, she looked around for somewhere solid to prop herself. She needed the support just in case he kissed her again.

But that wasn’t going to happen, was it?

He wasn’t even looking at her. Instead he was staring in brooding silence down into the streets below.

Her tongue sneaked out and touched her lower lip, still slightly swollen from the bruising force of his kiss. She was well aware that he’d used the kiss as a means of distracting their audience, but that knowledge in no way diminished the chemistry that had exploded between them.

Was the chemistry responsible for the anger she sensed in him?

The truth was, she no longer understood what was going on.

She’d attributed his anger on the night of the ball to the fact that he’d somehow discovered that she was an uninvited guest. When he’d first waved the crumpled ticket at her, she’d assumed that he was displaying the evidence.

And then he’d called her ‘Isabelle’, and she’d realised that he believed her to be the owner of the ticket. And the crazy thing was she didn’t even know ‘Isabelle’.

Obviously he didn’t yet know that she’d gatecrashed the party.

Deeply regretting the impulse that had made her use a ticket that wasn’t hers, Chantal glanced around furtively, half expecting someone in uniform to put a hand on her shoulder and arrest her.

Could you be arrested for something like that?

Did it count as identity theft if the transgression had only been for one short evening? Did it count as identity theft if the victim was none the wiser and the thief almost immediately gave the identity back? It wasn’t really theft, was it? More a case of—borrowing. She’d borrowed someone else’s name for a short time, just to see whether time and maturity had given her the confidence to mingle with people who’d used to make her feel insignificant.

Trying to ignore the shimmer of insecurity that had started to take hold, Chantal stood there awkwardly.

Now what?

Since he’d picked up her from the street, Angelos hadn’t spoken a word. He’d strapped her with restrained violence into the passenger seat and proceeded to drive skilfully through the fast Paris traffic before finally pulling up outside the most expensive hotel in the city.

Only then had he finally glanced in her direction. His tone icy cold, he’d uttered just one word. ‘Out.’

The simmer of anger in his dark eyes had made her insides quake, but remembering the few weeks she’d spent working in the hotel when she’d first arrived in Paris, she hadn’t wanted to draw attention to herself by arguing with him on the pavement. So Chantal had simply lowered her head and followed him meekly into the lift that led directly to the penthouse suite, hoping that none of the staff would recognise her.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, she’d regretted following him and now she was finally alone with him she felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach.

She tried to look relaxed. As if his kiss hadn’t turned her insides into a mass of squirming, helpless longing. ‘All right. I’m here. What did you want to say to me?’ Why didn’t he speak? She just wished he’d say something. Anything—instead of just standing there with his back to her, his broad shoulders stiff with tension. ‘Perhaps I should just leave—’

He turned, the angular lines of his handsome face set and hard. ‘If you leave, I’ll just bring you back.’ He was autocratic and intimidating and she stood frozen to the spot, confused by the conflict she sensed in him.

He’d kissed her, but it was obvious that he wasn’t happy about it.

‘Let’s just get one thing straight from the outset,’ she muttered, deciding that she might as well make her position clear. ‘I won’t have sex with you, so if that’s what this is all about, you might as well just let me go now.’

A protracted silence followed her impulsive declaration. The only indication that he’d even heard her was a slight narrowing of his dark eyes.

The silence unnerved her and she tried again. ‘I’m just saying that although I’m sure every other woman you meet is desperate to—I mean, you’re a good-looking guy, but…’ Her voice trailed off, her chattiness extinguished by his total lack of response.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, he spoke.

‘Do I look like the sort of man who picks up a woman from the street when he wants sex?’

Chantal could have told him that those men came in all shapes and sizes, but she chose to keep her thoughts to herself. ‘I have no idea what sort of man you are. And I don’t want to find out.’

‘Really?’ One dark eyebrow lifted in mockery. ‘You expect me to believe that after the virtuoso performance you gave on the night of the ball?’

Remembering the erotic dance they’d shared, Chantal felt her heart-rate double. ‘It was just a dance…’ her voice trailed off again as his eyes locked on hers.

And suddenly there it was again.

The same silent connection that had drawn them together the night of the ball.

Something flickered in the depths of his eyes, something dark and dangerous, and she knew that his mind was in the same place as hers: the exquisite agony of anticipation as their bodies had moved and slid together, the heat, the restrained passion, the delicious intimacy—

They stared at each other until the tension in the room was wound so tightly that it came close to snapping.

This time he was the one to break the silence. ‘Tell me something—’ his voice was lethally soft ‘—is that how you trap all your men? You dance with them first? Is it your idea of a free trial? Try before you buy?’

His cynicism clashed with the image of him that her mind had greedily stored away. She’d remembered a gentleness, but there was nothing gentle about his man. He was all hard angles and sharp anger. ‘I’m not for sale, Mr Zouvelekis.’

