Читать книгу Greek Bachelors: Buying His Bride: Bought: The Greek's Innocent Virgin / His for a Price / Securing the Greek's Legacy - Julia James - Страница 8

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.