he supposed, that he hadn’t entirely lost his touch.
The phone vibrated in her hand long and hard before she had the presence of mind to answer it in rapid French.
Demetrios didn’t wait. He gave her a quick salute, pulled dark glasses out of his pocket, stuck them on his face, then turned and headed down the street. He had gone less than a block when he heard the sound of quick footsteps running after him.
Oh, hell. Was there no getting away from Rhiannon Tremayne?
He badly wanted Mona for a part in his next picture. To get her, he couldn’t alienate her high-strung, high-maintenance, highly spoiled daughter. But he was tired, he was edgy and, having the sweet taste of Anny Chamion on his lips, he didn’t relish being thrown to the jackals again. He spun around to tell her so—in the politest possible terms.
“I seem to have the evening free.” It was Anny smiling, that dimple creasing her cheek again as she fell into step beside him. “So I wondered, is that dinner invitation still open?”
CHAPTER TWO
PRINCESSES DIDN’T INVITE themselves out to dinner!
They didn’t say no one minute and run after a man to say yes the next. But she’d been given a reprieve, hadn’t she? The phone call had been from Gerard, who was going straight to Paris to get a good night’s sleep before his flight to Montreal.
“I’ll see you on my way back,” he’d said. “Next week. We need to talk.”
Anny had never understood what people thought they were doing on the phone if not talking, but she said politely, “Of course. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”
She hung up almost before Gerard could say goodbye, because if she didn’t start running now, she might lose sight of Demetrios when he reached the corner. She’d never run after a man in her life. And she knew perfectly well she shouldn’t be chasing one now.
But how often did Demetrios Savas invite her out to dinner—at the very moment her prince decided not to show up?
If that didn’t confirm the universe’s benevolence, what did?
Besides, it was only dinner, after all. A meal. An hour or two.
But with Demetrios Savas. The fulfillment of a youthful dream. How many women got invited to dinner by the man whose poster they’d had on the wall at age eighteen?
As a tribute to that idealistic dreamy girl, Anny couldn’t not do it.
He spun around as she reached him, his jaw tight, his eyes hard. It was that same fierce look that had made his name a household word when he’d played rough-edged bad-ass spy Luke St. Angier on American television seven or eight years ago.
Anny stopped dead.
Then at the sight of her, the muscles in his jaw eased. And she was, quite suddenly, rewarded by the very grin that had had thousands—no, millions—of girls and women and little old ladies falling at his feet.
“Anny.” Her name on his lips sent her heart to hammering. “Change your mind?” he asked with just the right hopeful note.
“If you don’t mind.” She wasn’t sure if her breathlessness was due to the man in front of her who was, admittedly, pretty breathtaking, or to her own sudden out-of-character seizing of the moment.
“Mind?” Demetrios’s memorable grin broadened. “As if. So?” He cocked his head. “Yes?”
“I don’t want to presume,” she said as demurely as possible.
“Go ahead and presume.” He grinned as he glanced around the busy street scene. Then his grin faded as he realized how many people were beginning to notice him. One of a gaggle of teenage girls pointed in their direction. Another gave a tiny high-pitched scream, and instantly they cut across the street to head his way.
For an instant he looked like a fox with the hounds baying as they closed in. But only for a moment.
Then he said, “Hang on, will you? I’m sorry but—”
“I understand,” Anny replied quickly. No one understood better the demands of the public than someone raised to be a princess. Duty to her public had been instilled in her from the time she was born.
That hadn’t been the case for Demetrios, of course. He’d become famous in his early twenties, and as far as she knew he’d had no preparation at all for how to deal with it. Still, he’d always handled fame well. Even in the tragic circumstances of his wife’s death, he’d been composed and polite. And while he might have gone to ground afterward, as far as Anny was concerned, he’d had every right.
He’d come back when he was ready, obviously. And while he clearly hadn’t sought this swarm of fans, he welcomed them easily, smiling at them as they surged across the street toward him
Confident of their welcome, they chattered and giggled as they crowded around. And Demetrios let them envelop him, jostle him as he laughed and talked with them in Italian, for that was what they spoke.
It wasn’t good Italian. Anny knew that because she spoke it perfectly. But he made the effort, stumbled over his words and kept on trying. If the girls hadn’t already been enchanted, they would be now.
And watching him, listening to him, Anny was more than a bit enchanted herself.
Of course he’d been gorgeous as a young man. But she found him even more appealing now. His youthful handsome face had matured. His cheekbones were sharper, his jaw harder and stronger. The rough stubble gave him a more mature version of the roguish look he’d only begun to develop in the years he’d played action hero Luke St. Angier. Hard at work on her university courses, Anny had rarely taken the time to watch anything on television. But she had always watched him.
Demetrios Savas had been her indulgence.
Looking at him now, admiring his good looks, mesmerizing eyes, and easy grin, as well as that enticing groove in his cheek that appeared whenever the grin did, it wasn’t hard to remember why.
But it wasn’t only his stunning good looks that appealed. It was the way he interacted with his ever-so-eager fans.
He might have run from the sharklike pursuit of some intense desperate starlet, but he was kind to these girls who wanted nothing more than a smile and a few moments of conversation with their Hollywood hero.
Actually “kind” didn’t begin to cover it. He actually seemed “interested,” and he focused on each one—not just the cute, flirty ones. He talked to them all, listened to them all. Laughed with them. Made them feel special.
That impressed her. She wondered where he’d learned it or if it came naturally. Whichever, it didn’t seem to bother him. Somehow he’d learned the very useful skill of turning the tables and making the meeting all about them, not him. For once she got to simply lean against the outside wall of one of the shops and enjoy the moment.
It was odd, really. She’d barely thought of him in years. Responsibilities had weighed, duties had demanded. She’d fulfilled them all. And she’d let her girlish fantasies fall by the wayside.
Now
