The Virgin's Proposition. Anne McAllister

Of course he didn’t say that. He only repeated, “I owe you, Anny Chamion. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just ask.”

      She stared at him mutely.

      He reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card, then scrawled his private number on it, tucking it into her hand. “Whatever you need. Whenever. You only have to ask. Okay?”

      She nodded, her eyes wide and almighty enticing. She had no idea.

      “Good night,” he said firmly, deliberately—as much to convince his hormones as to say farewell to her. But he waited for her to go inside and shut the door. Only when she had did he turn and walk toward the stairs.

      He had just reached them when the door jerked open behind him.

      “Demetrios?” she called his name softly.

      He stiffened, then turned. “What?”

      He waited as she came toward him until she stood bare inches away, close enough that he could again catch the scent of the apple tart, of a faint hint of citrus shampoo.

      Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him. “Anything?”

      “What?” He blinked, confused.

      “You said you’d do anything?”

      He nodded. “Yes.”

      She wetted her lips. “Whatever I ask?”

      “Yes,” he said firmly.

      “Make love with me.”