Innocent Surrender: The Virgin's Proposition / The Virgin and His Majesty / Untouched Until Marriage

“That’s why you picked me.” She said it matter-of-factly and that surprised him, too.

But he grinned at her astute evaluation of the situation. “It’s called improvisation. I’m Demetrios, by the way.”

“I know.”

Yes, he supposed she did.

If there was one thing he’d figured out in the past forty-eight hours it was that he might have fallen off the face of the earth for the past two years, but no one seemed to have forgotten who he was.

In the industry, that was good. Distributors he wanted to talk to didn’t close their doors to him. But the paparazzi’s long memory he could have done without. They’d swarmed over him the moment they’d seen his face. The groupies had, too.

“What’d you expect?” his brother Theo had said sardonically. He’d dropped by Demetrios’s hotel room unannounced this morning en route sailing from Spain to Santorini. He’d grinned unsympathetically. “They all want to be the one to assuage your sorrow.”

Demetrios had known that coming to Cannes would be a madhouse, but he’d told himself he could manage. And he would be able to if all the women he met were like this one.

“Demetrios Savas in person,” she mused now, a smile touching her lips as she studied him with deep blue eyes. She looked friendly and mildly curious, but nothing more, thank God.

“At least you’re not giddy with excitement about it,” he said drily with a self-deprecating grin.

“I might be.” A dimple appeared in her left cheek when her smile widened. “Maybe I’m just hiding it well.”

“Keep right on hiding it. Please.”

She laughed at that, and he liked her laugh, too. It was warm and friendly and somehow it made her seem even prettier. She was a pretty girl. A wholesome sort of girl. Nothing theatrical or glitzy about her. Fresh and friendly with the sort of flawless complexion that cosmetic companies would kill for.

“Are you a model?” he asked, suddenly realizing she could be. And why not? She could have been waiting for an agent. A rep. It made sense. And some of them could contrive to look fresh and wholesome.

God knew Lissa had.

But this woman actually looked surprised at his question. “A model? No. Not at all. Do I look like one?” She laughed then, as if it were the least likely thing she could think of.

“You could be,” he told her.

“Really?” She looked sceptical, then shrugged “Well, thank you. I think.” She dimpled again as she smiled at him.

“I just meant you’re beautiful. It was a compliment. Do you work for the hotel then?”

“Beautiful?” That seemed to surprise her, too. But she didn’t dwell on it. “No, I don’t work there. Do I look like I could do that, too?” The smile that played at the corners of her mouth made him grin.

“You look…hospitable. Casually professional.” His gaze slid over her more slowly this time, taking in the neat upswept dark brown hair and the creamy complexion with its less-is-more makeup before moving on to the curves beneath the tastefully tailored jacket and skirt, the smooth, slender tanned legs, the toes peeking out from her sandals. “Attractive,” he said. “Approachable.”

“Approachable?”

“I approached,” he pointed out.

“You make me sound like a streetwalker.” But she didn’t sound offended, just amused.

But Demetrios shook his head. “Never. You’re not wearing enough makeup. And the clothes are all wrong.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

They smiled at each other again, and quite suddenly Demetrios felt as if he were waking up from a bad dream.

He’d been in it so long—dragged down and fighting his way back—that it seemed as if it would be all he’d ever know for the rest of his life.

But right now, just this instant, he felt alive. And he realized that he had smiled more—really honestly smiled—in the past five minutes than he had in the past three years.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Anny.”

Anny. A plain name. A first name. No last name. Usually women were falling all over themselves to give him their full names, the story of their lives, and, most importantly, their phone numbers.

“Just Anny?” he queried lightly.

“Chamion.” She seemed almost reluctant to tell him. That was refreshing.

“Anny Chamion.” He liked the sound of it. Simple. But a little exotic. “You’re French?”

“My mother was French.”

“And you speak English perfectly.”

“I went to university in the States. Well, I went to Oxford first. But I went to graduate school in California. At Berkeley. I still am, really. I’m working on my dissertation.”

“So, you’re a…scholar?”

She didn’t look like any scholar he’d ever met. No pencils in her hair. There was nothing distracted or ivory towerish about her. He knew all about scholarly single-mindedness. His brother George was a scholar—a physicist.

“You’re not a physicist?” he said accusingly.

