Bought: The Greek's Innocent Virgin. Sarah Morgan

like a beacon. And if she didn’t eat something soon she was going to pass out.

      Didn’t anyone eat at these functions?

      Wasn’t anyone else starving hungry?

      No wonder they were thin.

      Wishing she’d never decided to test herself in this way, Chantal attempted to stroll casually across the room. Confidence is everything, she reminded herself. Chin high, eyes up. Red is fine. They’re only people. Don’t let them intimidate you. They know nothing about you. From the outside you more or less look like them, and they can’t see who you are on the inside.

      To distract herself, she played her usual game of make-believe. The game she’d invented as a means to survive in the lawless, ruthless environment she’d inhabited as a child. Her life had followed a pattern. A new playground, a new set of lies. A new layer of protection.

      Who was she going to be this evening?

      An heiress, maybe? Or possibly an actress?

      A model?

      No. Not a model. She would never be able to convince anyone that she was a model. She wasn’t tall enough or thin enough.

      She paused, still pondering her options. Nothing too complicated. Not that she was worried about being found out, because she would never see any of these people again.

      Just for tonight, she could be anyone she wanted to be.

      A penniless Italian contessa with lots of breeding and no money?

      No. This was a charity ball. It wouldn’t do to admit to having no money.

      An heiress would be best.

      An heiress wishing to remain incognito to avoid fortune hunters.

      Yes. That was a good one.

      Her excuse for not spending the money she didn’t have would be that she didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

      The ballroom was amazing, with its high ceilings and glittering chandeliers. She had to remind herself not to stare at the paintings or the statues, and to adopt an expression of casual indifference—as though this was her world and such an exhibition of art and culture surrounded her on a daily basis.

      As if—

      ‘Champagne?’ The question came from behind her and she turned swiftly, her eyes widening as she was confronted by a man so devilishly good-looking that every woman in the room was watching him longingly.

      Her limbs weakened.

      Arrogant, was the first word that came to mind.

      Devastating, was the second.

      His eyes glittered dark and he studied her with a disturbing degree of interest as he handed her a glass.

      What was it about dinner jackets, she mused, that turned men into gods? Not that this man needed the assistance of well cut clothes to look good. He would have looked good in anything—or nothing. He was also the sort of man who wouldn’t have looked twice at her in normal circumstances.

      Chantal felt a sudden explosion of awareness engulf her body, and a deadly sexual warmth spread across her pelvis and down her limbs. He hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t even shaken her hand. And yet—

      Dangerous was the word that finally caused her to take a defensive step backwards.

      ‘I thought I knew everyone on the invitation list, but obviously I was wrong.’ He spoke with the easy confidence that was the natural inheritance of the rich and powerful, his voice smooth and seductive, one dark eyebrow raised in anticipation of an introduction.

      Still struggling to understand the reaction of her body, Chantal ignored the question in his eyes. She wasn’t about to introduce herself—not least because she wasn’t on the invitation list. Nor was she ever likely to be on the invitation list for an event like this.

      She studied him for a moment, taking in the lean perfection of his bone structure and the lazy amusement in his eyes. He was looking at her in the way a man looked at a woman he was interested in taking to bed, and for a moment Chantal forgot to breathe.

      Definitely dangerous.

      The chemistry between them was so intense and so inexplicable that she felt flustered and hot.

      Common sense told her that this was the time to make an elegant excuse and move on. She couldn’t afford to indulge in a flirtation with anyone, because to draw that much attention to herself was to risk being exposed. ‘Obviously you’re a man who likes to be in control of his environment.’

      ‘Am I?’

      ‘If you’re expecting to know everyone on the invitation list, then yes. That suggests a need to be in control, don’t you think?’

      ‘Or perhaps I’m just selective about who I spend time with.’

      ‘Which means that you prefer the predictable to the possible. Knowing everyone surely limits the opportunity for surprises?’

      His dark eyes gleamed with appreciation. ‘I’m not easy to surprise. In my experience, the possible almost always turns out to be the probable. People are boringly predictable.’ His mouth was a sensuous curve and she knew—she just knew—that this man would know everything there was to know about kissing a woman.

      For a moment the mental image of his handsome dark head bending towards hers was so vivid that she couldn’t formulate a reply, and his eyes drifted to her mouth, as if he were enjoying a similar fantasy.

      ‘What? No argument? No desire to prove me wrong?’ His gaze slid to the curved neckline of her dress and rested for a moment on her narrow waist. ‘Tell me something about yourself that’s likely to surprise me.’

      Just about anything about her would have surprised him.

      Her background.

      Her true identity.

      The fact that she wasn’t supposed to be here.

      ‘I’m starving,’ she said truthfully, and he laughed with genuine amusement.

      The sound turned heads in their direction, but he didn’t seem to care. ‘That’s you at your most surprising?’

      She glanced around her, her eyes resting on the impossibly slender frame of the nearest woman. ‘It’s pretty surprising to admit to liking food in this sort of company. I don’t see a single woman here who is likely to be battling an addiction to chocolate truffles.’

      ‘You don’t see a single real woman. If you’re hungry, then you must eat.’ He lifted a hand and attracted the attention of a waiter with the natural confidence of someone used to being in control. She watched enviously, wishing she possessed even a fraction of his poise.

      ‘I assumed the canapés were just for show.’

      ‘You think their purpose is to test the self control of the guests?’

      ‘If so, then I’m about to fail that test.’ Smiling at the waiter, Chantal handed him her empty glass and piled several morsels on her napkin, resisting the temptation to snatch the entire trayful and put them in her handbag for later. ‘Thank you. These look delicious.’ The waiter bowed and moved away.

      ‘So why are you hungry?’ The man’s eyes lingered on her hair. ‘You haven’t eaten all day because you were at the hairdresser’s?’

      She hadn’t eaten all day because she’d worked a double shift serving food to other people. And because there was no point in wasting money on food when you knew a free meal was coming.

      ‘Something like that.’ Sliding a morsel of warm pastry into her mouth, Chantal struggled not to moan with delight as the texture and flavour exploded on her palate. ‘These are delicious. Aren’t you going to try one?’

      His eyes were on her lips, and that simple connection was enough to stoke the flames