The Virgin's Proposition

by Anne McAllister

  He knew they didn’t understand. And he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t make them understand about Lissa when he didn’t even understand himself. And after—after he couldn’t face them. Not yet.

  So it was easier to stay away.

  At least until he’d come to terms on his own.

  So he had. He was back, wasn’t he? He had a new screenplay with his name on it. He had a new film. He’d brought it to Cannes, the most public and prestigious of film festivals. He was out in public, doing interviews, charming fans, smiling for all he was worth.

  And tonight moussaka sounded good. Smelled good, too, he thought as he detected the scent mingling with other aromas in the kitchen. It reminded him of his youth, of happier times. The good old days.

  Maybe after he was finished at Cannes, he’d go see Theo and Martha and their kids in Santorini, then fly back to the States and visit his folks.

  He ordered the moussaka, then looked up to see Anny smiling at him.

  “What?” he said.

  She shook her head. “Just bemused,” she told him. “Surprised that I’m here. With you.”

  “Fate,” he said, tasting the wine the waiter brought, then nodding his approval.

  “Do you believe that?”

  “No. But I’m a screenwriter, too. I like turning points.” It was glib and probably not even true. God knew some of the turning points in his life had been disasters even if on the screen they were useful. But Anny seemed struck by the notion.

  The waiter poured her wine. She looked up and thanked him, earning her a bright smile in return. Then she picked it up and sipped it contemplatively, her expression serious.

  He wanted to see her smile again. “So, you’re writing a dissertation. You volunteer at a clinic. You have a fiancé. You went to Oxford. And Berkeley. Tell me more. What else should I know about Anny Chamion?”

  She hesitated, as if she weren’t all that comfortable talking about herself, which was in itself refreshing.

  Lissa had commanded the center of attention wherever they’d been. But Anny spread her palms and shrugged disingenuously, then shocked him by saying, “I had a poster of you on my wall when I was eighteen.”

  Demetrios groaned and put his hand over his eyes. He knew the poster. It was an artistic, tasteful, nonrevealing nude, which he’d done at the request of a young photographer friend trying to make a name for herself.

  She had.

  So had he. His brothers and every male friend he’d ever had, seeing that poster, had taunted him about it for years. Still did. His parents, fortunately, had had a sense of humor and had merely rolled their eyes. Girls seemed to like it, though.

  “I was young and dumb,” he admitted now, ruefully shaking his head.

  “But gorgeous,” Anny replied with such disarming frankness that he blinked.

  “Thanks,” he said a little wryly. But he found her admiration oddly pleasing. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard the sentiment before, but knowing a cool, self-possessed woman like Anny had been attracted kicked the activity level of his formerly dormant hormones up another notch.

  He shifted in his chair. “Tell me about something besides the poster. Tell me how you met your fiancé?” He didn’t really want to know that, but it seemed like a good idea to ask, remind his hormones of the reality of the situation.

  The waiter set salads in front of them. Demetrios picked up his fork.

  “I’ve known him all my life,” Anny said.

  “The boy next door?”

  “Not quite. But, well, sort of.”

  “Helps if you know someone well.” God knew it would have helped if he’d known more about what made Lissa tick. It would have sent him running in the other direction. But how could he have when she was so good at playing a role? “You know him, at least.”

  “Yes.” This time her smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes. She focused on her salad, not offering any more so Demetrios changed the subject.

  “Tell me about these cave paintings. How much more work do you have to do on your dissertation?”

  She was more forthcoming about that. She talked at length about her work and her eyes lit up then. Ditto when he got her talking about the clinic and the children.

  He found her enthusiasm contagious, and when she asked him about the film he’d brought to Cannes, he shared some of his own enthusiasm.

  She was a good listener. She asked good questions. Even better, she knew what not to ask. She said nothing at all about the two plus years he’d stayed out of the public eye. Nothing about his marriage. Nothing about Lissa’s death.

  Only when he brought up not having come to Cannes for a couple of years did she say simply, “I was sorry to hear about your wife.”

  “Thank you.”

  They got through the salad, their entrées—the moussaka was remarkably good and reminiscent of his mother’s—and then, because Anny looked a second or so too long at the apple tart, and because he really didn’t want the evening to end yet, he suggested they share a piece with their coffee.

  “Just a bite for me,” she agreed. “I eat far too much of it whenever I come here.”

  Demetrios liked that she had enjoyed her meal. He liked that she wasn’t rail-thin and boney the way Lissa had been, the way so many actresses felt they needed to be. She hadn’t picked at her food the way they did. She looked healthy and appealing—just right, in his estimation—with definite hints of curves beneath her tailored jacket, scoop-necked top and linen skirt.

  The hormones were definitely awake.

  The waiter brought the apple tart and two forks. And Demetrios was almost annoyed to discover he wasn’t going to be able to feed her a bite off his. Almost.

  Then sanity reared its head. He got a grip, pushed the plate toward her. “After you.”

  She cut off a small piece and carried it to her mouth, then shut her eyes and sighed. “That is simply heaven.” She ran her tongue lightly over her lips, and opened her eyes again.

  “Taste it,” she urged him.

