Greek Bachelors: Buying His Bride. Julia James

either.’

      Seeing that his father was about to launch into another lecture in favour of the curvaceous woman, Angelos decided that the conversation had gone on long enough. ‘You don’t need to worry about me. I’m seeing a woman.’ It wasn’t the relationship that his father was hoping for, but he didn’t need to know that.

      His father scowled at him suspiciously. ‘Is she a proper shape?’

      ‘She is a perfect shape,’ Angelos drawled, thinking of the A list Hollywood actress who had spent two extremely exciting nights in his bed the week before. Would he be seeing her again? Possibly. She had the legs and the hair and she was definitely an athlete in the bedroom. Was he interested in marrying her? Absolutely not. They would bore each other to death within a month, let alone a lifetime.

      But hope was already lighting his father’s eyes. ‘And when will I meet her? You never introduce me to your girlfriends.’

      With good reason. Introducing a woman to his father would deliver the exact message he was so careful never to send. ‘When a woman is important to me, you will meet her,’ Angelos said smoothly. ‘And now I want to introduce you to Nicole. She’s my Director of Public Affairs here in Paris, and she definitely loves food. I know you’ll have plenty to say to one another.’ He guided his father towards the reliable Nicole, made the necessary introductions, and then turned back to the ballroom to continue networking.

      And stopped dead, his attention caught by the woman directly in front of him.

      She walked as though she owned the place, with a gentle swing of her hips and a faint smile on her glossy mouth, as if something or someone had amused her. Her blonde hair was piled on her head and her vivid red dress provided a dazzling splash of colour amidst the predictable boring black. She looked like an exotic rainforest bird let loose among a flock of crows.

      Instantly forgetting the Hollywood actress, Angelos watched her for a moment and then gave a slow, satisfied smile of his own. His father would be pleased on two counts, he thought, as he moved purposefully towards the unknown woman. Firstly because he was about to stop thinking about business and turn his attentions to the pursuit of pleasure, and secondly because the source of that pleasure definitely, very definitely, had curves.

      Not that he required her to perform the various domestic functions that his father had listed. Despite his father’s obvious concerns for him, he wasn’t interested in a woman’s capacity to cook, clean or raise his children. At this point in his life all he expected from a woman was entertainment, and she looked as though she’d been designed for exactly that purpose.

      Smile, walk, smile, don’t panic—

      It was like being back in the school playground, with the bullies circling like gladiators while the malevolent crowd of girls pressed in, watching with sadistic fascination. Waiting for the kill.

      The memory was so disturbingly vivid that feelings of terror and humiliation stirred to life, catching her unawares. No matter how many years passed, her past was always there, lurking inside her like dark, filthy slime.

      She struggled to throw off all her old insecurities.

      It was ridiculous to think of that here, now, when that part of her life had ended long ago.

      This wasn’t the playground, and she’d moved beyond that. The bullies might still be out there, but they couldn’t see her any more. Her disguise was perfect.

      Or was it?

      She shouldn’t have worn red. Red made her stand out 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