The Virgin's Proposition

by Anne McAllister

  He wanted to simply dive in, to lose himself in her heat and her softness. But he knew better, knew that as much as he wanted this, really it was for her. And so he forced himself to slow down, to draw a line from her navel south, dipping his fingers between her thighs, watching as her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat.

  She was damp, ready. Her body moved restlessly as his fingers probed her. She bit her lip and her fingers knotted in the bed clothes. Her breaths were quick and shallow. His were, too. He was dying with need, but still he waited, touched. Stroked.

  And then suddenly Anny ground her teeth and reached for him. “Yes! Now. I need—” The words caught in her throat. She tossed her head.

  “What do you need?” Demetrios could barely get his own words past his lips. His voice was as strained an desperate as his body felt.

  “Need…you!”

  No more than he needed her. He’d reached the end of his endurance, and now he drove into her, felt her stiffen, heard her gasp.

  His whole body froze. She couldn’t be! Surely she wasn’t a virgin! For God’s sake! Why on earth would she have thrown her virginity away on one night with him?

  It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t think. He could only feel. And want. Still. Then she shifted her body, accommodated him, settled against the mattress and dug her heels into his buttocks, driving him deeper.

  He groaned. He had to be wrong. Of course he was wrong. But he tried to move slowly, carefully, to control his desperation.

  But Anny’s fingers gripped his shoulders. “It’s all right,” Anny said fiercely through her teeth. “It’s all right,” she said again when he still didn’t move.

  “You’re sure? You’re not—I thought you were—” But then she moved beneath him, her body seducing him, driving him insane, shattering the last of his control.

  His world splintered as he buried himself inside her. He knew he had left her behind. He had failed.

  “Oh!” There was a sudden delighted breathlessness in her voice that made Demetrios lift his head to stare at her.

  “Oh?” he echoed warily.

  Her face seemed to light up. “It was…wonderful.” She was smiling at him. Even in the dim glow of the streetlamp beyond the window he could see her beaming. He didn’t understand it at all.

  “It wasn’t wonderful,” he told her abruptly.

  Her smile vanished. “I’m sorry. I thought you…”

  “I did. Obviously. And it was amazing for me,” he assured her. “Absolutely.” Mind-blowing in fact. “But that doesn’t excuse my lack of control.”

  She smiled and touched a hand to his arm. “I…liked your…lack of control.”

  He stared at her. She liked it? He gave a quick disbelieving shake of his head. “I don’t see why,” he muttered.

  “Because…because…” But she couldn’t explain it. It was simply enough to know that he’d wanted her, had lost himself in her. “You made me happy,” she told him.

  “Yeah?” He still couldn’t quite fathom that. “I’ll make you happier,” he vowed.

  And he set about doing just that.

  If their first lovemaking had been short and, for him, desperate, this time Demetrios had considerably more finesse. More control. He kissed her thoroughly, taking his time, enjoying the soft sounds she made as he roused her desire. He let her slip the condom on him this time, and tried not to shudder with the desire her soft hands provoked.

  She was perfect, fresh, beautiful, and responsive. And Demetrios was determined to give her the memories she’d asked him for.

  As he made love to her he thought about the young woman she must have been then, and found himself wishing that he’d known her. At the same time he didn’t imagine she’d changed much. There was an innocent sweetness about her even now. He didn’t let himself think about the future she had predicted for herself. That was her choice—her life—not anything to do with him.

  What he could do for her was what she’d asked—give her a night to remember.

  He loved her completely, thoroughly, made her need his touch so that finally she clutched at his hips and drew him in.

  “Yes.” The word hissed through her teeth as she shattered around him. And as he brought her to climax, he understood her satisfaction at his own earlier loss of control.

  It meant as much—even more—to give pleasure as to receive it, he thought even as his own climax overtook him and he buried himself in her body and felt himself wrapped in her arms.

  Making love with Demetrios was everything Anny had ever dreamed of. More. It was as perfect as Cinderella’s night at the ball.

  She wanted to cry and at the same time she’d never felt happier—or more bereft—in her life because it was so wonderful and she knew it couldn’t last.

  Had always known, she reminded herself. Had gone into it with her eyes wide open. It was what she’d wanted, after all.

  Memories.

  Well, now she had them. In spades. She would remember this night always. Would savor it a thousand times. A million. All her life and the eternity that stretched beyond it. She would never forget.

  Even now as she lay beneath Demetrios’s sweat-slicked body and ran her still trembling hands down his smooth hard back, she focused on every single sensation, storing up the sound of his breathing, the weight of his body pressing on hers. She memorized the feel of his hair-roughened calves beneath her toes, the scent of the sea that seemed inexplicably so much a part of him, the scrape of his jaw against her cheek.

  She catalogued them all, wishing she could create some tangible reminders to take out whenever she wanted to relive these moments. She was in no hurry at all to have him roll off her, create a space between them, smile down at her and say he had to go.

  And when at last his breathing slowed and he rolled off, she felt an instant sense of loss. She wanted to clutch him back, to cling, to beg for more.