She laughed. “Afraid not. I’m an archaeologist.”

He grinned. “Raiders of the Lost Ark? My brothers and I used to watch that over and over.”

Anny nodded, her eyes were smiling. Then she shrugged wryly. “The ‘real’ thing isn’t quite so exciting.”

“No Nazis and gun battles?”

“Not many snakes, either. And not a single dashing young Harrison Ford. I’m working on my dissertation right now—on cave paintings. No excitement there, either. But I like it. I’ve done the research. It’s just a matter of getting it all organized and down on paper.”

“Getting stuff down on paper isn’t always easy.” It had been perhaps the hardest part of the past couple of years, mostly because it required that he be alone with his thoughts.

“You’re writing a dissertation?”

“A screenplay,” he said. “I wrote one. Now I’m starting another. It’s hard work.”

“All that creativity would be exhausting. I couldn’t do it,” she said with admiration.

“I couldn’t write a dissertation.” He should just thank her and say goodbye. But he liked her. She was sane, normal, sensible, smart. Not a starlet. Not even remotely. It was nice to be with someone unrelated to the movie business. Unrelated to the hoopla and glitz. Down-to-earth. He was oddly reluctant to simply walk away.

“Have dinner with me,” he said abruptly.

Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened. Then it closed.

Practically every other woman in Cannes, Demetrios thought grimly, would have said yes ten times over by now.

Not Anny Chamion. She looked rueful, then gave him a polite shake of the head. “I would love to, but I’m afraid I really was waiting for someone in the hotel.”

Of course she had been.

“And I just shanghaied you without giving a damn.” He grimaced. “Sorry. I just thought it would be nice to find a little hole-in-the-wall place, hide out for a while. Have a nice meal. Some conversation. I forgot I’d kidnapped you under false pretenses.”

She laughed. “It’s all right. He was late.”

He. Of course she was waiting for a man. And what difference did it make?

“Right,” he said briskly. “Thanks for the rescue, Anny Chamion. I didn’t offend Mona Tremayne because of you.”

“The actress?” She looked startled. “You were escaping from her?”

“Not her. Her daughter. Rhiannon. She’s a little…persistent.” She’d been following him around since yesterday morning, telling him she’d make him forget.

Anny raised her brows. “I see.”

“She’s a nice girl. A bit intense. Immature.” And way too determined. “I don’t want to tell her to get lost. I’d like to work with her mother again…”

“It was truly a diplomatic maneuver.”

He nodded. “But I’m sorry if I messed something up for you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She held out a hand in farewell, and he took it, held it. Her fingers were soft and smooth and warm. He ran his thumb over them.

“I kissed you before,” he reminded her.

“Ah, but you didn’t know me then.”

“Still—” It surprised him how much he wanted to do it again.

But before he could make his move, she jerked, surprised, and stuck her hand into the pocket of her jacket.

“My phone,” she said apologetically, taking it out and glancing at the ID. “I wouldn’t answer it. It’s rude. I’m so sorry. It’s—” She waved a hand toward the hotel from which they’d come. “I need to get this.”

Because it was obviously from the man she’d been waiting for. His mouth twisted, but he shrugged equably. “Of course. No problem. It’s been—”

He stopped because he couldn’t find the right word. What had it been? A pleasure? Yes, it had been. And real. It had been “real.” For the first time in three years he’d felt, for a few brief moments, as if he had solid ground under his feet. He squeezed her hand, then leaned in and kissed her firmly on the mouth. “Thank you, Anny Chamion.”

Her eyes widened in shock.

He smiled. Then for good measure, he kissed her again, and enjoyed every moment of it, pleased, he supposed, that he hadn’t entirely lost his touch.

The phone vibrated in her hand long and hard before she had the presence of mind to answer it in rapid French.

Demetrios didn’t wait. He gave her a quick salute, pulled dark glasses out of his pocket, stuck them on his face, then turned and headed down the street. He had gone less than a block when he heard the sound of quick footsteps running after him.

Oh, hell. Was there no getting away from Rhiannon Tremayne?

He badly wanted Mona for a part in his next picture. To get her, he couldn’t alienate her high-strung, high-maintenance, highly spoiled daughter. But he was tired, he was edgy and, having the sweet taste of Anny Chamion on his lips, he didn’t relish being thrown to the jackals again. He spun around to tell her so—in the politest possible terms.

