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, when he discovered that the truth was even worse than the lie? ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Give me the short version,’ he ordered in a tense voice. ‘I’m a guy who likes to get straight to the point, and we’ve already taken the long route. Let’s try it from a different direction. How do you know Isabelle?’
‘I don’t know her. I met her in the hotel where she was staying.’ Unable to look at him, Chantal examined each strand of the soft fluffy towel that now enveloped her. ‘I was—’ oh hell ‘—I was cleaning her room.’
There.
She’d said it.
Bracing herself for his reaction to her shocking confession, she sat there waiting, her fingers coiled in the damp folds of the towel.
Angelos said nothing.
Clearly he was so appalled that he’d flown a cleaner out to his island on his private jet that he couldn’t even find the words to express his disgust. She gave a tiny shrug and tried to ignore the pain that tore at her insides.
‘It’s all right.’ She tried to sound dismissive. Casual. ‘Go ahead and say what’s on your mind.’ After all, she was used to it. Used to being judged and instantly dismissed. Struggling to close her armour around her. She lifted her eyes to his and she found him watching her from beneath thick dark lashes that concealed his expression.
‘I’m still waiting for you to explain how you came to have the ticket.’ He spoke with exaggerated patience. ‘I’m assuming that if I wait long enough you will get to the point in the end.’
‘I’ve reached the point.’
He rubbed his fingers over his forehead, as if to ease the tension. ‘Chantal—that is your name, isn’t it?’ He spoke slowly and softly, as if he were hanging onto control by a thread. ‘I’m not a very patient man. If a member of my staff had taken as long to tell me something as you have, I would have fired them by now.’
She stiffened defensively. ‘I just told you I was working as a cleaner.’
‘I heard you. At the moment I’m not interested in your career choice. What I’m still waiting to hear is how you came by the ticket.’
‘But—’
‘I’m not good with long, involved stories,’ he informed her, his tone exasperated. ‘Get to the point, please, before we both age any further.’
Chantal opened her mouth to say that she’d thought that the fact she was actually a cleaner was the point, but the burning impatience in his eyes made
