It was a typical day in Paris.
She crossed the river and made her way up to the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré with its designer shops. This area was the heart of Paris design and fashion; Chanel, Lanvin, Yves St Laurent, Versace—they were all here. She paused outside a window, her attention caught by a dress on display, her brain automatically memorising the cut and the line.
Why were people prepared to pay such an indecent sum of money for something so simple? she mused. A length of fabric and a reel of cotton thread could produce the same for a fraction of the amount.
The dress she’d made for the ball had been a huge success, and no one had seemed to recognise it as an old piece of discarded curtain lining.
The low growl of a powerful engine broke her concentration, and she glanced behind her as a shiny black Lamborghini jerked to a halt in the road.
Chantal felt her heart skitter, and slowly the world around her faded into the background. She was oblivious to the fact that several other women had turned to stare and equally oblivious to the cacophony of car horns as other drivers registered their protest.
She knew that car.
She’d seen it two weeks before—at the ball she hadn’t been invited to.
It belonged to the man that she hadn’t been supposed to dance with.
The son of the man she wished she’d never talked to.
His attention caught by the gleaming blonde hair and long, long legs of the woman staring into the shop window, Angelos Zouvelekis slammed his foot on the brake and brought the car to an abrupt halt.
Ignoring the sudden swivel of heads that followed his action, he stared hard at the woman.
Was it her?
Had he finally found her, or was it wishful thinking on his part?
She looked different. Wondering if he’d made a mistake, Angelos narrowed his eyes and imagined this woman with her hair piled on top of her head and her arms and shoulders revealed by the clever cut of her couture dress.
And then her eyes met his, and all doubt faded. Even from this distance he caught a flash of sapphire-blue—the same unusual colour that had caught his attention that fateful night at the ball.
Her eyes were unforgettable.
Finally he’d found her. And where else but shopping in one of the most expensive districts of Paris?
It should have been the first place he’d instructed his security team to look, Angelos thought cynically, wondering which deluded fool had provided the money she was clearly about to spend.
The fact that he’d been compelled to search for her at all made the anger explode inside him and he switched off the engine and sprang from the car, as indifferent to the ‘No Parking’ signs as he was to the gaping audience of admiring women who were now watching his movements with lustful interest.
At that precise moment he wasn’t interested in any woman except the one who was staring at him, and he almost laughed as he saw the shock in her eyes.
It didn’t surprise him that she was shocked to see him, given the way they’d parted company.
He was shocked, too. In normal circumstances he went out of his way to avoid women like her. If anyone had told him a month ago that he would have used all his contacts to track down someone whose behaviour appalled and disgusted him, he would have laughed.
But here he was, about to make her day. Thanks to a twist of fate, he was about to give her all she’d dreamed of and more.
As he walked purposefully towards her he consoled himself with the knowledge that although she had won the first round, the second, third and fourth were going to be his.
She was also about to discover the truth behind that famous saying Be careful what you wish for…
This woman had made her wishes perfectly clear, but he was absolutely sure that by the time he’d finished with her she would be wishing she’d targeted a man less able to defend himself.
Angelos ground his teeth, furious and frustrated at the position he now found himself in. She was obviously the sort of woman who devoted her life to leeching from those better off than her. A woman with no scruples and no morals. She was the lowest of the low, and the knowledge that he’d been well and truly manipulated for the first time in his life did nothing for his temper.
If there was one word he would never have applied to himself, it was gullible.
He looked straight at her, and was instantly gripped by a spasm of lust so powerful that his brain momentarily ceased to function.
She was all woman.
From the tumbling blonde hair to the generous swell of her breasts and the soft curve of her narrow waist, she was entirely and uncontrovertibly feminine.
Over the past two weeks he’d been so furiously angry with her that he’d forgotten how incredibly beautiful she was. Her assets would not have been valued by any of the glossy magazines—her shape was too feminine for that—but she was a woman that any red-blooded male would fantasise about taking to bed.
Appalled at himself, Angelos dragged his gaze away from her and tried to refocus his mind.
It had been a long two weeks, he reminded himself as he searched for a logical explanation for his unwelcome and wholly inappropriate reaction to her. An extremely long two weeks.
Back in control, he risked another glance at her. This time he thought he saw guilt in her eyes and had to remind himself that guilt was connected to conscience, and this woman wasn’t familiar with either word.
‘Isabelle.’ He was unable to keep the contempt out of his voice and for a moment she just stared at him, wide eyed, her expression faintly puzzled.
Then she spoke, and her voice was husky and feminine. ‘Who is Isabelle?’
The denial on her part was entirely predictable, but all the same temper exploded inside him. ‘We are no longer playing “Guess the Identity”.’
‘But I’m not—’
‘Don’t!’ Driven to the limits of his self control, he growled the warning and she backed away a few steps.
As well she might, Angelos thought grimly, after the stunt she’d pulled.
‘Get in the car.’ He was too angry to bother with pleasantries, and he saw a flicker of panic in her eyes.
‘You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone else.’
He reached into his pocket and removed the evidence. ‘There’s no mistake. Next time you’re trying to remain incognito, don’t drop your ticket.’
She stared at the ticket in his hand, and it was clear that she didn’t know what to say.
‘Now I understand why you were so reluctant to introduce yourself.’ He watched the various emotions flicker across her eyes. Consternation, confusion—fear? ‘So now we’ve cleared up the sticky subject of your identity, let’s go.’
She was still looking at the ticket. ‘Go where?’
‘With me. This is your lucky day.’ He wondered whether it was possible for words to actually choke a man. ‘You’ve hit the jackpot.’
Her gaze shifted from the ticket to his face. ‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.’
So, not only had she won this round, but she intended to make him suffer by rubbing it in.
He