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

He seemed surprised. He raised up on one elbow and regarded her from beneath hooded lids. His mouth quirked at one corner. “I think I’m the one who should be saying thank you.” For all that he smiled, his words were grave.

Still, they made her happy. She was glad he’d enjoyed their lovemaking. She didn’t expect he would hang on to the memories forever as she would, but she hoped he might have occasional fleeting fond thoughts of this night—of her.

“You gave me wonderful memories,” she assured him.

He opened his mouth, as if he might say something. But then he closed it again and simply nodded. “Good.”

He didn’t move. Neither did she. They stared at each other. Under Demetrios’s gaze, for the first time Anny felt self-conscious. None of the royal protocol she’d ever learned—not even her year in the Swiss finishing school—had prepared her for the proper way to end this encounter.

Perhaps because it hadn’t been proper in the least.

But she didn’t regret it. She would never regret it.

“I should go,” Demetrios said.

She didn’t hang on to him. She stayed where she was in the bed, but she watched his every move as he dressed. This night was all she was going to have—she didn’t want to so much as blink.

He didn’t look at her or speak until he had finished dressing and was slipping on his shoes. Then his gaze lifted and his eyes met hers.

“You…should maybe rethink this marriage you’re planning, ” he said.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t want to spoil the present by thinking about the future. Silently she got out of bed and wrapped herself in the dressing gown she’d left hanging over the chair. Then she crossed the room to him and took his hands in hers.

“Thank you,” she said again, refusing to even acknowledge his comment. He opened his mouth as if he would say something else, then shut it firmly and shook his head. His gaze was steely as he met hers.

“It’s your life,” he said at last.

Anny nodded, made herself smile. “Yes.”

She didn’t say anything else. She needed him to go while she still had the composure she’d promised herself she would hang on to. It was only one night, she told herself.

It wasn’t, she assured herself, as if she was in love with him.

That would teach him, Demetrios thought when he got back to his hotel. He flung himself over onto his back and stared at the hotel room ceiling. Though what he’d learned this evening he wasn’t exactly sure.

Probably that women were the most confusing difficult contrary people on earth.

He should have known that already, having been married to Lissa. But Anny had seemed totally different. Sane, for one thing.

And yet all the while they’d been sitting there and he’d been thinking she was simply enjoying dinner and his company and having a good time she’d been thinking about inviting him into her bed.

It boggled the mind.

Still, when she explained, he’d understood. God knew sometimes over the past three years he’d yearned for the days when he’d believed all things were possible.

He didn’t believe it anymore, of course. He wasn’t looking for a relationship again. He’d done that with Lissa. He’d been the poster boy for idealism in those days—and look where it had got him.

No more. Never again.

From here on out he wanted nothing more than casual encounters. No hopes. No dreams. No promises of happily ever after.

Exactly what he’d had tonight with Anny.

Who was getting married, for God’s sake! Talk about mind-boggling. But he supposed she was more of a realist than he had been. Though why the hell a beautiful, intelligent young woman was marrying some elderly widower was beyond him.

And why was the elderly widower marrying her?

Stupid question. Why wouldn’t any man—who still believed in marriage—want to marry a bright fresh beautiful woman like Anny?

But if he had been the marrying kind and engaged to her, Demetrios knew damned well he wouldn’t leave her feeling lukewarm and desperate enough to invite another man into her bed!

He was sure she didn’t do that very often. Or ever.

For a minute there, when he’d entered her, he’d thought she was a virgin. But that didn’t make sense.

He wished he knew what was going on.

Was her family destitute? Did they owe money to this man? Was Anny being bartered for their debts?

It certainly didn’t look as if they had money worries from the apartment she was living in. Of course she’d told him at dinner that she was staying in the flat of her late mother’s best friend, Anny’s own godmother, a woman she called Tante Isabelle. While Isabelle was in Hong Kong doing something for a bank, she’d lent Anny her apartment for the year.

So why wasn’t Tante Isabelle, who obviously cared enough for Anny to provide her a place to live, objecting to her goddaughter’s loveless marriage?