‘I think the people who watched you dance might have trouble believing that.’

And the amazing thing was she hadn’t been aware of anything or anyone but him. She’d been so absorbed by the rhythm of the music and the movement of his body that she’d been lost in her own world. The dance had been special. Something astonishing that they’d created together.

But that was ridiculous, of course. A prime example of her imagination running away yet again. For him, it hadn’t been special. It had been a prelude to sex.

Not only was he turning the dance into something sleazy, he was judging her.

And although she didn’t know anything about this Isabelle woman, she knew all about being judged.

Chantal straightened her shoulders. ‘I danced because you insisted on it. You hauled me onto the dance floor like some possessive herd bull. But on that dance floor we were equally matched.’ For a brief moment she’d experienced the bliss of having a man completely in tune with her. ‘If I gave, then it’s because you demanded. Whatever I did, you were there before me.’

‘You manipulated the entire scenario. With a different man your plan might have worked.’

‘I didn’t have a plan. And you approached me.’

‘You paraded yourself in front of me in a dress designed specifically to capture a man’s attention.’

She decided that this wasn’t the time to feel pride that her work on a length of material that had begun life dressing windows had been so successful and convincing. ‘I didn’t exactly parade.’

‘Let me give you a few hints,’ he purred, his lashes lowering to conceal the expression in his eyes. ‘I’m Greek. I’m Greek all the way through. And when it comes to women we’re still very traditional. Greek men like to do the choosing and the chasing.’

Chantal frowned, thinking about the article she’d read about him the day after the ball. ‘I thought you were supposed to be very forward thinking. You have more women in executive positions than most companies.’

‘That’s business. In my personal life I’m very traditional,’ he drawled. ‘And it doesn’t matter whether it’s the boardroom or the bedroom, the important thing is to find the right woman for the job. As far as wife material goes, you don’t fit my ideal profile. Next time spend more hours on your research.’

‘Research?’ Chantal shook her head in confusion. ‘Did you think you were some sort of project, or something?’

Contempt flickered across his features. ‘Do you really think that I haven’t heard about you?’

So obviously Isabelle had a reputation as a gold-digger.

Floored by that piece of news, Chantal stood still, her brain a hopeless tangle of indecision. It was obvious that she needed to try once again to tell him that she wasn’t this Isabelle person, but doing that would mean admitting to an even worse crime. She was a thief, and strictly speaking she’d impersonated someone else. Could that be classed as fraud if the ticket had been in the bin? Possibly. Could she go to gaol? Possibly. She didn’t really know, but she did know that he was angry enough to make trouble.

Trouble that she didn’t need.

Better a gold-digger than a thief.

Deciding that for the time being the less she revealed the better, Chantal licked her lips. ‘You’re wrong about me.’

‘Not wrong. It’s obvious that you went to the ball with the intention of targeting me.’

Astonished by his interpretation of the facts, Chantal shook her head. ‘I didn’t even know who you were until I picked up a newspaper the next day.’

‘Do you think I’m stupid?’

‘Not stupid. Arrogant.’

‘Realistic,’ he shot back. ‘And justifiably cautious. Clearly you have no idea how many women have trodden that same path before you. So I’ll tell you once again that I could never be attracted to anyone as manipulative as you. Dishonesty is not a trait I’ve ever admired in a woman.’

Chantal froze, doubly relieved that she hadn’t told him the truth.

He wouldn’t understand, would he?

She cringed at the thought of the reaction that such a confession would invoke. This was a man with the world at his fingertips. What would someone like him know about her life? How could he even begin to understand what had driven her to do something like that?

A dark memory of the last time someone had discovered the truth about her rose, and she felt a flicker of the old panic. And then she reminded herself that her past was all safely hidden. It was buried so deep that no one would ever discover the truth about her. That part of her was gone for ever, and she was perfectly safe.

She was whoever she wanted to be.

And at the moment that might as well be Isabelle.

Trapped by a situation entirely of her own making, Chantal wiped her damp palms over the limited fabric of her skirt, wishing there was more of it. She felt horribly exposed—even more so as his gaze travelled slowly down the length of her legs.

She felt the same tingling feeling she’d felt the night of the ball and she lifted her chin, reminding herself that so far every second she’d spent with this man had been a disaster. ‘Stop looking at me.’

‘If you don’t want a man to look at you,’ he bit out, ‘try wearing a skirt that covers your bottom. If outfits could talk, then yours is saying “take me”. You’re a walking advert for sex. I’m surprised you haven’t been arrested, walking the streets dressed in that. Or perhaps undressed would be a better description.’