“I seem to have the evening free.” It was Anny smiling, that dimple creasing her cheek again as she fell into step beside him. “So I wondered, is that dinner invitation still open?”

CHAPTER TWO

PRINCESSES DIDN’T INVITE themselves out to dinner!

They didn’t say no one minute and run after a man to say yes the next. But she’d been given a reprieve, hadn’t she? The phone call had been from Gerard, who was going straight to Paris to get a good night’s sleep before his flight to Montreal.

“I’ll see you on my way back,” he’d said. “Next week. We need to talk.”

Anny had never understood what people thought they were doing on the phone if not talking, but she said politely, “Of course. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

She hung up almost before Gerard could say goodbye, because if she didn’t start running now, she might lose sight of Demetrios when he reached the corner. She’d never run after a man in her life. And she knew perfectly well she shouldn’t be chasing one now.

But how often did Demetrios Savas invite her out to dinner—at the very moment her prince decided not to show up?

If that didn’t confirm the universe’s benevolence, what did?

Besides, it was only dinner, after all. A meal. An hour or two.

But with Demetrios Savas. The fulfillment of a youthful dream. How many women got invited to dinner by the man whose poster they’d had on the wall at age eighteen?

As a tribute to that idealistic dreamy girl, Anny couldn’t not do it.

He spun around as she reached him, his jaw tight, his eyes hard. It was that same fierce look that had made his name a household word when he’d played rough-edged bad-ass spy Luke St. Angier on American television seven or eight years ago.

Anny stopped dead.

Then at the sight of her, the muscles in his jaw eased. And she was, quite suddenly, rewarded by the very grin that had had thousands—no, millions—of girls and women and little old ladies falling at his feet.

“Anny.” Her name on his lips sent her heart to hammering. “Change your mind?” he asked with just the right hopeful note.

“If you don’t mind.” She wasn’t sure if her breathlessness was due to the man in front of her who was, admittedly, pretty breathtaking, or to her own sudden out-of-character seizing of the moment.

“Mind?” Demetrios’s memorable grin broadened. “As if. So?” He cocked his head. “Yes?”

“I don’t want to presume,” she said as demurely as possible.

“Go ahead and presume.” He grinned as he glanced around the busy street scene. Then his grin faded as he realized how many people were beginning to notice him. One of a gaggle of teenage girls pointed in their direction. Another gave a tiny high-pitched scream, and instantly they cut across the street to head his way.

For an instant he looked like a fox with the hounds baying as they closed in. But only for a moment.

Then he said, “Hang on, will you? I’m sorry but—”

“I understand,” Anny replied quickly. No one understood better the demands of the public than someone raised to be a princess. Duty to her public had been instilled in her from the time she was born.

That hadn’t been the case for Demetrios, of course. He’d become famous in his early twenties, and as far as she knew he’d had no preparation at all for how to deal with it. Still, he’d always handled fame well. Even in the tragic circumstances of his wife’s death, he’d been composed and polite. And while he might have gone to ground afterward, as far as Anny was concerned, he’d had every right.

He’d come back when he was ready, obviously. And while he clearly hadn’t sought this swarm of fans, he welcomed them easily, smiling at them as they surged across the street toward him

Confident of their welcome, they chattered and giggled as they crowded around. And Demetrios let them envelop him, jostle him as he laughed and talked with them in Italian, for that was what they spoke.

It wasn’t good Italian. Anny knew that because she spoke it perfectly. But he made the effort, stumbled over his words and kept on trying. If the girls hadn’t already been enchanted, they would be now.

And watching him, listening to him, Anny was more than a bit enchanted herself.

Of course he’d been gorgeous as a young man. But she found him even more appealing now. His youthful handsome face had matured. His cheekbones were sharper, his jaw harder and stronger. The rough stubble gave him a more mature version of the roguish look he’d only begun to develop in the years he’d played action hero Luke St. Angier. Hard at work on her university courses, Anny had rarely taken the time to watch anything on television. But she had always watched him.

Demetrios Savas had been her indulgence.

Looking at him now, admiring his good looks, mesmerizing eyes, and easy grin, as well as that enticing groove in his cheek that appeared whenever the grin did, it wasn’t hard to remember why.

