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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 (#u76146323-4af4-565b-81f8-c255ca4dcd7f)
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.’