Did she even know it was a loveless marriage?

Where was Anny’s father? He was still living, Demetrios knew that. Anny had mentioned him in the present tense. He was married again. She’d mentioned a stepmother and three little stepbrothers.

Was she doing it for them?

Whatever the “good reasons” were, she didn’t seem to be doing it for herself. So who was she doing it for? And why?

Stop it! he commanded himself roughly. It wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t his problem.

He’d done his part. He’d taken her to bed. He’d made love with her and had, presumably, reminded her of the idealistic girl she’d been. He’d given her the memories she wanted.

He had a few himself. Not that he intended to bring them out and remember them. And yet, when he attempted to shut them away, they wouldn’t go. He could still see her in his mind’s eye—bright-eyed and laughing, gentle and serene, eager and responsive.

They were far better memories than those he had of Lissa.

They should have relaxed him, settled him. His body was sated. It was his mind that wouldn’t stop replaying the evening.

He tossed and turned until eventually the bed couldn’t confine his restlessness. He got up to prowl the room, to open the floor-to-ceiling window that opened overlooking La Croisette and the sea.

To the west he could see the shape of the Palais du Festival beyond the boulevard. Past that was the harbor where Theo was on his sailboat. Beyond that the hill and buildings of Le Soquet rose against the still dark sky.

Anny was there.

He could be, too, he thought. He was sure she would have let him stay the night.

But he didn’t want to stay the night, he reminded himself. He wanted brief encounters. No involvement. He shoved away from the window and shut it firmly.

He wasn’t going to care about any woman ever again. Not even sunny, smiling Anny Chamion with her upcoming loveless marriage, her hidden dreams and her memories of the lovemaking they’d shared.

It was going on five. He had a breakfast meeting at eight with Rollo Mikkelsen, who was in charge of distribution for Starlight Studios. He needed to be sharp. He needed to have his wits about him. He didn’t need to be thinking about Anny Chamion.

He yanked on a pair of running shorts and tugged a T-shirt over his head. Maybe running a few miles could do what nothing else had done.

He pocketed his room key and went downstairs into the cool Cannes morning. He crossed La Croisette and bounced on his toes a few times, then he set out at a light jog. The pavement was nearly deserted still. In a couple of hours it would start to get busy. The day would begin.

He would meet with Rollo. There would be more meetings after that. Lunch with a producer he hoped to work with down the road. And late this afternoon the screening.

Afterward he’d go see Franck. He was tempted to see if Franck wanted to come to the screening, but it wasn’t an action hero story. It was a dark piece—the only sort of thing he had been capable of writing in the aftermath of his marriage and circumstances of Lissa’s death. It was a cautionary tale.

Not exactly fodder for a teenager who still had his life ahead of him. No. Better that he go see Franck after.

Would Anny be there?

It didn’t matter if she was.

Demetrios picked up his pace, refusing to let himself think about that. He didn’t care. They’d had one evening. One night of loving. One night in which they’d each recaptured a part of the young idealistic people they’d once been.

They’d given that to each other. But now it was over.

Time to move on.

CHAPTER FOUR

ANNY DIDN’T SEE Demetrios again.

She didn’t really expect she would.

But as she went about her business, as she walked to the clinic, did her grocery shopping, worked on her dissertation, and actually went to a screening or two at the Palais du Festival over the next ten days, she couldn’t help keeping an eye out to see if she could spot the tall dark-haired man who had so startlingly swept into her life.

He had gone back to the clinic. She knew that because Franck had been full of the information. And he hadn’t only come the next day as he’d promised, but also several times over the past week and a half.

Yesterday, Franck had told her gleefully this afternoon, he had commandeered a wheelchair and taken Franck down to the dock.

“A wheelchair? You went to the dock?” Anny, who had never been able to get Franck to go anywhere because he was too self-conscious, could barely believe her ears. “Whatever for?”

“We went sailing.”

Then she really did gape.

Franck nodded eagerly. “We went in his brother’s sailboat.”

