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?’