  She didn’t. He had given her what she asked for. He had given her the most memorable night of her life. Anny told herself not to be greedy, but to be grateful. And content.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  He seemed surprised. He raised up on one elbow and regarded her from beneath hooded lids. His mouth quirked at one corner. “I think I’m the one who should be saying thank you.” For all that he smiled, his words were grave.

  Still, they made her happy. She was glad he’d enjoyed their lovemaking. She didn’t expect he would hang on to the memories forever as she would, but she hoped he might have occasional fleeting fond thoughts of this night—of her.

  “You gave me wonderful memories,” she assured him.

  He opened his mouth, as if he might say something. But then he closed it again and simply nodded. “Good.”

  He didn’t move. Neither did she. They stared at each other. Under Demetrios’s gaze, for the first time Anny felt self-conscious. None of the royal protocol she’d ever learned—not even her year in the Swiss finishing school—had prepared her for the proper way to end this encounter.

  Perhaps because it hadn’t been proper in the least.

  But she didn’t regret it. She would never regret it.

  “I should go,” Demetrios said.

  She didn’t hang on to him. She stayed where she was in the bed, but she watched his every move as he dressed. This night was all she was going to have—she didn’t want to so much as blink.

  He didn’t look at her or speak until he had finished dressing and was slipping on his shoes. Then his gaze lifted and his eyes met hers.

  “You…should maybe rethink this marriage you’re planning, ” he said.

  She didn’t answer. Didn’t want to spoil the present by thinking about the future. Silently she got out of bed and wrapped herself in the dressing gown she’d left hanging over the chair. Then she crossed the room to him and took his hands in hers.

  “Thank you,” she said again, refusing to even acknowledge his comment. He opened his mouth as if he would say something else, then shut
it firmly and shook his head. His gaze was steely as he met hers.

  “It’s your life,” he said at last.

  Anny nodded, made herself smile. “Yes.”

  She didn’t say anything else. She needed him to go while she still had the composure she’d promised herself she would hang on to. It was only one night, she told herself.

  It wasn’t, she assured herself, as if she was in love with him.

  That would teach him, Demetrios thought when he got back to his hotel. He flung himself over onto his back and stared at the hotel room ceiling. Though what he’d learned this evening he wasn’t exactly sure.

  Probably that women were the most confusing difficult contrary people on earth.

  He should have known that already, having been married to Lissa. But Anny had seemed totally different. Sane, for one thing.

  And yet all the while they’d been sitting there and he’d been thinking she was simply enjoying dinner and his company and having a good time she’d been thinking about inviting him into her bed.

  It boggled the mind.

  Still, when she explained, he’d understood. God knew sometimes over the past three years he’d yearned for the days when he’d believed all things were possible.

  He didn’t believe it anymore, of course. He wasn’t looking for a relationship again. He’d done that with Lissa. He’d been the poster boy for idealism in those days—and look where it had got him.

  No more. Never again.

  From here on out he wanted nothing more than casual encounters. No hopes. No dreams. No promises of happily ever after.

  Exactly what he’d had tonight with Anny.

  Who was getting married, for God’s sake! Talk about mind-boggling. But he supposed she was more of a realist than he had been. Though why the hell a beautiful, intelligent young woman was marrying some elderly widower was beyond him.

  And why was the elderly widower marrying her?

  Stupid question. Why wouldn’t any man—who still believed in marriage—want to marry a bright fresh beautiful woman like Anny?

  But if he had been the marrying kind and engaged to her, Demetrios knew damned well he wouldn’t leave her feeling lukewarm and desperate enough to invite another man into her bed!

  He was sure she didn’t do that very often. Or ever.

  For a minute there, when he’d entered her, he’d thought she was a virgin. But that didn’t make sense.

  He wished he knew what was going on.

  Was her family destitute? Did they owe money to this man? Was Anny being bartered for their debts?

  It certainly didn’t look as if they had money worries from the apartment she was living in. Of course she’d told him at dinner that she was staying in the flat of her late mother’s best friend, Anny’s own godmother, a woman she called Tante Isabelle. While Isabelle was in Hong Kong doing something for a bank, she’d lent Anny her apartment for the year.

  So why wasn’t Tante Isabelle, who obviously cared enough for Anny to provide her a place to live, objecting to her goddaughter’s loveless marriage?

  Did she even know it was a loveless marriage?

  Where was Anny’s father? He was still living, Demetrios knew that. Anny had mentioned him in the present tense. He was married again. She’d mentioned a stepmother and three little stepbrothers.

  Was she doing it for them?

  Whatever the “good reasons” were, she didn’t seem to be doing it for herself. So who was she doing it for? And why?

  Stop it! he commanded himself roughly. It wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t his problem.

  He’d done his part. He’d taken her to bed. He’d made love with her and had, presumably, reminded her of the idealistic girl she’d been. He’d given her the memories she wanted.

  He had a few himself. Not that he intended to bring them out and remember them. And yet, when he attempted to shut them away, they wouldn’t go. He could still see her in his mind’s eye—bright-eyed and laughing, gentle and serene, eager and responsive.

  They were far better memories than those he had of Lissa.

