‘You’re right, they are delicious.’ He lifted his hand and gently brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. ‘So far all I know about you is that you like food and that you don’t spend all day obsessing about your figure. Are you going to give me any more clues about yourself?’
‘Why?’
‘I’d like an introduction.’
She felt her heart skip and jump. ‘If I tell you my name then you’ll have to tell me your name, and it’s much more fun if we remain strangers.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘You don’t know my name?’
‘Of course not.’
The faint gleam in his eyes told her that this wasn’t the answer he’d expected. ‘All right,’ he drawled softly, ‘no names. So, how would you describe yourself?’
A liar, a cheat and a fraud?
‘A person’s perception of themselves is almost always at odds with how others perceive them,’ Chantal murmured, choosing to be intentionally vague. ‘But I like to think of myself as—adaptable.’
‘You’re not going to tell me who you really are?’
She didn’t want to think about who she really was. Suppressing a shudder, Chantal gave what she hoped was a mysterious smile. ‘Does it matter? Perhaps I’m a princess? Or maybe I’m the CEO of a corporation? Or an heiress determined to hide her identity?’
‘All of those people were included on the invitation list. So which are you? Princess, heiress or CEO?’ His tone was dry, but his eyes were sharp and assessing and Chantal knew that she ought to end the conversation and move on immediately. This man’s intelligence was not in dispute, and it wouldn’t take him long to work out that there was something about her that didn’t ring true.
It didn’t matter how much she struggled to bury it, the darkness of her past was always there—a constant reminder that all this was all a pretence.
‘I’m a woman. The sort of woman who prefers not to be stereotyped. I like to think that our horizons can be as broad as we want them to be.’
‘You think I stereotype women?’
‘I’m sure you do it all the time. Everyone does.’ Trying to look as though she belonged in this environment, Chantal pretended to smile a greeting at someone across the room. Unfortunately for her, the man in question chose that moment to look at her and smile back. Flustered, she turned away. It was definitely time to leave. ‘I don’t like labels. I prefer to be just—me.’
Now that they’d finished the canapés, the man lifted two more glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and handed her one. ‘The mere fact that you are here tells me a great deal about you.’
‘Really?’ Engulfed by a wave of horror at the thought of him knowing even the slightest bit about her, Chantal took a large mouthful of champagne.
‘Yes.’ His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as they rested on her face. ‘Tickets to this event are highly sought after and difficult to obtain. In order to have been among the lucky few, you have to be seriously wealthy.’
Chantal thought of the dingy room she’d left a few hours earlier. The landlord had increased the rent, and in two weeks’ time she’d be homeless.
The only jobs that paid decently she wasn’t prepared to do.
‘The concept of wealth means different things to different people,’ she murmured, curling her fingers around the stem of the glass. ‘Is it money or is it good health? Or perhaps a warm, loving family? To consider wealth to be the exclusive privilege of those with money is to risk missing out on a full life, don’t you agree?’
There was a cynical tone to his laugh. ‘If you truly believe that, then you’re an unusual woman. Most members of your sex think that money is the only route to a full life.’
People were openly staring at them and Chantal felt a flicker of panic. Could they see through the red dress and the make-up? She felt as though she had the word ‘impostor’ stamped on her forehead in large letters. Her hand shaking, she took another mouthful of champagne. ‘There you go again—stereotyping. Clearly you regard women as a homogonous breed, endowed with identical characteristics.’
‘Most of the women I meet are a homogonous breed,’ he said dryly, and for a moment she forgot about the people watching them and looked at him curiously, wondering what events in his life had triggered that remark.
He was handsome, yes, but there was also a hardness to him. An outer shell that she guessed wouldn’t be easily penetrated. Perhaps she recognised it because she’d developed the same shell herself.
‘Maybe you’re moving in the wrong circles. Or perhaps there’s something about you that attracts a particular type of woman.’
‘That would be my wallet.’ His smile was impossibly sexy, and Chantal was captivated by the unexpected glimpse of humour that lay beneath his sophisticated exterior.
In fact she was enjoying the conversation so much that she just couldn’t quite bring herself to end it, even though she knew she should. Talking to him had restored her much needed confidence. He made her feel beautiful, and the attraction between them was something she’d never encountered before. Powerful, intoxicating….
‘So I assume that’s why people are staring at us,’ she said lightly. ‘They’re wondering whether I’m about to put my hand in your pocket and rob you.’
Without warning he lifted a hand and gently trailed ran his finger over the curve of his jaw, a thoughtful look in his eyes. ‘The men are staring because you’re the most beautiful woman in the room.’
The unexpected compliment took her breath away. ‘Really?’ She struggled to keep her tone light. ‘So why aren’t they all queuing up to drag me onto the dance floor?’
‘Because you’re with me.’ His tone was casual, but there was a steely undertone that instantly dismissed the competition.
Possessive, she thought to herself, trying desperately to ignore the thrill of excitement that buzzed through her body like an electric current.
He was the most confident, self assured man she’d ever met, and he was way out of her league. She was playing a dangerous, dangerous game by lingering, and she knew that she ought to walk away before the situation grew more complicated.
Before her lies exploded in her face.
But Chantal couldn’t move. She felt more alive then she’d ever felt before. ‘That doesn’t explain why the women are glaring at me.’
The gleam in his eyes suggested that he considered her question ridiculously naive. ‘The women are glaring because they’re nervous about their men. You are serious competition. And they’re trying to work out which designer is responsible for your incredible dress.’
Chantal wasn’t sure whether it was his words or the seductive stroke of his fingers that caused the sudden rush of heat through her body.
‘My dress is a one off, designed specifically for me,’ she said truthfully. ‘And I have a feeling that the women are glaring at me because I’m talking to you.’ And she couldn’t blame them for that. He was a man who would incite jealousy wherever he went.
He was breathtakingly gorgeous and she wondered briefly about his nationality. He wasn’t French and didn’t look English. But his English was perfect. The product of a first-class education.
At that unsettling thought, her insecurities sprang to life again and she reminded herself that for now, at least, he was with her. Yes, they were surrounded by