  His hormones heard, Taste me. He cleared his throat and focused on the tart.

  It was good. He did his best to savor it appreciatively, aware of her eyes on him, watching him as he chewed and swallowed.

  “Your turn.”

  She shook her head. “One bite. That’s it.”

  “It’s heaven,” he reminded her.

  “I’ve had my taste for tonight.” She set down her fork and put her hands in her lap. “Truly. Please, finish it.”

  He took his time, not just to savor the tart but the evening as well. It was the first time he’d been out on anything remotely resembling a date since Lissa. Not that this was precisely a date. He wasn’t doing dates—not ones that led anywhere except bed now that his hormones were awake and kicking.

  Still he was enjoying himself. This was a step back into the normal world he’d left three years before, made easier because of the woman Anny was…comfortable, poised, appealing. He liked her ease and her calmness at the same time he felt a renegade impulse to ruffle that calm.

  The notion brought him up short. Where the hell had that come from?

  He forked the last bite into his mouth and washed it down with a quick swallow of coffee.

  Anny shook her head in gentle sadness. “You weren’t treating it like heaven just then.”

  He wiped his mouth on the napkin, then dropped it on the table. “I realized I was making you wait. It’s nearly midnight,” he said, surprised at how the time had flown.

  “Maybe I will turn into a pumpkin.” She didn’t smile when she said it.

  He did. “Can I watch?”

  “Prince Charming is always long gone when that happens, remember?”

  He remembered. And he remembered, too, that however enjoyable it had been, unlike the Cinderella story, it wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t want it to. She didn’t want it to. That was probably what made it so damn enjoyable.

  “Ready to go?”

  She nodded. She looked r
emote now, a little pensive.

  He paid the bill, told the waiter what a great meal it was, and was bemused when the waiter barely looked at him, but had a smile for Anny. “We are so happy to have you come tonight, your—You’re always welcome.” He even kissed her hand.

  Outside she stopped and offered that same hand to him. “Thank you. For the dinner. For coming to the clinic. For everything. It was a memorable evening.”

  He took her hand, but he shook his head. “I’m not leaving you on a street corner.”

  “My flat’s not far. You don’t need—”

  “I’m walking you home. To your door.” In case she had any other ideas. “So lead on.”

  He could have let go of her hand then. He didn’t. He kept her fingers firmly wrapped in his as he walked beside her through the narrow streets.

  In the distance he could still hear traffic moving along La Croisette. There was music from bars, an occasional motorcycle. Next to him, Anny walked in silence, her fingers warm in his palm. She didn’t speak at all, and that, in itself, was a lovely novelty. Every girl he’d ever been with, from Jenny Sorensen in ninth grade to Lissa, had talked his ear off all the way to the door.

  Anny didn’t say a thing until she stopped in front of an old stuccoed four-story apartment building with tall shuttered French doors that opened onto narrow wrought-iron railed balconies.

  “Here we are.” She slipped out a key, opened the big door.

  He expected she would tell him he could leave then, but she must have understood he meant the door to her own flat, because she led the way through a small spare open area to a staircase that climbed steeply up the center of the building. She pressed a light switch to illuminate the stairs and, without glancing his way, started up them.

  Demetrios stayed a step behind her until they arrived at the door to her flat. She unlocked hers, then turned to offer him a smile and her hand.

  “My door,” she said with a smile. Then, “Thank you,” she added simply. “It’s been lovely.”

  “It has.” And he meant it. It was quite honestly the loveliest night he’d had in years. “I lucked out when I commandeered you at the Ritz.”

  “So did I.” Her eyes were luminous, like deep blue pools.

  They stared at each other. The moment lingered. So did they.

  Demetrios knew exactly what he should do: give her hand a polite shake, then let go of it and say goodbye. Or maybe give her a kiss. After all, he’d greeted her with a kiss before he even knew who she was.

  But now he did know. She was a sweet, kind, warm young woman—who was engaged to someone else. The last sort of woman he should be lusting after.

  But even knowing it, he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.

  Just a taste. What the hell was wrong with a taste? He wasn’t going to do anything about it.

  Just…taste.

  And this one couldn’t be like the first time he’d kissed her. That had been for show—all determination and possession and public display.

  Or like the second when he’d left her on the street corner with her phone buzzing in her hand. One quick defiant kiss because he couldn’t help himself.

  This time he could certainly help himself. But he didn’t, because he wanted it.

  He wanted to taste her. Savor her. Remember her.

  And so slowly and deliberately he took Anny’s lips with his.

  She tasted of wine and apple and a sweetness that could only be Anny herself. He savored it more than he’d savored the tart. Couldn’t seem to stop himself, like a parched man after years in the desert given the clearest most refreshing water in the world.

  He would have stopped if she’d resisted, if she’d put her hands against his chest and pushed him away.

  But she put her hands against his chest and hung on—clutched his shirt as if she would never let go.

  He didn’t know which of them was more surprised. Or which of them stepped back first.

  His hormones were having a field day. After so long asleep, they were definitely wide-awake and raring to go.

