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, 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