This was the point where she should tell him that she had until a few hours ago been working as a waitress. But she had no intention of doing that. And anyway, when had she ever allowed herself to be defined by her job? ‘How I dress is my choice.’

‘I agree absolutely,’ he drawled, a cynical gleam in his dark eyes. ‘But, having made that choice, you cannot then object when a man responds in a predictable way. We’re not very advanced when it comes to matters as basic as sex. You chose to dress like that, and therefore it follows that you wanted to invoke a certain reaction in the male sex. And that is entirely in keeping with your reputation.’

Chantal felt a flicker of unease. What exactly had Isabelle been up to?

It would have been helpful to know.

Apart from the obvious deduction that she was the sort of woman willing to carelessly drop a coveted ticket in a hotel dustbin, Chantal knew nothing about her. But her curious, inventive mind had already started filling in the gaps. What had made a woman discard a ticket to an event to which only a select few were allowed access?

Who was she?

Judging from the derisive curl of Angelos’s mouth, no one she ever wanted to meet.

Chantal chewed her lip, trying not to reflect on the irony of the fact that she’d obviously borrowed the identity of a woman whose life was every bit as complex as her own.

Now what?

What should she do? Her whole life had been a web of lies since childhood, but her lies were only self-protection, and they’d never actually harmed anyone, had they? This was the first time that any of her stories had caught up with her and she felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach.

After their one explosive encounter she’d been left with the impression that he wouldn’t ever want to cross her path again. Even now she didn’t understand why he’d brought her here. At first she’d assumed it was for sex, but there was nothing lover like about the way he was glaring at her.

‘So what do you want from me?’ He came from a different world, and that world still had the ability to shrink her back to a terrified schoolgirl.

Victim.

The word flew into her head and she pushed it away immediately, straightening her shoulders.

She wasn’t going to be anyone’s victim. Never again.

Visibly tense, he tugged impatiently at the knot of his tie and undid the top button of his shirt, clearly finding it constricting. ‘You are going to continue the charade that you began the night of the ball.’

‘Sorry?’

Anger flashed in his dark eyes and his hand sliced through the air in a furious gesture. ‘Do not pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about,’ he breathed, ‘when we both know that you used the ball as a means to meet me.’

‘I’ve already told you that I didn’t. I—’

‘You virtually threw yourself across my path. And from the moment we met you couldn’t stop looking at me.’

‘Well, in order to have noticed you must have been looking at me too,’ Chantal offered logically, and he inhaled sharply.

‘You danced as though we were already horizontal in the bedroom.’

‘You danced too.’

Her comment did nothing to alleviate his temper. He muttered something in Greek that she just knew would be better off not translated.

‘I ought to congratulate you.’ He switched back to English, his derisive tone suggesting that congratulations were the last thing on his mind. ‘I thought I’d been on the receiving end of every possible trick, but you took the whole thing to an entirely new level.’

‘You’re obviously very angry, but—’

‘You’re right, I’m angry. Over the years various women have gone to enormous lengths to attract my attention. They pose as businesswomen, they apply for a job with me, they book tables in restaurants where I am dining, they hover outside my house in the hope of bumping into me. Sometimes they just turn up in my office wearing next to nothing, in the hope that they’ll attract my attention.’

‘Really?’ Astonished that some women had the confidence to go to those lengths to meet someone, Chantal gaped at him. ‘Gosh. That’s amazing.’

‘It is not amazing. It is intrusive and unacceptable.’

‘It must be one of the drawbacks of being a billionaire, I suppose. Can’t you laugh about it?’

He threw her an incredulous glance and sucked in a breath. ‘It is not amusing. Particularly when a woman stoops so low as to target my father in order to gain my attention.’

‘Ah.’ Finally sensing the direction of the conversation, Chantal gave an awkward shrug. ‘Actually, that wasn’t exactly what happened.’

The expression on his handsome face was grim as he surveyed her. ‘That is exactly what happened. Having danced with me, you then targeted him—like the greedy, unscrupulous, predatory woman you so clearly are.’

‘I didn’t know he was your father until you arrived with the drinks. And he approached me.’

‘Of course he did. My father’s fatal weakness is beautiful women—a fact of which you were well aware.’

‘I knew nothing about your father until that night.’ Until he’d rescued her. ‘I really liked him.’

Angelos shot her a look so fierce it would have stopped a riot. ‘I’m sure you did. He’s rich. And you have a taste for rich men—don’t you, Isabelle?’

‘Do I?’

‘Obviously. Given that you have already fleeced two in divorce settlements—one of them older than my father. For a woman of twenty six, you’ve been extremely busy.’

Chantal gasped. This Isabelle woman had married two men? One of them considerably older than her?

Perhaps continuing to let him believe that she was Isabelle hadn’t been such a sensible idea, after all.