He recounted his amazing day, his eyes shining as he told her how Demetrios and his brother Theo—“a racing sailor,” Franck reported—had simply lifted him out of the wheelchair and into the boat, then set out for a sail around the Îles de Lérins.

Anny was still stuck imagining Franck allowing himself to be lifted, but apparently, as far as Franck was concerned, Demetrios and his brother could do anything. “Didn’t he tell you?” Franck demanded.

Anny shook her head. “I haven’t seen him.”

He looked surprised. “You should have come in the mornings. He always came then.”

Of course he did. Because he knew when she went to see Franck. She’d told him. If Demetrios had wanted to see her, he could have. He knew where she lived.

He hadn’t. And she hadn’t sought him out, either.

She’d had her night. She’d relived it ever since.

Of course she couldn’t deny having wished it had lasted longer—even wishing it had had a future. But she knew it didn’t.

So it was better that she not encounter him again. So even though she had kept an eye out for him over the following week and a half, she’d carefully avoided attending any parties to which he might have gone.

Of course, she knew he’d come to Cannes to work, not to party. But she also knew that sometimes going to parties was part of the work. Some years it had even been part of her own. Fortunately her father had decided not to host one this year.

And now the festival was over. Demetrios, she was sure, was already gone. He’d got what he came for. News stories early this week had reported that he’d landed a big distributor for the film he’d brought to Cannes. And yesterday she’d read that he’d found backing for his next project.

She was happy for him. She almost wished she had seen him again to tell him so. But what good would that have done, really?

It would only have been embarrassing. He might even have believed she was stalking him.

No. She’d already had her own personal fairy tale with Demetrios Savas. One night of lovemaking.

That was enough.

But when Gerard had called her that afternoon and announced, “We will be hosting a party on the royal yacht this evening,” she wasn’t quite as sanguine as she’d hoped.

She’d told herself that she would go to her fate gracefully and willingly. He was a good man. A kind man.

But the truth was, she’d barely given him a thought since the night she’d had dinner with Demetrios.

Now she felt oddly cold and disconnected as she repeated, “We?” Did he meant the royal “we” or “the two of them”?

“My government,” Gerard clarified briskly. “The party was planned to occur whether I was here or not. We hoped to attract film companies, you know. The revenues are an excellent boost to the economy.”

“Yes, of course.” Her father believed that, too.

“And since I’ve finished my work in Toronto, I’m able to be here. And it will be a wonderful opportunity for us to host it together.” He sounded delighted.

Anny wasn’t certain. “Are you sure I should host it with you?” she asked. “I mean, we’re not married.” As if he needed reminding.

“Not yet,” Gerard agreed. “But soon. That is something we need to discuss, Adriana.”

“What is?”

“The date of our wedding.”

“I thought we agreed we’d wait until after I finished my doctorate.”

“Yes, but we can make plans. It will not be an elopement, you know.”

“Of course not. But there will be time—”

“Yes,” Gerard said cheerfully. “Tonight. After the party.”

“But—”

“So, no, you will not be my official hostess,” he went on, “but we have waited long enough. I’ve missed you, Adriana.”

“I’ve—” Anny swallowed “—missed you, too.”

He heard the hesitation in her voice. “You are upset that I wasn’t here last week.”

“No. I—”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be,” he explained to her. “Duty called. It often does,” he added wryly. “You understand. Better than anyone, you understand.”

“Yes.”

“But I am here now. And I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight. I will be there for you at eight.” He rang off before she could object.

Object? Hardly. Gerard had the same ability to command that her father did. It came from a lifetime of expecting people to fall in with his plans. And even if he had stayed on the phone, what possible objection could she have made?

Of course he had sprung it on her at the last minute. But it wasn’t as if she couldn’t pull herself together, find a dress, be prepared to leave at eight.

Princesses were always prepared. It was part of their job description.

She just wished she felt more prepared to marry him.

“His Highness regrets that he is unable to come in person,” the driver said respectfully as he bowed, then helped Anny into the back of the black sedan that had arrived outside her flat at precisely 8:00 p.m. “He is hosting a dinner meeting. He will be on the yacht when you arrive.”

