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Still, the desire unnerved him. He’d had no wish to hold any woman’s hand—or even touch one—in over two years.
But ever since he’d kissed Anny Chamion that afternoon, something had awakened in him that he’d thought stone-cold dead.
Discovering it wasn’t jolted him.
For as long as he could remember, Demetrios had been aware of, attracted to, charmed by women. He’d always been able to charm them as well.
“They’re like bowling pins,” his brother George had grumbled when they were teenagers. “He smiles at them and they topple over at his feet.”
“Eat your heart out,” Demetrios had laughed, always enjoying the girls, the giggles, the adulation.
It had only grown when, after college where he’d studied film, he’d taken an offer of a modeling job as a way to bring in some money while he tried to land acting roles. The modeling helped. His face became familiar and, as one director said, “They don’t care what you’re selling. They’re buying you.”
The directors had bought him. So had the public. They had found him even more engaging in action than in stills.
“The charisma really comes through there,” all the casting directors were eager to point out. And it wasn’t long before he was not just doing commercials and small supporting parts, he was the star of his own television series.
Three years of being Luke St. Angier got him fame, fortune, opportunities and adulation, movie scripts landing on his doorstep, plus all the women he would ever want, including the one he did—the gorgeous and talented actress, Lissa Conroy.
The last woman he had felt a stab of desire for. The last one he’d cared for. The last one he would ever let himself care for.
But this had nothing to do with caring. This was pure masculine desire confronted with a beautiful woman. He couldn’t expect his hormones to stay dormant forever, he supposed, though it had been easier when they had.
He glanced up to see that the distraction herself had stepped over to talk to the waiter in a small restaurant where they’d stopped. The place was, as she’d promised, no more than a hole in the wall. It had a few tables inside and four more, filled with diners, on the pavement in front.
She finished talking to the waiter and came back to him. “They know me here. The food is good. The moussaka is fantastic. And it’s not exactly on the tourist path. They have a table near the kitchen. Not exactly the best seat in the house. So if you would prefer somewhere else…”.
Demetrios shook his head. “It’s fine.”
And if not perfect because the table really was right outside the kitchen door, no one paid any attention to them there. No one expected a film star to sit at the least appealing table in the place, so no one glanced at him. The cook and waiter were far too busy to care who they fed, but even though they seemed run off their feet, they doted on Anny. Menus appeared instantly. A wine list quickly followed.
“You come here often?”
“When I don’t cook for myself, I come here. They have great food.” And she ordered the bouillabaisse without even looking at anything else. “It’s always wonderful.”
He was tempted. But he was more tempted by the moussaka she had mentioned earlier. No one made it like his mother. But he hadn’t been home in almost three years. Had barely talked to his parents since he’d seen them after Lissa’s funeral. Had kept them at a distance the entire year before.
He knew they didn’t understand. And he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t make them understand about Lissa when he didn’t even understand himself. And after—after he couldn’t face them. Not yet.
So it was easier to stay away.
At least until he’d come to terms on his own.
So he had. He was back, wasn’t he? He had a new screenplay with his name on it. He had a new film. He’d brought it to Cannes, the most public and prestigious of film festivals. He was out in public, doing interviews, charming fans, smiling for all he was worth.
And tonight moussaka sounded good. Smelled good, too, he thought as he detected the scent mingling with other aromas in the kitchen. It reminded him of his youth, of happier times. The good old days.
Maybe after he was finished at Cannes, he’d go see Theo and Martha and their kids in Santorini, then fly back to the States and visit his folks.
He ordered the moussaka, then looked up to see Anny smiling at him.
“What?” he said.
She shook her head. “Just bemused,” she told him. “Surprised that I’m here. With you.”
“Fate,” he said, tasting the wine the waiter brought, then nodding his approval.
“Do you believe that?”
“No. But I’m a screenwriter, too. I like turning points.” It was glib and probably not even true. God knew some of the turning points in his life had been disasters even if on the screen they were useful. But Anny seemed struck by the notion.
