felt her cheeks flame.
“You said you had to leave early because you were going to meet your fiancé.”
Oh God, she’d forgotten that.
“He got delayed,” Anny said quickly. “He couldn’t come.” She shot a look at Demetrios.
He raised his brows in silent question, but he simply said to Franck, “So I invited her to dinner instead.”
Franck shoved himself up farther against the pillows and looked at her. “You never said you knew Luke St. Angier. I mean—him,” he corrected himself, cheeks reddening as if he’d embarrassed himself by confusing the man and the role he’d played.
Demetrios didn’t seem to care. “We just met,” he said. “Anny mentioned your discussion. I can’t believe you think MacGyver is smarter than Luke St. Angier.”
Anny almost laughed as Franck’s gaze snapped from Demetrios to her and back again. Then his spine stiffened. “Could Luke St. Angier make a bomb out of a toaster, half a dozen toothpicks and a cigarette lighter?”
“Damn right he could,” Demetrios shot back. “Obviously we need to talk.”
Maybe it was because he, like Anny, treated Franck no differently than he would treat anybody else, maybe it was because he was Luke St. Angier, whatever it was, the next thing Anny knew Demetrios was sitting on the end of Franck’s bed and the two of them were going at it.
They did argue. First about bomb-making, then about scripts and character arcs and story lines. Demetrios was as intent and focused with Franck as he had been with the girls.
Anny had thought they might spend a half an hour there—at most. Franck usually became disgruntled after that long. But not with Demetrios. They were still talking and arguing an hour later. They might have gone on all night if Anny hadn’t finally said, “I hate to break this up, but we have a few more people to see here before we leave.” Franck scowled.
Demetrios stood up and said, “Okay. We can continue this tomorrow.”
Franck stared. “Tomorrow? You mean it?”
“Of course I mean it,” Demetrios assured him. “No one else has cared about Luke that much in years.”
Franck’s eyes shone. He looked over at Anny as they were going out the door and he said something she thought she would never hear him say. “Thanks.”
She thanked Demetrios, too, when they were out in the hall again. “You made his day. You don’t have to come back. I can explain if you don’t.”
He shook his head. “I’m coming back. Now let’s meet the rest of the gang.”
Naturally he charmed them, one and all. And even though many of them didn’t know the famous man who was with Anny, they loved the attention. Just as he had with Franck and with the Italian girls, Demetrios focused on what they were telling him. He talked about toy cars with eight-year-old Fran¸ois. He listened to tales about Olivia’s kitten. He did his “one and only card trick” for several of the older girls. And if they weren’t madly in love with Demetrios Savas when he came into their rooms, they were well on the way by the time he left.
Anny, for all her youthful fantasies about Demetrios Savas, had never really imagined him with children. Now she thought it was a shame he didn’t have his own.
It was past nine-thirty when they finally stepped back out onto the narrow cobbled street in Le Soquet and Anny said guiltily, “I didn’t mean to tie up your whole evening.”
“If I hadn’t wanted to be there,” he said firmly, “I could have figured out how to leave.” He took hold of her hand, turning her so that she looked into those mesmerizing eyes. She couldn’t see the color now as the sun had gone down. But the intensity was there in them and in his voice when he said, “Believe me, Anny.” How could she not?
She wetted her lips. “Yes, well, thank you. It hardly seems adequate, but—”
“It’s perfectly adequate. You’re welcome. More than. Now, how about dinner?”
“Are you sure? It’s getting late.”
“Not midnight yet. In case you turn into a pumpkin,” he added, his grin flashing.
Was she Cinderella then? Not ordinarily. But tonight she almost felt like it. Or the flipside thereof—the princess pretending to be a “real” person.
“No,” she said, “I don’t. At least I haven’t yet,” she added with a smile.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Then his voice gentled. “Are you having second thoughts, Anny? Afraid the missing fiancé will find out?”
He still held her hand in his, and if she tugged it, she would be making too much of things. She swallowed. “He wouldn’t care,” she said offhandedly. “He’s not that sort of man.”
He cocked his head. “Is that good?”
Was it good? Anny knew she didn’t want a jealous husband. But she did want a husband to whom she mattered, who loved her, who cared. On one level, of course, Gerard did.
“He’s a fine man,” she said at last.
“I’m sure he is,” Demetrios said gravely. “So if I promise to behave in exemplary fashion with his fiancée, will you have dinner with me?”
He held her hand—and her gaze—effortlessly as he hung the invitation, the temptation, dangling there between them. He’d already asked before. She’d said no, then yes. And now?
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I would like that.”
She wasn’t sure that she should have liked the frisson of awareness she felt when he gave her fingers a squeeze before he released them. “So would I.”
He wanted to keep holding her hand.
How stupid was that?
He wasn’t a besotted teenager. He was an adult. Sane, sensible. And decidedly gun-shy. Or woman-shy.
Which wasn’t a problem here, Demetrios reminded himself sharply, determinedly tucking his hands in his pockets as he walked with Anny Chamion through the narrow steep streets of the Old Quarter. She was engaged and thus, clearly, no more interested in anything beyond dinner than he was.
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,