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She owed him her help. She wanted to help. But how could she when helping meant accepting Angelos’s hospitality?
The obvious solution would be to pay for herself, but given the pathetic state of her finances that wouldn’t be possible. She might be able to scrape together enough to cover the cost of her flight ticket, but there was no way she’d have anything left over to cover her living costs.
‘The fact that you are even hesitating shows me that you are every bit as cold-hearted as your reputation suggests.’ His tone was harsh. ‘I have explained that your presence would help my father, but as usual all you are thinking of is yourself.’
Stung by the injustice of that accusation, Chantal turned. ‘That is not true.’ She lifted her fingers to her forehead, trying to think the situation through.
Would it be so very wrong to say yes?
It wasn’t as if she and Angelos were having an affair. Despite the chemistry between them, it wasn’t that sort of relationship. All they’d ever shared was one dance and a lot of cross words. She would be living in the villa as a favour to him. To help his father.
That was quite different from—
Pushing aside her reservations, she gave a swift nod. ‘I’ll do it. But I insist on paying for my flight ticket.’
A stunned expression crossed his handsome face and then he gave a humourless laugh. ‘It’s a little late to try and impress me,’ he drawled, ‘and anyway, I don’t issue tickets when I fly by private jet.’
The colour poured into her cheeks and she felt a rush of humiliation. Private jet. Of course. How could she have been so stupid? She should have known that this man wouldn’t exactly fly budget airlines.
‘Wait—what I mean is, I don’t want you paying for me,’ she stammered, and he raised an eyebrow.
‘I could probably calculate your share if you wanted me to. But it would have several noughts attached to it. If you’re trying to persuade me that you’re not interested in my wealth, then you’re wasting your time. The evidence is stacked against you.’
Chantal bit her lip. She didn’t have the money to reimburse him for the flight, so she couldn’t push the point, but she felt deeply uncomfortable.
‘If I come with you—’ she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye ‘—it’s just because of your father. Not for any other reason.’
‘What other reason would there be? I’m not like the other men you’ve met, Isabelle. It takes more than a little hot chemistry to cloud my judgement.’
Uncomfortably aware of his scrutiny, she blushed and walked across to the window, turning her back to him.
He was so different from his father. Hard where his father had been soft. Intimidating where his father had been approachable.
Remembering just how much she’d liked the older man, she felt something tug deep inside her and felt a sudden pang of regret that he was now so poorly.
She remembered how delighted he’d seemed that his son was ‘in love’ and her expression softened. Clearly the son hadn’t inherited his knife-sharp cynicism from his father.
From her vantage point on the balcony, Chantal stared down at the streets of Paris. She could see the Seine, winding through the city, and the bold jut of the Eiffel Tower, its structure glinting in the warm sunshine.
And across the city, in the dirtiest, cheapest, most forgotten part of Paris, was the room that she’d vacated that morning. The price had become prohibitive. Too much for a waitress. It was time to move on.
Why not to Greece? She had no other place to go. Nowhere else she needed to be.
Wouldn’t that solve all her problems in the short term as well as helping out a man she genuinely cared about?
If her presence helped his recovery, then wasn’t that reason enough to go?
She could stay as long as she was needed, and then use Greece as a base for her next adventure. The only drawback was being in the company of Angelos Zouvelekis. He unsettled her more than any man she’d ever met.
But he’d be working, wouldn’t he? Adding more noughts to his billions?
All she had to do during the day was lie by the pool and chat to his father.
‘You’ll have to tell him the truth at some point.’
‘Obviously. But not until he is stronger and has something else to focus on. Having had such a close brush with death, it seems that the only thing on his mind is the fact that I haven’t yet given him grandchildren. When he is properly recovered he will find something else to occupy him.’
She turned. ‘You don’t intend to give him grandchildren?’
‘At some point. But only when I find a woman whose genes I would be proud for my children to inherit.’ His tone left her in no doubt that he wouldn’t be allowing her genes anywhere near his offspring.
And that was an attitude she was more than familiar with.
She’d never fitted in, had she?
All her life she’d felt displaced.
As a child she’d lived her life around the edges of a world to which she didn’t belong. And rarely had anyone shown her kindness.
His father had shown her kindness.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said firmly. ‘If you think it will help.’
‘It never occurred to me that you wouldn’t,’ he drawled, contempt flickering in his eyes. ‘From what I’ve heard, you never spend your money if you can spend someone else’s.’
She tensed. ‘I’m doing this for your father.’
‘Of course you are. Your generosity is legendary.’
Chantal was almost relieved that she wasn’t Isabelle. ‘No matter what you think,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m not interested in your money.’
It had been something else entirely that had drawn her to him. A powerful connection that she couldn’t explain. A chemistry that taunted both of them, because it was something that neither wanted to pursue.
The Aegean Sea stretched beneath them, the changing light producing more shades of blue than an artist’s palette.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured, but she was talking to herself—because Angelos had been on the phone since his private jet had lifted off from Paris. And he was still on the phone. He lounged on a sofa opposite her, his eyes fixed on a computer screen, the table in front of him strewn with papers. Occasionally he broke the conversation for long enough to scan a set of figures, then he was talking again, in rapid Greek.
He’d paid her no attention whatsoever.
And perhaps that was just as well, she reflected, because her astonishment and awe when she’d seen the inside of his private jet had bordered on the gauche.
She had no idea how Isabelle would have reacted, but her mouth had dropped open in disbelief as she’d taken in the sumptuous cream leather sofas and the soft carpeting.
If it hadn’t been for the uniformed cabin attendant’s instruction to fasten her seat belt, she would have believed that it was all a mistake and she was actually in a high-class apartment. She’d been afraid to eat or drink in case she dropped something and her one trip to the bathroom had left her wishing she’d had time to design herself a new wardrobe.