  Demetrios tried to ignore them, but he couldn’t quite ignore the hammer of his heart against the wall of his chest, or keep his voice steady as he said, “Good night, Anny Chamion.”

  For a moment she just looked stunned. She barely managed a smile as she swallowed and said, “Good night.”

  There was another silence. Then he tipped her chin up with a single finger, and leaned down to give her one last light chaste kiss on the lips—the proper farewell kiss he should have given her moments ago.

  “I owe you,” he said.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “You rescued me, remember?”

  She shook her head. “You fed me dinner. You went to see Franck.”

  And you brought the first evening of joy into my life in the last three years. Of course he didn’t say that. He only repeated, “I owe you, Anny Chamion. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just ask.”

  She stared at him mutely.

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card, then scrawled his private number on it, tucking it into her hand. “Whatever you need. Whenever. You only have to ask. Okay?”

  She nodded, her eyes wide and almighty enticing. She had no idea.

  “Good night,” he said firmly, deliberately—as much to convince his hormones as to say farewell to her. But he waited for her to go inside and shut the door. Only when she had did he turn and walk toward the stairs.

  He had just reached them when the door jerked open behind him.

  “Demetrios?” she called his name softly.

  He stiffened, then turned. “What?”

  He waited as she came toward him until she stood bare inches away, close enough that he could again catch the scent of the apple tart, of a faint hint of citrus shampoo.

  Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him. “Anything?”

  “What?” He blinked, confused.

  “You said you’d do anything?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  She wetted her lips. “Whatever I ask?”

  “Yes,” he said firmly.

  “Make love with me.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHE COULDN’T BELIEVE she’d said the words. Not out loud.

  Thought them, yes. Wished they would come true, absolutely. But ask a man—this man!—to make love with her?

  No! She couldn’t have.

  But one look at his face told her that, in fact, she had. Oh, dear God. She desperately wanted to recall the request. Her face burned. Her brain—provided she had one, which seemed unlikely given what she’d just done—was likely going up in smoke.

  What on earth had possessed her?

  Some demon no doubt. Certainly it wasn’t the spirit of generations of Mont Chamion royalty. They were doubtless spinning in their graves.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” She had always thought people who fanned themselves were silly and pretentious. Now she understood the impulse. She started to back away.

  But Demetrios caught her hand. “You didn’t mean…?” Those green eyes bored into hers.

  She tried to pull away. He let go, but his gaze still held her. “I…never should have said it.” She wanted to say she didn’t mean it, but that wasn’t true, so she didn’t say that.

  “You’re getting married,” he said quietly.

  She swallowed, then nodded once, a jerky nod. “Yes.”

  “And you’d have meaningless sex with me before you do?”

  That stung, but she shook her head. “It wouldn’t be meaningless. Not to me.”

  “Why? Because you had my poster on your wall? Because I’m some damned movie star and you think I’d be a nice notch on your bedpost?” He really was furious.

  “No! It—it isn’t about you,” she said, trying to find the words to express the feeling that had been growing inside her all evening long. “Not really.”

  “No?” He looked sceptical, then challenged her. “Oka
y. So tell me then, what is it about?”

  She took a breath. “It’s what you made me remember.”

  His jaw set. “What’s that?” He leaned back against the wall, apparently prepared to hear her out right there.

  She sighed. “It’s…complicated. And I—I can’t stand here in the hallway and explain. My neighbors don’t expect to be disturbed at this time of night.”

  “Then invite me in.”

  Which, she realized, was pretty much what she’d already done. She shrugged, then turned and led the way back down the hall and into Tante Isabelle’s apartment. She nodded toward the overstuffed sofa and waved a hand toward it. “Sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “I don’t think either of us wants coffee, Anny,” he said gruffly.

  “No.” That was certainly true. She wanted him. Even now. Even more. Watching him prowling around Tante Isabelle’s flat like some sort of panther didn’t turn off her desire. In fact it only seemed to make him more appealing. She had plenty of experience dealing with heads of state, but none dealing with panthers or men who resembled them. It was a relief when he finally crossed the room and sat on the sofa.

  She didn’t dare take a seat on the sofa near him. Instead she went to the leather armchair nearest to the balcony, sat down and bent her head for just a moment. She wasn’t sure she was praying for divine guidance, but some certainly wouldn’t go amiss right now. When she lifted her gaze and met his again, she knew that the only defense she had was the truth.

  “I am not marrying for love,” she said baldly.

  If she’d expected him to be shocked or to protest, she got her own shock at his reply.

  He shrugged. “Love is highly overrated.” His tone was harsh, almost bitter.

  Now it was her turn to stare. This from the man whose wedding had been touted as the love match of the year? “But you—”

  He cut her off abruptly. “This is not about me, remember?”

  “No. You’re right. I’m the one who—who suggested…asked,” she corrected herself, needing to face her foolishness as squarely as she could. “I was just…remembering the girl I used to be.” She studied her hands, then looked up again. “I was thinking about when I was in college and I had hopes and dreams and wonderful idealistic notions.” She paused and leaned forward, needing him at least to understand that much. “Today when I saw you, I remembered that girl. And tonight, well, it was as if she was here again. As if I were her. You brought it all back to me!”