the smooth, slender tanned legs, the toes peeking out from her sandals. “Attractive,” he said. “Approachable.”
“Approachable?”
“I approached,” he pointed out.
“You make me sound like a streetwalker.” But she didn’t sound offended, just amused.
But Demetrios shook his head. “Never. You’re not wearing enough makeup. And the clothes are all wrong.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
They smiled at each other again, and quite suddenly Demetrios felt as if he were waking up from a bad dream.
He’d been in it so long—dragged down and fighting his way back—that it seemed as if it would be all he’d ever know for the rest of his life.
But right now, just this instant, he felt alive. And he realized that he had smiled more—really honestly smiled—in the past five minutes than he had in the past three years.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Anny.”
Anny. A plain name. A first name. No last name. Usually women were falling all over themselves to give him their full names, the story of their lives, and, most importantly, their phone numbers.
“Just Anny?” he queried lightly.
“Chamion.” She seemed almost reluctant to tell him. That was refreshing.
“Anny Chamion.” He liked the sound of it. Simple. But a little exotic. “You’re French?”
“My mother was French.”
“And you speak English perfectly.”
“I went to university in the States. Well, I went to Oxford first. But I went to graduate school in California. At Berkeley. I still am, really. I’m working on my dissertation.”
“So, you’re a…scholar?”
She didn’t look like any scholar he’d ever met. No pencils in her hair. There was nothing distracted or ivory towerish about her. He knew all about scholarly single-mindedness. His brother George was a scholar—a physicist.
“You’re not a physicist?” he said accusingly.
She laughed. “Afraid not. I’m an archaeologist.”
He grinned. “Raiders of the Lost Ark? My brothers and I used to watch that over and over.”
Anny nodded, her eyes were smiling. Then she shrugged wryly. “The ‘real’ thing isn’t quite so exciting.”
“No Nazis and gun battles?”
“Not many snakes, either. And not a single dashing young Harrison Ford. I’m working on my dissertation right now—on cave paintings. No excitement there, either. But I like it. I’ve done the research. It’s just a matter of getting it all organized and down on paper.”
“Getting stuff down on paper isn’t always easy.” It had been perhaps the hardest part of the past couple of years, mostly because it required that he be alone with his thoughts.
“You’re writing a dissertation?”
“A screenplay,” he said. “I wrote one. Now I’m starting another. It’s hard work.”
“All that creativity would be exhausting. I couldn’t do it,” she said with admiration.
“I couldn’t write a dissertation.” He should just thank her and say goodbye. But he liked her. She was sane, normal, sensible, smart. Not a starlet. Not even remotely. It was nice to be with someone unrelated to the movie business. Unrelated to the hoopla and glitz. Down-to-earth. He was oddly reluctant to simply walk away.
“Have dinner with me,” he said abruptly.
Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened. Then it closed.
Practically every other woman in Cannes, Demetrios thought grimly, would have said yes ten times over by now.
Not Anny Chamion. She looked rueful, then gave him a polite shake of the head. “I would love to, but I’m afraid I really was waiting for someone in the hotel.”
Of course she had been.
“And I just shanghaied you without giving a damn.” He grimaced. “Sorry. I just thought it would be nice to find a little hole-in-the-wall place, hide out for a while. Have a nice meal. Some conversation. I forgot I’d kidnapped you under false pretenses.”
She laughed. “It’s all right. He was late.”
He. Of course she was waiting for a man. And what difference did it make?
“Right,” he said briskly. “Thanks for the rescue, Anny Chamion. I didn’t offend Mona Tremayne because of you.”
“The actress?” She looked startled. “You were escaping from her?”
“Not her. Her daughter. Rhiannon. She’s a little…persistent.” She’d been following him around since yesterday morning, telling him she’d make him forget.
Anny raised her brows. “I see.”
“She’s a nice girl. A bit intense. Immature.” And way too determined. “I don’t want to tell her to get lost. I’d like to work with her mother again…”
“It was truly a diplomatic maneuver.”
He nodded. “But I’m sorry if I messed something up for you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She held out a hand in farewell, and he took it, held it. Her fingers were soft and smooth and warm. He ran his thumb over them.
“I kissed you before,” he reminded her.
“Ah, but you didn’t know me then.”
“Still—” It surprised him how much he wanted to do it again.
But before he could make his move, she jerked, surprised, and stuck her hand into the pocket of her jacket.
“My phone,” she said apologetically, taking it out and glancing at the ID. “I wouldn’t answer it. It’s rude. I’m so sorry. It’s—” She waved a hand toward the hotel from which they’d come. “I need to get this.”
Because it was obviously from the man she’d been waiting for. His mouth twisted, but he shrugged equably. “Of course. No problem. It’s been—”
He stopped because he couldn’t find the right word. What had it been? A pleasure? Yes, it had been. And real. It had been “real.” For the first time in three years he’d felt, for a few brief moments, as if he had solid ground under his feet. He squeezed her hand, then leaned in and kissed her firmly on the mouth. “Thank you, Anny Chamion.”
Her eyes widened
