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‘That’s easy enough to answer. A man never likes to admit that he’s well and truly fallen for a woman. I was the same when I met my wife. I struggled for weeks. Loving a woman makes a man vulnerable, and a strong man doesn’t like to be vulnerable. I resisted her.’
‘So what did your wife do to win you over?’
‘She did what women always do when they want something. Talk, talk, talk until a man’s resistance is ground into the dust.’
Chantal laughed. ‘Are you still together?’
‘We had forty years.’ The man’s smile faded. ‘She died fifteen years ago and I’ve never met anyone else to touch her. But I haven’t given up trying. And I can still remember how it feels to move around a dance floor.’
Moved by the emotion in his voice, Chantal stood up impulsively and held out her hands. ‘Show me.’ She angled her head and listened to the music. ‘It’s a waltz. Do you waltz?’
He laughed with delight. ‘You want me to waltz with you?’
‘Why is that funny?’
‘I’m seventy three.’
‘There’s no man in the room I’d rather dance with.’
‘Then you are a brave woman, because Angelos is an extremely possessive man. He would not be amused if I took you onto the dance floor. But I can see now why you’ve succeeded where so many have failed. I’m sure it’s that wonderful spirit of yours that has made you different from all the others.’
‘All the others?’ Chantal frowned. ‘All what others?’
‘All the other women who have aspired to be where you are tonight. By his side. In his heart.’ The man’s eyes misted and Chantal felt her stomach lurch.
‘You know him well?’ Who exactly was this man? Desperately she tried to rerun the conversation. Exactly what had she said? ‘You didn’t mention that you knew him well.’
‘If I’d done that you might not have talked so freely, and that would have been a pity. It was a most illuminating conversation.’ The older man was still smiling, and at that moment Chantal saw her dance partner approach, the expression on his handsome face dark and forbidding.
He stopped in front of them, broad shouldered and powerful, an ominous frown touching his dark brows as he saw their clasped hands.
Chantal instantly withdrew her hands, her heart starting to thud. Why was he looking at her like that? The man she was sitting with was clearly a man of mature years. What possible reason was there for the shimmering anger she saw in the eyes of her handsome dance partner?
He couldn’t possibly be jealous. That would be too ridiculous for words.
She didn’t know what to say, so she just sat holding her breath, waiting for him to speak.
An expression of grim disapproval settled on his face as he glanced between the two of them and finally, after what seemed like an age, straightened his shoulders and spoke.
‘I see you’ve met my father.’
CHAPTER TWO
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.