The waiter poured her wine. She looked up and thanked him, earning her a bright smile in return. Then she picked it up and sipped it contemplatively, her expression serious.
He wanted to see her smile again. “So, you’re writing a dissertation. You volunteer at a clinic. You have a fiancé. You went to Oxford. And Berkeley. Tell me more. What else should I know about Anny Chamion?”
She hesitated, as if she weren’t all that comfortable talking about herself, which was in itself refreshing.
Lissa had commanded the center of attention wherever they’d been. But Anny spread her palms and shrugged disingenuously, then shocked him by saying, “I had a poster of you on my wall when I was eighteen.”
Demetrios groaned and put his hand over his eyes. He knew the poster. It was an artistic, tasteful, nonrevealing nude, which he’d done at the request of a young photographer friend trying to make a name for herself.
She had.
So had he. His brothers and every male friend he’d ever had, seeing that poster, had taunted him about it for years. Still did. His parents, fortunately, had had a sense of humor and had merely rolled their eyes. Girls seemed to like it, though.
“I was young and dumb,” he admitted now, ruefully shaking his head.
“But gorgeous,” Anny replied with such disarming frankness that he blinked.
“Thanks,” he said a little wryly. But he found her admiration oddly pleasing. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard the sentiment before, but knowing a cool, self-possessed woman like Anny had been attracted kicked the activity level of his formerly dormant hormones up another notch.
He shifted in his chair. “Tell me about something besides the poster. Tell me how you met your fiancé?” He didn’t really want to know that, but it seemed like a good idea to ask, remind his hormones of the reality of the situation.
The waiter set salads in front of them. Demetrios picked up his fork.
“I’ve known him all my life,” Anny said.
“The boy next door?”
“Not quite. But, well, sort of.”
“Helps if you know someone well.” God knew it would have helped if he’d known more about what made Lissa tick. It would have sent him running in the other direction. But how could he have when she was so good at playing a role? “You know him, at least.”
“Yes.” This time her smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes. She focused on her salad, not offering any more so Demetrios changed the subject.
“Tell me about these cave paintings. How much more work do you have to do on your dissertation?”
She was more forthcoming about that. She talked at length about her work and her eyes lit up then. Ditto when he got her talking about the clinic and the children.
He found her enthusiasm contagious, and when she asked him about the film he’d brought to Cannes, he shared some of his own enthusiasm.
She was a good listener. She asked good questions. Even better, she knew what not to ask. She said nothing at all about the two plus years he’d stayed out of the public eye. Nothing about his marriage. Nothing about Lissa’s death.
Only when he brought up not having come to Cannes for a couple of years did she say simply, “I was sorry to hear about your wife.”
“Thank you.”
They got through the salad, their entrées—the moussaka was remarkably good and reminiscent of his mother’s—and then, because Anny looked a second or so too long at the apple tart, and because he really didn’t want the evening to end yet, he suggested they share a piece with their coffee.
“Just a bite for me,” she agreed. “I eat far too much of it whenever I come here.”
Demetrios liked that she had enjoyed her meal. He liked that she wasn’t rail-thin and boney the way Lissa had been, the way so many actresses felt they needed to be. She hadn’t picked at her food the way they did. She looked healthy and appealing—just right, in his estimation—with definite hints of curves beneath her tailored jacket, scoop-necked top and linen skirt.
The hormones were definitely awake.
The waiter brought the apple tart and two forks. And Demetrios was almost annoyed to discover he wasn’t going to be able to feed her a bite off his. Almost.
Then sanity reared its head. He got a grip, pushed the plate toward her. “After you.”
She cut off a small piece and carried it to her mouth, then shut her eyes and sighed. “That is simply heaven.” She ran her tongue lightly over her lips, and opened her eyes again.
“Taste it,” she urged him.
His hormones heard, Taste me. He cleared his throat and focused on the tart.