  They should have relaxed him, settled him. His body was sated. It was his mind that wouldn’t stop replaying the evening.

  He tossed and turned until eventually the bed couldn’t confine his restlessness. He got up to prowl the room, to open the floor-to-ceiling window that opened overlooking La Croisette and the sea.

  To the west he could see the shape of the Palais du Festival beyond the boulevard. Past that was the harbor where Theo was on his sailboat. Beyond that the hill and buildings of Le Soquet rose against the still dark sky.

  Anny was there.

  He could be, too, he thought. He was sure she would have let him stay the night.

  But he didn’t want to stay the night, he reminded himself. He wanted brief encounters. No involvement. He shoved away from the window and shut it firmly.

  He wasn’t going to care about any woman ever again. Not even sunny, smiling Anny Chamion with her upcoming loveless marriage, her hidden dreams and her memories of the lovemaking they’d shared.

  It was going on five. He had a breakfast meeting at eight with Rollo Mikkelsen, who was in charge of distribution for Starlight Studios. He needed to be sharp. He needed to have his wits about him. He didn’t need to be thinking about Anny Chamion.

  He yanked on a pair of running shorts and tugged a T-shirt over his head. Maybe running a few miles could do what nothing else had done.

  He pocketed his room key and went downstairs into the cool Cannes morning. He crossed La Croisette and bounced on his toes a few times, then he set out at a light jog. The pavement was nearly deserted still. In a couple of hours it would start to get busy. The day would begin.

  He would meet with Rollo. There would be more meetings after that. Lunch with a producer he hoped to work with down the road. And late this afternoon the screening.

  Afterward he’d go see Franck. He was tempted to see if Franck wanted to come to the screening, but it wasn’t an action hero story. It was a dark piece—the only sort of thing he had been capable of writing in the aftermath of his marriage and circumstances of Lissa’s death. It was a cautionary tale.

  Not exactly fodder for a teenager who still had his life ahead of him. No. Better that he go see Franck after.

  Would Anny be there?

  It didn’t matter if she was.

  Demetrios picked up his pace, refusing to let himself think about that. He didn’t care. They’d had one evening. One night of loving. One night in which they’d each recaptured a part of the young idealistic people they’d once been.

  They’d given that to each other. But now it was over.

  Time to move on.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ANNY DIDN’T SEE Demetrios again.

  She didn’t really expect she would.

  But as she went about her business, as she walked to the clinic, did her grocery shopping, worked on her dissertation, and actually went to a screening or two at the Palais du Festival over the next ten days, she couldn’t help keeping an eye out to see if she could spot the tall dark-haired man who had so startlingly swept into her life.

  He had gone back to the clinic. She knew that because Franck had been full of the information. And he hadn’t only come the next day as he’d promised, but also several times over the past week and a half.

  Yesterday, Franck had told her gleefully this afternoon, he had commandeered a wheelchair and taken Franck down to the dock.

  “A wheelchair? You went to the dock?” Anny, who had never been able to get Franck to go anywhere because he was too self-conscious, could barely believe her ears. “Whatever for?”

  “We went sailing.”

  Then she really did gape.

  Franck nodded eagerly. “We went in his brother’s sailboat.”

  He recounted his amazing day, his eyes shining as he told her how Demetrios and his brother Theo—“a racing sailor,” Franck reported—had simply lifted him out of the wheelchair and int
o the boat, then set out for a sail around the Îles de Lérins.

  Anny was still stuck imagining Franck allowing himself to be lifted, but apparently, as far as Franck was concerned, Demetrios and his brother could do anything. “Didn’t he tell you?” Franck demanded.

  Anny shook her head. “I haven’t seen him.”

  He looked surprised. “You should have come in the mornings. He always came then.”

  Of course he did. Because he knew when she went to see Franck. She’d told him. If Demetrios had wanted to see her, he could have. He knew where she lived.

  He hadn’t. And she hadn’t sought him out, either.

  She’d had her night. She’d relived it ever since.

  Of course she couldn’t deny having wished it had lasted longer—even wishing it had had a future. But she knew it didn’t.

  So it was better that she not encounter him again. So even though she had kept an eye out for him over the following week and a half, she’d carefully avoided attending any parties to which he might have gone.

  Of course, she knew he’d come to Cannes to work, not to party. But she also knew that sometimes going to parties was part of the work. Some years it had even been part of her own. Fortunately her father had decided not to host one this year.

  And now the festival was over. Demetrios, she was sure, was already gone. He’d got what he came for. News stories early this week had reported that he’d landed a big distributor for the film he’d brought to Cannes. And yesterday she’d read that he’d found backing for his next project.

  She was happy for him. She almost wished she had seen him again to tell him so. But what good would that have done, really?

  It would only have been embarrassing. He might even have believed she was stalking him.

  No. She’d already had her own personal fairy tale with Demetrios Savas. One night of lovemaking.

  That was enough.

  But when Gerard had called her that afternoon and announced, “We will be hosting a party on the royal yacht this evening,” she wasn’t quite as sanguine as she’d hoped.

  She’d told herself that she would go to her fate gracefully and willingly. He was a good man. A kind man.