Anny tried to look regretful, too. But what she felt was relief. While she could make conversation with anyone anywhere, thinking about being alone with Gerard in the confines of the car had made her edgy for the past three hours.

He would be all that was proper and polite. And so would she. They would make small talk. Discuss the weather. His trip to Toronto. Her latest chapter notes on her dissertation.

Or their upcoming wedding.

She flashed a quick smile at the driver. “C’est bien. Merci.”

He shut the door, and immediately the silence enveloped her. Sometimes riding in cars like this suffocated her. She felt as if she were buffered from the real world, isolated, with the sounds and commotion beyond the doors held firmly at bay.

But right now, for a few minutes, she welcomed it. The short ride to the harbor would give her a chance to compose her thoughts, to prepare herself, to become the princess of Mont Chamion she would have to be this evening.

But as the car approached the harbor, she became distracted by the rows of yachts and sailboats, thinking about how Demetrios and his brother had brought Franck here. Now she scanned the multitude of boats as if, just by looking, she might be able to tell which one was Theo’s.

Of course chances were very good Demetrios’s brother was already gone. And it didn’t matter anyway. The memories of her night with Demetrios had been intended for her to take out and savor, yes. But they weren’t intended to distract her from the obligations at hand.

Now, though, even when she turned her gaze away from the harbor and stared resolutely straight ahead, it wasn’t the driver she saw. In her mind’s eye she still saw Demetrios making love with her.

“Go away,” she muttered under her breath.

The driver glanced around at the sound of her voice and met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness?”

“Nothing.” Anny pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling a heachache coming on. “I was simply thinking aloud.”

And she needed to stop. Now.

A small launch carried her to where the royal yacht lay at anchor. As they approached the yacht she could see tuxedo-clad staff scurrying around. She caught snatches of the lively sounds of live music. Maybe she and Gerard would dance. He would hold her in his arms and they would find love together. It had happened that way for Papa and Mama. Her father had assured her it was so. Their marriage had been arranged and it had been wonderful. It could happen.

Determinedly Anny lifted her chin and made herself smile at the prospect.

She even made a point of minding her royal manners and staying primly seated until the crew brought the launch alongside the yacht when she would have preferred to stand up and let the wind whip through her hair or, worse yet, be the one to throw the line and clamber aboard the way she always had on her father’s smaller yacht when she was a child.

So she was definitely in princess mode when she heard Gerard say, “Ah, wonderful. Here you are at last.”

He was waiting on deck and gave her his hand to help her aboard, then let his gaze travel in slow admiration down the length of her navy blue dress with its galaxies of scattered silver sequins for a long moment before he kissed her on both cheeks.

Then, to her surprise, he wrapped her in a gentle embrace. “It’s so good to see you again, my dear.”

He truly did look pleased.

He was a lovely man, Anny reminded herself guiltily. Kind. Gentle. Capable of love. He had after all, by all accounts, loved his first wife very very much.

“Gerard,” she greeted him warmly, and smiled not only with her lips but her voice as well.

He linked his arm through hers and drew her onto the deck beside him. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to come and get you in person. But I had a dinner meeting with Rollo Mikkelsen. Come. I want you to meet him. Rollo is the head of Starlight Studios. He’s interested in possibly setting future projects in Val de Comesque.”

Anny smiled. “What wonderful news.”

“It is.” Gerard opened the door to the main salon where a table had been set for perhaps ten people. The meal was over now and the dinner guests had left the table to chat in small groups. “Rollo.” He drew Anny with him toward the nearest group of men. “I’d like you to meet my fiancée.”

They all turned as Gerard slipped an arm around Anny’s waist and said proudly, “Her Royal Highness, Princess Adriana of Mont Chamion, may I present Rollo Mikkelsen, head of Starlight Studios.”

A man took her hand.

Anny didn’t see him at all. He was nothing but a blur. Her heart pounded. She smiled perfunctorily, murmured politely, “Mr. Mikkelsen, a pleasure.”

“And Daniel Guzman Alonso, the producer,” Gerard said, introducing the next man.