It was good. He did his best to savor it appreciatively, aware of her eyes on him, watching him as he chewed and swallowed.
“Your turn.”
She shook her head. “One bite. That’s it.”
“It’s heaven,” he reminded her.
“I’ve had my taste for tonight.” She set down her fork and put her hands in her lap. “Truly. Please, finish it.”
He took his time, not just to savor the tart but the evening as well. It was the first time he’d been out on anything remotely resembling a date since Lissa. Not that this was precisely a date. He wasn’t doing dates—not ones that led anywhere except bed now that his hormones were awake and kicking.
Still he was enjoying himself. This was a step back into the normal world he’d left three years before, made easier because of the woman Anny was…comfortable, poised, appealing. He liked her ease and her calmness at the same time he felt a renegade impulse to ruffle that calm.
The notion brought him up short. Where the hell had that come from?
He forked the last bite into his mouth and washed it down with a quick swallow of coffee.
Anny shook her head in gentle sadness. “You weren’t treating it like heaven just then.”
He wiped his mouth on the napkin, then dropped it on the table. “I realized I was making you wait. It’s nearly midnight,” he said, surprised at how the time had flown.
“Maybe I will turn into a pumpkin.” She didn’t smile when she said it.
He did. “Can I watch?”
“Prince Charming is always long gone when that happens, remember?”
He remembered. And he remembered, too, that however enjoyable it had been, unlike the Cinderella story, it wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t want it to. She didn’t want it to. That was probably what made it so damn enjoyable.
“Ready to go?”
She nodded. She looked remote now, a little pensive.
He paid the bill, told the waiter what a great meal it was, and was bemused when the waiter barely looked at him, but had a smile for Anny. “We are so happy to have you come tonight, your—You’re always welcome.” He even kissed her hand.
Outside she stopped and offered that same hand to him. “Thank you. For the dinner. For coming to the clinic. For everything. It was a memorable evening.”
He took her hand, but he shook his head. “I’m not leaving you on a street corner.”
“My flat’s not far. You don’t need—”
“I’m walking you home. To your door.” In case she had any other ideas. “So lead on.”
He could have let go of her hand then. He didn’t. He kept her fingers firmly wrapped in his as he walked beside her through the narrow streets.
In the distance he could still hear traffic moving along La Croisette. There was music from bars, an occasional motorcycle. Next to him, Anny walked in silence, her fingers warm in his palm. She didn’t speak at all, and that, in itself, was a lovely novelty. Every girl he’d ever been with, from Jenny Sorensen in ninth grade to Lissa, had talked his ear off all the way to the door.
Anny didn’t say a thing until she stopped in front of an old stuccoed four-story apartment building with tall shuttered French doors that opened onto narrow wrought-iron railed balconies.
“Here we are.” She slipped out a key, opened the big door.
He expected she would tell him he could leave then, but she must have understood he meant the door to her own flat, because she led the way through a small spare open area to a staircase that climbed steeply up the center of the building. She pressed a light switch to illuminate the stairs and, without glancing his way, started up them.
Demetrios stayed a step behind her until they arrived at the door to her flat. She unlocked hers, then turned to offer him a smile and her hand.
“My door,” she said with a smile. Then, “Thank you,” she added simply. “It’s been lovely.”
“It has.” And he meant it. It was quite honestly the loveliest night he’d had in years. “I lucked out when I commandeered you at the Ritz.”
“So did I.” Her eyes were luminous, like deep blue pools.
They stared at each other. The moment lingered. So did they.
Demetrios knew exactly what he should do: give her hand a polite shake, then let go of it and say goodbye. Or maybe give her a kiss. After all, he’d greeted her with a kiss before he even knew who she was.
But now he did know. She was a sweet, kind, warm young woman—who was engaged to someone else. The last sort of woman he should be lusting after.
But even knowing it, he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.
Just a taste. What the hell was wrong with a taste? He wasn’t going to do anything about it.
Just…taste.
