His stunned reaction to the realisation that she had been a virgin was eclipsed by the more immediate need to return her exquisite body to the swimming costume before someone walked onto the terrace and saw her naked.
Discovering that his skills at dressing a woman were by no means as well developed as his skills at undressing, Angelos slid a hand down her leg and attempted to ease her back into the costume. Despite marshalling all his powers of concentration, her full, creamy breasts were temptingly close and his movements were hindered by the fact that she flopped limp and unresisting in his arms.
‘We have to get you dressed,’ he breathed with exasperation, finally sliding the costume as far as her waist and then lifting her away from him in order to tackle the arms.
She was as limp as a rag doll, and when her eyes finally lifted to his she appeared to have difficulty focusing. With a soft curse he yanked at the straps of her costume and slid them over her arms until her body was finally covered.
Having achieved that first objective, Angelos lifted one of her hands and placed it on the side of the pool, so that she could support herself in the water. Then he stepped back from her, consciously placing distance between them. ‘Talk to me.’
His sharp command was met by dazed silence. She was looking at him as though he was from another planet, and he knew the feeling because he’d never felt so disconnected from reality in his life. Finally her lips moved, but no sound emerged. She appeared to be having difficulty forming words.
Against his will, his eyes were drawn to the softness of her mouth and he felt his body stir again. Perplexed and infuriated by the effect she was having on him, he stepped forward again, put his hands on her waist and lifted her bodily out of the water. It was clear to him that if there was any hope of a conversation it wouldn’t be with both of them half naked in the pool—and anyway, the cold water was proving to be a remarkably ineffective libido-dampener.
Having lifted her clear of the water, Angelos placed his hands on the side and the muscles bunched in his shoulders as he levered himself upwards and sprang from the pool.
Water streaming off his body, he prowled over to the nearest sun lounger and reached for a towel. Securing it firmly around his waist, he took several deep breaths. Only then, when he was confident that he was back in control, did he turn to face her.
She hadn’t moved.
She was still seated on the side of the pool, where he’d left her, like a doll whose body wasn’t capable of independent movement.
With a soft curse he strode over to her, hauled her to her feet and wrapped a towel around her shivering frame with businesslike efficiency. Then he pushed her into the nearest chair, his mind returning to its usual state of focus now that she was covered. ‘Start talking.’
Talking?
He wanted her to speak about what had just happened?
Feeling dazed, and slightly removed from what was happening around her, Chantal stared at him blankly.
She had no idea what she was supposed to say. For her it had been—
She gave up trying to find the words. What exactly did he want to hear? That she was now a different person from the one she’d been yesterday? That it had surpassed her wildest dreams? That she could have happily stayed in that pool with him for the rest of her life?
Her gaze slid to his, but the contact was too much, too intimate, and she looked away immediately. But not before a disturbing image of him half naked had been imprinted on her brain. He was a vision of masculine power, with water glistening on his powerful torso, his eyes disturbingly intent as they rested on her face.
And still she couldn’t speak—because the words were all jammed together in her head and she had no idea how to articulate the fact that everything felt different now.
Why didn’t he say something? Or was he pretending that it hadn’t happened?
She was just contemplating that disturbing possibility when she saw his mouth tighten.
How did he manage to look businesslike and intimidating, wearing just a towel?
‘Speak to me,’ he demanded, and his sharp tone finally roused her from her semi-conscious state.
‘It was amazing,’ she said faintly. ‘You’re very good.’
Shock flared in his dark eyes and he muttered something in Greek under his breath. ‘That is not what I was asking you,’ he breathed, faint colour highlighting the perfection of his bone structure. ‘Let’s do this another way. I’ll ask the questions. You answer. Obviously you’re not Isabelle Ducat.’
Realising that she’d just embarrassed herself, Chantal coloured deeply and shrank deeper inside the towel.
She’d just assumed that he’d wanted to talk about the sex because, for her, no other issues existed. What they’d just shared had driven everything else from her head. But obviously he wasn’t similarly afflicted. For him there were issues much, much more important than talking about the sex. Like her identity.
Buying herself a little more time, she cleared her throat and tried avoidance tactics. ‘What makes you think I’m not Isabelle Ducat?’
‘Because the list of Isabelle’s previous lovers reads like a telephone directory,’ Angelos informed her helpfully. ‘Whereas I now know that your list contains only one name. Mine.’
His blunt reminder of the intimacy they’d just shared caused the colour in her cheeks to deepen still further. Wriggling like a fish on a hook, she breathed deeply and told herself that he couldn’t absolutely know. Could he? ‘I don’t see how you—’
‘Don’t even go there,’ he warned in a soft voice. ‘Unless you want me to treble your blushes by describing in meticulous detail exactly how I know.’
She breathed in and out and concentrated on a point between his feet and his knees. ‘Oh.’
‘Look at me,’ he demanded, and she shrank slightly lower in her seat.
She couldn’t look at him. It was just too, too embarrassing.
He sighed heavily. ‘Please will you look at me?’ This time his voice was slightly less autocratic, as if he knew that he wasn’t going to achieve his objective by sheer force alone.
Reluctantly, she looked. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Start with who you really are.’
Who was she?
She wasn’t sure she knew any more. She certainly didn’t feel anything like the person she’d been half an hour previously.
Would her body ever feel the same again? ‘I’m not Isabelle.’
‘I know that.’ His wide, sensuous mouth compressed as he struggled to contain his volatile nature. ‘What I don’t know is who you are and why you took her identity.’
‘I didn’t take her identity. Not really. You were the one who thought I was Isabelle.’
‘You were in possession of her ticket.’
‘Which just goes to show that external appearances can be deceptive.’
‘The only deception around here was yours.’
Sensing a dangerous tension in him, Chantal felt her heart bump against her chest. ‘It’s true that I used the ticket, but I didn’t pose as her. I didn’t once use her name, and you weren’t supposed to see the ticket.’
‘This conversation is going round in circles and you are making no sense. How did you obtain the ticket in the first place?’
It was like being on the witness stand, being cross-examined by a very unsympathetic prosecutor.
What would he say, she wondered,