By contrast, Angelos had merely divested himself of the jacket of his suit, loosened his tie, and ordered a black coffee.
Greek coffee, she assumed, staring at the thick black grounds that remained in the bottom of his cup.
Her most anxious moment had occurred when he’d asked for her passport. But she needn’t have worried because he’d simply handed it straight to one of his staff—a woman who clearly had no idea which name was supposed to be inside the document.
Since then he hadn’t looked at her. Hadn’t once asked after her comfort. Hadn’t even hurled an insult in her direction or given her one of his looks.
It was almost as if he preferred to think she didn’t exist.
Which had made her journey more comfortable, but didn’t bode well for the roles they were supposed to play.
His last few moments of freedom, she mused, wondering how he was ever going to manage to maintain this charade once they arrived at his island.
She waited until he’d terminated his latest phone call and then spoke. ‘Are we pretending to be lovers who have had a row?’
He glanced up from the figures he was scanning, his thick dark lashes drawing attention to his eyes. ‘A row?’
‘We are supposed to be adding to your father’s relaxation. I don’t think being with two people who react to each other in stony silence is going to do much for his peace of mind. If we were already married, then I think divorce would be looming.’
His eyes narrowed, and he dropped the paper onto the table. ‘When I need to talk to you, I’ll talk.’
‘Fine. But there are a few things I need to know if I’m going to stand any chance of being convincing.’
‘Such as?’
‘Details. Facts. The sort of things that would have come up in conversation. Does anyone else live on the island, or is it just you?’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘Stop pretending you’re not already in possession of a full list of my assets.’
Chantal sighed. Clearly a woman like Isabelle would have known the answer to that question. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that you might have misjudged me?’
‘No. Why would it?’ He tucked his pen back into his pocket.
‘Don’t even think about playing any of your usual games.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Having no idea what Isabelle’s usual games were, Chantal kept her answer suitably vague. ‘I’m just going to lie by the pool and chat to your father.’
‘And don’t get any ideas on that score, either.’
‘What?’ She felt a flicker of exasperation. ‘I thought that was what you wanted me to do?’
‘Your role is to convince my father that we are a happy couple. I’m well aware that your taste can run to older men if the price is right. In this case, don’t even think about it.’
It took her a moment to grasp his meaning. ‘Are you suggesting that I’m interested in your father?’
‘You seemed interested enough the night of the ball. You were all over him. Flirting.’
‘Talking.’
‘Laughing. Asking him to dance.’
‘I liked him. He was kind to me.’ And so few people in her life had ever been kind to her.
‘My father is kind to everyone.’
‘And you disapprove of that quality?’
‘When it comes to glamorous women it’s a weakness, not a quality.’
‘If everyone was kinder to each other the world would be a better place.’
He gave a cynical laugh. ‘And we both know what form you’d want that kindness to take. As you already know, my father is a rich man. Not quite as rich as I am, but I’ve no doubt you were happy to consider him good enough for back-up.’
Appalled and fascinated by the thought of what might drive a woman to such desperation, Chantal studied him for a moment. Her response was cautious. ‘That’s what you think I’d do?’
‘Given that your last husband was seventy-five—yes.’
Seventy five? Chantal almost gasped aloud. Isabelle had married a man of seventy-five? She wondered briefly whether she should have told the truth about who she was. No. If he was shocked by Isabelle, how much more shocked would he be to learn the truth about her life?
‘I’m just warning you not to try any tricks, because I’ll be watching.’
‘Tricks? What tricks are you expecting?’
‘You’ve failed with me. Don’t even think about targeting my father. A man who has made two mistakes in marriage will not be allowed to make a third!’
‘Mistake?’ She blinked at him. ‘He told me that he was married to your mother for forty years. It didn’t sound like a mistake to me. He was totally in love.’ She watched as shock flared in his eyes.
‘You asked him about my mother?’
‘No! He—’ Thrown by his anger, she broke off, struggling to remember exactly how the conversation had evolved. ‘We were talking about love. He told me that she died. I—I’m very sorry.’
He didn’t respond, but she saw that his knuckles were white. ‘He never talks about my mother.’
‘Well, he talked to me. Maybe it was because I was a stranger. Or because we just seemed to click. I don’t know. I liked him—’ She gave a helpless shrug. ‘Why do you dissect every conversation? Who made you so cynical?’
‘Women like you. I know who you are, Isabelle.’
He had no idea who she was.
And she had no intention of telling him. Perhaps one day he’d find out, when he bumped into the real Isabelle on the party circuit. But by then she’d be long gone.
She sank back against her seat. He intimidated her, but at the same time he intrigued her, and suddenly she really wanted to understand what drove his deep-rooted cynicism. Something in his past, obviously. She, better than anyone, knew that even when you tried to move on the past had a way of winding itself around your ankles like seaweed—taking hold, dragging you back to the place you were trying to escape from.
‘So—’ she changed the subject to a topic less inflammatory ‘—what do you do with a whole island to yourself?’
‘It has been in my family for five generations. My ancestors grew olives and made wine. I rebuilt the villa five years ago. It is the one place where we can guarantee a level of privacy, away from media intrusion.’
‘Five generations?’ Chantal felt a flash of envy. What must it be like to have family you could trace back for generations? What was it like to be part of a group of people who cared about each other?
‘They led a simple life,’ he told her, stretching his legs out in front of him, ‘and that is what the island is for. So if you’re hoping for a glamorous holiday, then you’ll be disappointed. The only thing that glitters is the sea when the sun hits it. You can leave your silk and diamonds at home. We don’t dress for dinner. It’s basic. I prefer it that way.’
So did she.
