‘And you didn’t resist.’
Her heart was pounding. ‘I came because you led me to believe that it would make a difference to your father, and I care about him. He was very kind to me.’
‘So you made this enormous sacrifice for a guy you’d met once?’ He lifted an eyebrow. ‘You were doing me a favour by agreeing to fly by private jet to a secluded island for a few weeks of relaxation?’ He was tying her in knots and he knew it.
‘I don’t care what you believe. It’s the truth. But you’re obviously so cynical and suspicious of women’s motives that you think there’s only one possible interpretation. Maybe you should give all your money away. Then you’d know, wouldn’t you?’ Still smarting with indignation, she blinked rapidly to clear the tears that had sprung into her eyes. He wasn’t worth crying over. No man was worth that. All she could do now was pick up the pieces and start again. And learn from her mistakes.
But first she needed to get out of here.
After what they’d just done she could no longer stay as his guest. It wasn’t possible.
Before she could move, Maria appeared on the terrace, an apologetic look on her face. She said something in Greek to Angelos and he gave a low growl, almost vibrating with impatience at the interruption.
‘Theos mou, not now—’ He raked his fingers through his glossy hair and then cast a look at Chantal. ‘I have been waiting for this phone call—the timing isn’t good, but I have to take it. We’ll finish this conversation later.’
Not if she had anything to do with it.
Still bruised by his total lack of sensitivity, she didn’t respond.
What was there to finish?
He’d made his feelings perfectly clear, and she really didn’t want to listen to any more.
He thought she was some sort of cold-blooded gold-digger.
Wrung out with the emotion of it all, Chantal watched in silence as he strode across the terrace. He was as cool and in control as ever. There was no evidence to suggest that he was a man caught up in the middle of an emotional crisis. Which was yet another fundamental difference between them, she thought numbly, her eyes clinging hungrily to his broad, muscular shoulders until they disappeared from view along with the rest of him.
She still wasn’t sure how the whole thing had happened, or why it had happened. All she knew was that she felt like a balloon that had been popped before the party started.
Apart from acknowledging her utter lack of experience, Angelos apparently hadn’t given a second thought to what had happened in the pool.
And yet she’d been unable to think of anything else. Every time he’d fired a question at her, she’d just wanted to say, ‘But what about the sex?’
It had been the most shocking, exhilarating, explosive experience of her life, and having suddenly discovered the depth of her sexuality she could now barely focus on anything else. The memory of their encounter was so clear that it dominated her mind in full, glorious Technicolor and her body ached in a way that was deliciously unfamiliar.
All the way through their conversation she’d just wanted him to stop talking, take her in his arms and do it all over again. Because she’d truly believed that what they’d shared had been unique and infinitely special.
And that was why she’d done it, of course. Because it had felt absolutely right. For the first time in her life she hadn’t even stopped to question what she was doing.
But it hadn’t been special for him, had it?
It hadn’t even been worthy of comment. To him it had just been sex. And not just sex, but sex that obviously wasn’t even worth remarking on. Disappointing sex. In fact, judging from his reaction, the whole episode had obviously been an entirely forgettable experience—nothing more than an exercise session for him—while the verbal exchange that had followed had possessed all the warmth and intimacy of a business meeting.
She cringed as she forced herself to face the truth.
He hadn’t been able to get her out of the pool fast enough, had he?
She’d been ready to wind her arms round his neck and start it all again, but he’d lifted her out and plonked her on the side, clearly not sharing her desire for a repeat performance.
Obviously, as a woman, you couldn’t win, she thought gloomily. Too much experience, like Isabelle, made you a slut. Too little made you boring.
Alone on the terrace, she released her death grip on the towel and allowed it to slide to the floor. Her costume had almost dried in the heat, and she ran a finger over her thigh, wondering if her body felt different on the outside—because it certainly felt different on the inside.
For the first time in her life she’d discovered what it was like to completely lose control, and the feeling was exciting and terrifying at the same time.
Uncomfortable thoughts from her childhood drifted into her head but she pushed them away again instantly, just not able to go there at this moment.
One thing she did know was that the sex had changed everything. She’d agreed to accept his hospitality only because he’d convinced her that his father’s recovery depended on her presence. She’d been comfortable with it because there had been nothing personal in the invitation.
But now everything had changed.
And it was perfectly obvious what she had to do.
SERIOUSLY distracted, Angelos took his business call, snapped the head off the person on the other end of the phone and then instructed his PA in Athens not to put through any more calls.
At that moment he wasn’t interested in talking to his senior management team. Nor was he interested in talking to any of the businessmen who clamoured for his attention on an almost hourly basis.
There were urgent matters demanding his attention. But for the first time in his life he didn’t even care.
He should have been thinking about work, but all he could think about was sex.
Sex with Chantal.
Cursing softly in Greek, he paced the length of his office. His entire body was burning and unfulfilled and all he wanted to do was stride back onto the terrace, drag her somewhere extremely private and indulge in a repeat performance—complete with several encores.
Never in his life had he been so hot for a woman, and he didn’t understand it because she possessed none of the qualities that he admired.
True, she was beautiful, but she was also dishonest—and she’d admitted as such. All right, so she wasn’t Isabelle Ducat. She’d hadn’t chosen to make a living out of divorce. But she had taken a ticket that wasn’t hers, and she hadn’t corrected him when he’d assumed her to be the owner of the ticket.
She’d posed as someone else, apparently more than comfortable to perpetrate that particular untruth. That fact alone should have been the sexual equivalent of sitting in a bath of ice cubes, because he hated deception.
He might have felt more kindly towards her had she just admitted that a few weeks in Greece with a billionaire had sounded like fun. Instead of which she’d insisted that she’d agreed to accompany him out of concern for his father.
So why, knowing all that, was his libido raging madly out of control?
Why did he feel like a teenager whose hormones were well and truly in control?
With a humourless laugh he forced himself to accept the obvious.
Because