The minute he slipped his arms around Anny to dance with her, the moment he felt her body fit itself to his, Demetrios knew he was done for.
He would have laughed bitterly at his own foolishness if the desire for her hadn’t been so intense, if the longing hadn’t been so real. Anger and desperation he could fight.
He couldn’t fight this.
It was like having his dreams come true. It was like being offered a taste of all he’d ever longed for. A single spoonful that would have to last him for the rest of his life.
“To remember,” Anny had said, as if it was a good thing.
How could it be good to have a hollow, aching reminder of the joy he’d once believed was his due? It wasn’t. He didn’t believe in promises any more. Yet, as much as he tried not to give in, he couldn’t resist.
It was like trying to resist gravity. Like agreeing to step off a cliff—then refusing to let himself fall.
Impossible.
The Virgin’s Proposition
by
Anne McAllister
Award-winning author ANNE MCALLISTER was once given a blueprint for happiness that included a nice, literate husband, a ramshackle Victorian house, a horde of mischievous children, a bunch of big, friendly dogs, and a life spent writing stories about tall, dark and handsome heroes. ‘Where do I sign up?’ she asked, and promptly did. Lots of years later, she’s happy to report the blueprint was a success. She’s always happy to share the latest news with readers at her website, www.annemcallister.com, and welcomes their letters there, or at PO Box 3904, Bozeman, Montana 59772, USA (SASE appreciated).
CHAPTER ONE
SOMEDAY HER PRINCE would come.
But apparently not anytime soon, Anny thought as she glanced down to check her watch discreetly once again.
She shifted in the upholstered armchair where she’d been waiting for the past forty minutes, then sat up even straighter, and craned her neck to look down the length of the Ritz-Carlton lobby for any sign of Gerard.
There were hundreds of other people milling about. In fact, the place was a madhouse.
It always was, of course, during Film Festival week in Cannes. The French seacoast town began overflowing with industry moguls, aspiring thespians, and avid filmgoers toward the end of the first week in May.
By now—three days into the festival—the normally serene elegant area near the hotel bar, where small genteel groups usually met for cocktails or apertifs, was now a sea of babbling people. The usual polite hushed voices of guests had been replaced by raucous cracks of masculine laughter and high-pitched flirty feminine giggles.
All around her, Anny heard rapid intense conversations rumbling and spiking as producers talked deals, directors flogged films, and journalists and photographers cornered the world’s most sought-after actors and actresses. Everywhere she looked curious fans and onlookers, not to mention the hopeful groupies, milled about trying to look as if they belonged.
A prince would barely have been noticed.
But unless he was masquerading as a movie fan, which of course was ridiculous, there was no sign of tall distinguished Prince Gerard of Val de Comesque anywhere.
Anny was tempted to tap her impatient toes. She didn’t. She smiled serenely instead.
“In public, you are serene, you are calm, you are happy,” His Royal Highness, King Leopold Olivier Narcisse Bertrand of Mont Chamion—otherwise known as “Papa”—had drummed into her head from the cradle. “Always serene, my dear,” he had repeated. “It is your duty.”
Of course it was. Princesses were serene. And dutiful. And, of course, they were generally happy, too.
Privately Anny had always thought it would be the worst ingratitude if they weren’t.
Being a princess certainly wasn’t all fun and games as she knew from twenty-six years of personal experience. But princesses, by their mere birthright, were entitled to so much that none of them had a right to be anything but grateful.
So Her Royal Highness, Princess Adriana Anastasia Maria Christina Sophia of Mont Chamion, aka Anny, was serene, dutiful, determinedly happy. And grateful. Always.
Well, almost always.
At the moment, she was also stressed. She was impatient, annoyed and, if she were honest—with herself at least—a little bit apprehensive.
Not scared exactly. Certainly not panic-stricken.
Just vaguely sick to her stomach. Edgy. Filled with a sort of creeping dread that seemed to sneak up on her when she was least expecting it.
Except she had felt the dread so frequently over the past month that now she was expecting it. Regularly.
It was nerves, she told herself. Prewedding jitters. Never mind that the wedding was over a year away. Never mind that the date hadn’t even been set yet. Never mind that Prince Gerard, sophisticated, handsome, elegant, and worldly, was everything a woman could ask for.
Except here.
She stood up so that she could scan the busy lobby once more. She’d had to dash to get to the hotel by five. Her father had called her this morning and said that Gerard would be expecting her, that he had something to discuss.
“But it’s Thursday. I’ll be at the clinic then,” she had protested.
The clinic Alfonse de Jacques was a private establishment dedicated to children and teens with paralysis and spinal injuries, a place between hospital and home. Anny volunteered there every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. She had done it since she’d come to Cannes to work on her doctoral dissertation right after Christmas five months ago.
At first she’d gone simply to be useful and to do something besides write about prehistoric cave painting all day. It got her out of the flat. And it was public service—something princesses did.
She loved children, and spending a few hours with ones whose lives were often severely limited seemed like time well-spent. But what had started out as a distraction and a good deed quickly turned into the time she looked forward to most each week.
At the clinic she wasn’t a princess. The children had no idea who she was. And when she came to see them it wasn’t a duty. It was a joy. She was simply Anny—their friend.
She played catch with Paul and video games with Madeleine and Charles. She watched football with Philippe and Gabriel and sewed tiny dolls’ clothes with Marie-Claire. She talked movies and movie stars with eager starry-eyed Elise and argued—about everything—with “cranky Franck,” the resident fifteen-year-old cynic who challenged her at every turn. She looked forward to it.
“I’m always at the clinic until five at least,” she’d protested to her father this morning. “Gerard can meet me there.”
“Gerard will not visit hospitals.”
“It’s a clinic,” Anny protested.
“Even so. He will not,” her father said firmly, but there was a sympathetic note in his voice. “You know that. Not