She hesitated, as if she weren’t all that comfortable talking about herself, which was in itself refreshing.
Lissa had commanded the center of attention wherever they’d been. But Anny spread her palms and shrugged disingenuously, then shocked him by saying, “I had a poster of you on my wall when I was eighteen.”
Demetrios groaned and put his hand over his eyes. He knew the poster. It was an artistic, tasteful, nonrevealing nude, which he’d done at the request of a young photographer friend trying to make a name for herself.
She had.
So had he. His brothers and every male friend he’d ever had, seeing that poster, had taunted him about it for years. Still did. His parents, fortunately, had had a sense of humor and had merely rolled their eyes. Girls seemed to like it, though.
“I was young and dumb,” he admitted now, ruefully shaking his head.
“But gorgeous,” Anny replied with such disarming frankness that he blinked.
“Thanks,” he said a little wryly. But he found her admiration oddly pleasing. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard the sentiment before, but knowing a cool, self-possessed woman like Anny had been attracted kicked the activity level of his formerly dormant hormones up another notch.
He shifted in his chair. “Tell me about something besides the poster. Tell me how you met your fiancé?” He didn’t really want to know that, but it seemed like a good idea to ask, remind his hormones of the reality of the situation.
The waiter set salads in front of them. Demetrios picked up his fork.
“I’ve known him all my life,” Anny said.
“The boy next door?”
“Not quite. But, well, sort of.”
“Helps if you know someone well.” God knew it would have helped if he’d known more about what made Lissa tick. It would have sent him running in the other direction. But how could he have when she was so good at playing a role? “You know him, at least.”
“Yes.” This time her smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes. She focused on her salad, not offering any more so Demetrios changed the subject.
“Tell me about these cave paintings. How much more work do you have to do on your dissertation?”
She was more forthcoming about that. She talked at length about her work and her eyes lit up then. Ditto when he got her talking about the clinic and the children.
He found her enthusiasm contagious, and when she asked him about the film he’d brought to Cannes, he shared some of his own enthusiasm.
She was a good listener. She asked good questions. Even better, she knew what not to ask. She said nothing at all about the two plus years he’d stayed out of the public eye. Nothing about his marriage. Nothing about Lissa’s death.
Only when he brought up not having come to Cannes for a couple of years did she say simply, “I was sorry to hear about your wife.”
“Thank you.”
They got through the salad, their entrées—the moussaka was remarkably good and reminiscent of his mother’s—and then, because Anny looked a second or so too long at the apple tart, and because he really didn’t want the evening to end yet, he suggested they share a piece with their coffee.
“Just a bite for me,” she agreed. “I eat far too much of it whenever I come here.”
Demetrios liked that she had enjoyed her meal. He liked that she wasn’t rail-thin and boney the way Lissa had been, the way so many actresses felt they needed to be. She hadn’t picked at her food the way they did. She looked healthy and appealing—just right, in his estimation—with definite hints of curves beneath her tailored jacket, scoop-necked top and linen skirt.
The hormones were definitely awake.
The waiter brought the apple tart and two forks. And Demetrios was almost annoyed to discover he wasn’t going to be able to feed her a bite off his. Almost.
Then sanity reared its head. He got a grip, pushed the plate toward her. “After you.”
She cut off a small piece and carried it to her mouth, then shut her eyes and sighed. “That is simply heaven.” She ran her tongue lightly over her lips, and opened her eyes again.
“Taste it,” she urged him.
His hormones heard, Taste me. He cleared his throat and focused on the tart.
It was good. He did his best to savor it appreciatively, aware of her eyes on him, watching him as he chewed and swallowed.
“Your turn.”
She shook her head. “One bite. That’s it.”
“It’s heaven,” he reminded her.
“I’ve had my taste for tonight.” She set down her fork and put her hands in her lap. “Truly. Please, finish it.”
He took his time, not just to savor the tart but the evening as well. It was the first time he’d been out on anything remotely resembling a date since Lissa. Not that this was precisely a date. He wasn’t doing dates—not ones that led anywhere except bed now that his hormones were awake and kicking.
Still he was enjoying himself. This was a step back into the normal world he’d left three years before, made easier because of the woman Anny was…comfortable, poised, appealing. He liked her ease and her calmness at the same time he felt a renegade impulse to ruffle that calm.
The notion brought him up short. Where the hell had that come from?
He forked the last bite into his mouth and washed it down with a quick swallow of coffee.
Anny shook her head in gentle sadness. “You weren’t treating it like heaven just then.”
He wiped his mouth on the napkin, then dropped it on the table. “I realized I was making you wait. It’s nearly midnight,” he said, surprised at how the time had flown.
“Maybe I will turn into a pumpkin.” She didn’t smile when she said it.
He did. “Can I watch?”
“Prince Charming is always long gone when that happens, remember?”
He remembered. And he remembered, too, that however enjoyable it had been, unlike the Cinderella story, it wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t want it to. She didn’t want it to. That was probably what made it so damn enjoyable.
“Ready to go?”
She nodded. She looked remote now, a little pensive.
He paid the bill, told the waiter what a great meal it was, and was bemused when the waiter barely looked at him, but had a smile for Anny. “We are so happy to have you come tonight, your—You’re always welcome.” He even kissed her hand.
Outside she stopped and offered that same hand to him. “Thank you. For the dinner. For coming to the clinic. For everything. It was a memorable evening.”
He took her hand, but he shook his head. “I’m not leaving you on a street corner.”
“My flat’s not far. You don’t need—”
“I’m walking you home. To your door.” In case she had any other ideas. “So lead on.”
He could have let go of her hand then. He didn’t. He kept her fingers firmly wrapped in his as he walked beside her through the narrow streets.
In the distance he could still hear traffic moving along La Croisette. There was music from bars, an occasional motorcycle. Next to him, Anny walked in silence, her fingers warm in his palm. She didn’t speak at all, and that, in