But it wasn’t only his stunning good looks that appealed. It was the way he interacted with his ever-so-eager fans.

He might have run from the sharklike pursuit of some intense desperate starlet, but he was kind to these girls who wanted nothing more than a smile and a few moments of conversation with their Hollywood hero.

Actually “kind” didn’t begin to cover it. He actually seemed “interested,” and he focused on each one—not just the cute, flirty ones. He talked to them all, listened to them all. Laughed with them. Made them feel special.

That impressed her. She wondered where he’d learned it or if it came naturally. Whichever, it didn’t seem to bother him. Somehow he’d learned the very useful skill of turning the tables and making the meeting all about them, not him. For once she got to simply lean against the outside wall of one of the shops and enjoy the moment.

It was odd, really. She’d barely thought of him in years. Responsibilities had weighed, duties had demanded. She’d fulfilled them all. And she’d let her girlish fantasies fall by the wayside.

Now she thought, I’m having dinner with Demetrios Savas, and almost laughed at the giddy feeling of pleasure at the prospect. It was as heady as it was unlikely.

She wondered what Gerard would say if she told him.

Actually she suspected she knew. He would blink and then he would look down his regal nose and ask politely, “Who?”

Or maybe she was selling him short. Maybe he did know who Demetrios was. But he certainly wouldn’t expect his future wife to be having dinner with him. Not that he would care. Or feel threatened.

Of course he had no reason to feel threatened. It wasn’t as if Demetrios was going to sweep her off her feet and carry her away with him.

All the while she was musing, though, the crowd around him, rather than dissipating, was getting bigger. Demetrios was still talking, answering questions, charming them all, but his gaze flicked around now and lit on her. He raised his brows as if to say, What can I do?

Anny shrugged and smiled. Another half a dozen questions and the crowd seemed to double again. His gaze found her again and this time he mouthed a single word in her direction. “Taxi?”

She nodded and began scanning the street. When she had nearly decided that the only way to get one was to go back to the Ritz-Carlton, an empty one appeared at the corner. She sprinted toward it.

“Demetrios!”

He glanced up, saw the cab, offered smiles and a thousand apologies to his gathered fans, then managed to slip after her into the cab.

“Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes it’s a little insane.”

“I can see that,” she said.

“It goes with the territory,” he said. “And usually they mean well. They’re interested. They care. I appreciate that.” He shrugged. “And in effect they pay my salary. I owe them.” He flexed his shoulders against the seat back tiredly. “And when it’s about my work, it’s fine. Sometimes it’s not.” His gaze seemed to close up for a moment, but then he was back, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Sometimes it’s a little overwhelming.”

“Especially when you’ve been away from it for a while.”

He gave her a sharp speculative look, and she wondered if she’d overstepped her bounds. But then he shrugged. “Especially when I’ve been away from it for a while,” he acknowledged.

The driver, who had been waiting patiently, caught her gaze in the rearview mirror and asked where they wanted to go.

Demetrios obviously knew enough French to get by, too, because he understood and asked her, “Where do we want to go? Some place that’s not a madhouse, preferably.”

“Are you hungry now?” Anny asked.

“Not really. Just in no mood to deal with paparazzi. Know any place quiet?”

She nodded. “For dinner, yes. A little place in Le Soquet, the old quarter, that is basically off the tourist track.” She looked at him speculatively, an idea forming. “You don’t want to talk to anyone?”

A brow lifted. “I want to talk to you.”

Enchanted, Anny smiled. “Flatterer.” He was amazingly charming. “I was thinking, if you’re really not hungry yet, but you wouldn’t mind talking to a few more kids—not paparazzi, not journalists—just kids who would love to meet you—”

“You have kids?” he said, startled.

Quickly Anny shook her head. “No. I volunteer at a clinic for children and teenagers with spinal injuries and paralysis. I was there this afternoon. And I was having a sort of discussion—well, argument, really, with one of the boys…he’s a teenager—about action heroes.”

Demetrios’s mouth quirked. “You argue about action heroes?”

“Franck will pretty much argue about anything. He likes to argue. And he has opinions.”

“And you do, too?” There was a teasing light in his eye now.