Another blur. Another hand shook hers. Now her ears were ringing as well. Her voice worked, though, thank God. “Mr. Guzman Alonso, I’m delighted to meet you.” Years of social deportment practice had something to recommend it, after all.

“And of course you must recognize Demetrios Savas,” Gerard was saying jovially, “whose latest film Rollo has just agreed to distribute.”

Demetrios was not a blur at all. Sharp and clear, tall and imposing. And, judging from the hard jade glare in those amazing eyes, somewhere between stunned and furious. His gaze raked her accusingly.

Anny could barely breathe. Nor could she stop her own eyes from fastening on him, hungrily, devouring him. Wanting him again so badly that how she could ever have thought one night would be enough, she hadn’t a clue.

“Mr. Savas.” She held out her hand to him, polite, proper, sounding—she hoped—perfectly composed.

Demetrios crushed it in his. “Your Highness,” he said through his teeth. “Imagine meeting you here.”

A princess?

Anny Chamion was a princess?

She was the “delightful fiancée Princess Adriana” that Gerard had mentioned over dinner?

His fiancée would be joining them later, the crown prince of Val de Comesque had said. She was busy with her day job—unspecified—and since he hadn’t given her any warning, he’d only asked her to come to the party, not appear for dinner.

“Even we royals have to work hard these days,” he’d joked. “You will meet her tonight.”

Now here she was, with Gerard’s arm around her, looking serene and elegant and every bit as royal as the man she was marrying.

Which made Gerard her “elderly widower”?

Demetrios’s teeth came together with a snap. Maybe she hadn’t used the term “elderly,” but that was what he’d thought.

The slim fingers he was crushing between his were trying unsuccessfully to ease out of his grasp. For a moment he didn’t even realize he was still gripping them.

Then, still staring into Anny’s—no, Princess Adriana’s—wide eyes, he dropped them abruptly, took a step back and shoved his hands into his pockets.

It was probably some sort of social solecism, to have his hands in his pockets in front of a princess, but short of strangling her, he could think of nothing else to do with them.

Besides, as far as social gaffes went, it was no doubt a bigger one to have slept with her!

He shot her a glare. He doubted she noticed. She wasn’t looking at him. She was smiling at Rollo Mikkelsen, answering a question he’d asked her, her voice low and melodious, steady and completely at ease—just as if she were not standing between the man she was going to marry and the man she’d taken to her bed!

And he’d thought Lissa was a lying cheat!

Abruptly he said, “Excuse me. I see someone I need to speak to.” And he turned and walked out of the room as fast as he could.

It was no bigger lie than hers. And almost at once he did see someone he knew. Mona Tremayne was standing on deck by herself, looking at the sunset, and even if it meant listening to her extol the virtues of her darling starlet daughter Rhiannon, he was determined to do it.

It was better than standing there listening to the lying Princess Adriana charm all and sundry while her fiancé looked on!

Mona was delighted to see him. She kissed him on both cheeks, then patted his arm. “It’s lovely to see you, dear boy. I’m glad you’re back among the living.”

Demetrios took a careful breath and tried to focus solely on her. “It wasn’t that bad,” he told her. He liked Mona, always had. She called a spade a spade, and she couldn’t help it if her daughter was a ditz.

“Maybe not for you. But we can’t afford to let talent go to waste,” she said with a throaty laugh caused by too many years of cigarettes. “You do good work. You’ve been missed.”

“Thanks.” His heart was still pounding, but he refused to look back toward the salon. He didn’t gave a damn where the princess was. He slanted Mona a grin. “Does that mean I can toss an idea at you?”

“You want to marry my daughter?” Another wonderful husky Mona Tremayne laugh.

Demetrios managed a laugh of his own as he shook his head. “I’m through with marriage, Mona.” Truer words had never been spoken.

“I’m not surprised,” Mona said briskly, her eyes telling him that she knew more than he had said. Then she smiled and added, “Well, if you ever change your mind, you’ve got a fan in my household. More than one.”

Demetrios smiled, too. “Thanks.”