Anny smiled. “I suppose I do,” she admitted. “But I try not to batter people with them. Except for Franck,” she added. “Because it’s all the recreation he gets these days. Anything I say, he takes the opposite view.”

“He must have brothers,” Demetrios said wryly.

But Anny shook her head. “He’s an only child.”

“Even worse.”

“Yes.” Anny thought so, too. She had been an only child herself for twenty years. Her mother had not been able to have more children after Anny, and she’d died when Anny was twelve. Only when her father married Charlise seven years ago had Anny dared to hope for a sibling.

Now she had three little half brothers, Alexandre, Raoul, and David. And even though she was much older—actually old enough to be their mother—she still relished the joy of having brothers.

“Franck makes up for it by arguing with me,” she said. “And I was just thinking, what a coup it would be if I brought you back to the clinic. You obviously know more about action heroes than I do so you could argue with him. Then after, we could have dinner?”

It was presumptuous. He might turn her down cold.

But somehow she wasn’t surprised when he actually sat up straighter and said, “Sounds like a deal. Let’s go.”

The look on Franck’s face when they walked into his room was priceless. His jaw went slack. No sound came out of his mouth at all.

Anny tried not to smile as she turned back toward Demetrios. “I want you to meet a friend of mine,” she said to him. “This is Franck Villiers. Franck, this is—”

“I know who he is.” But Franck still stared in disbelief.

Demetrios stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said in French.

For a moment, Franck didn’t take it. Then, when he did, he stared at the hand he was shaking as if the sight could convince him that the man with Anny was real.

Slowly he turned an accusing gaze on Anny “You’re going to marry him?”

She jerked. “No!” She felt her cheeks flame.

“You said you had to leave early because you were going to meet your fiancé.”

Oh God, she’d forgotten that.

“He got delayed,” Anny said quickly. “He couldn’t come.” She shot a look at Demetrios.

He raised his brows in silent question, but he simply said to Franck, “So I invited her to dinner instead.”

Franck shoved himself up farther against the pillows and looked at her. “You never said you knew Luke St. Angier. I mean—him,” he corrected himself, cheeks reddening as if he’d embarrassed himself by confusing the man and the role he’d played.

Demetrios didn’t seem to care. “We just met,” he said. “Anny mentioned your discussion. I can’t believe you think MacGyver is smarter than Luke St. Angier.”

Anny almost laughed as Franck’s gaze snapped from Demetrios to her and back again. Then his spine stiffened. “Could Luke St. Angier make a bomb out of a toaster, half a dozen toothpicks and a cigarette lighter?”

“Damn right he could,” Demetrios shot back. “Obviously we need to talk.”

Maybe it was because he, like Anny, treated Franck no differently than he would treat anybody else, maybe it was because he was Luke St. Angier, whatever it was, the next thing Anny knew Demetrios was sitting on the end of Franck’s bed and the two of them were going at it.

They did argue. First about bomb-making, then about scripts and character arcs and story lines. Demetrios was as intent and focused with Franck as he had been with the girls.

Anny had thought they might spend a half an hour there—at most. Franck usually became disgruntled after that long. But not with Demetrios. They were still talking and arguing an hour later. They might have gone on all night if Anny hadn’t finally said, “I hate to break this up, but we have a few more people to see here before we leave.” Franck scowled.

Demetrios stood up and said, “Okay. We can continue this tomorrow.”

Franck stared. “Tomorrow? You mean it?”

“Of course I mean it,” Demetrios assured him. “No one else has cared about Luke that much in years.”

Franck’s eyes shone. He looked over at Anny as they were going out the door and he said something she thought she would never hear him say. “Thanks.”

She thanked Demetrios, too, when they were out in the hall again. “You made his day. You don’t have to come back. I can explain if you don’t.”

He shook his head. “I’m coming back. Now let’s meet the rest of the gang.”

Naturally he charmed them, one and all. And even though many of them didn’t know the famous man who was with Anny, they loved the attention. Just as he had with Franck and with the Italian girls, Demetrios focused on what they were telling him. He talked about toy cars with eight-year-old Fran¸ois. He listened to tales about Olivia’s kitten. He did his “one and only card trick” for several of the older girls. And if they weren’t madly in love with Demetrios Savas when he came into their rooms, they were well on the way by the time he left.