Bought: The Greek's Innocent Virgin

And to make matters worse there had been that incredibly sticky moment when his father had expressed his undiluted joy that his son was finally in a loving relationship.

Remembering the look of thunderous incredulity that had transformed Angelos’s features from handsome to intimidating, Chantal slid lower in her seat.

That had been the biggest mistake of all: voicing her dreams and fantasies to the elderly man who had helped her so much. But she’d adored him on sight, and he’d been so kind to her. So approachable and sympathetic. Almost a father figure, although she didn’t really know what one of those looked like. As far as she was concerned, the species was extinct.

Perhaps that was why she’d been so drawn to him.

Angelos’s father.

She gave a whimper of disbelief and regret. Of all the men in the room, why had she chosen him as a sounding board for her fantasies?

Telling herself firmly that it was in the past, and she needed to forget it, Chantal straightened her shoulders and tried to think positively about the future.

Obviously she couldn’t stay in Paris. She needed to travel to somewhere remote. A place where there was absolutely no chance of bumping into one very angry Greek male. The Amazon, maybe? Or the Himalayas? Even a man with a global business wasn’t likely to have an office in Nepal, was he?

She sat for a moment, trying to stir up some enthusiasm for her next step.

It was exciting to be able to travel anywhere and be anyone. She was lucky to be free to make the decisions she wanted to make. How many other people had absolutely no ties? Most people had jobs to restrict their movements, or families to think of. She had no such restrictions.

She had no family to answer to. No one who cared what she did. She could move continents tomorrow without having to ask anyone’s permission, and she could be anyone she wanted to be.

Chantal waited for the usual buzz of excitement that came from the prospect of reinventing herself yet again, but nothing happened. Instead of the thrill of adventure, her mood was totally flat.

She felt as though she’d lost something and she didn’t understand why she would feel that way.

What had she lost?

‘Chantal!’ The café owner’s voice cut through the embarrassing memories like a sharp knife. ‘I am not paying you to rest! We have customers. Get on your feet and serve them! This is your last warning.’

Chantal sprang to her feet, realising with another spurt of embarrassment that she’d sat down at the table she was supposed to be cleaning.

Her cheeks pink, she quickly gathered up the empty cup and two glasses and hurried into the kitchen.

‘More time working and less time dreaming, or I’ll be looking for a new waitress.’ The small, rotund little Frenchman gave an unpleasant smile, openly staring at the thrust of her breasts under her white blouse. ‘Unless you want to apply for a different role.’

Chantal lifted her eyes to his, his comment triggering a response so violent that it shocked her. It took her a moment to find her voice. ‘Look for a new waitress,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I resign.’ And, just to reinforce that decision, she removed the ridiculous little apron that she’d been forced to wear over the vestigial black skirt and white blouse.

The café owner thought that it attracted customers. And it did. But they were almost always the type of customer she would have chosen to avoid.

Vile self-loathing curled inside her and she thrust the apron into his hands, not even bothering to ask for the money he owed her.

She didn’t care about the money.

She just wanted to get away. The truth was that Chantal, waitress, had never really worked for her. Neither had Chantal, chambermaid, or Chantal, barmaid.

The darkness of her past pressed in on her and she hurried towards the door, desperately needing to be outside in the warm Paris sunshine.

The café owner was subjecting her to a tirade of fluent French, but Chantal ignored him and virtually ran out of the door.

She’d move on. Travel somewhere exotic where she knew no one.

Maybe Egypt would be exciting. She could see the pyramids and swim in the Red Sea—

Calming down slightly, she left the café without glancing back and started to walk along the wide boulevard that led towards the Eiffel Tower. The trees were in full leaf, and the fountains bubbled and gushed, the sound soothing and cooling in the warm air.

It was lunchtime, and tourists mingled with elegantly dressed Parisian mothers taking their toddlers for a stroll. A little blonde girl tripped and fell, and instantly her mother was by her side, gathering her into her arms for a hug.

Just for an instant Chantal watched, and then she put her head down and hurried on, ignoring the faint stab of envy that tore at her insides.

She was twenty-four; far too old to be envying a child her mother.

She quickened her pace, dodging a group of teenagers who were gliding in circles on rollerblades. They mocked each other and laughed, their effortless camaraderie making her feel even more wistful.

None of them looked displaced or insecure.

They all belonged.

Above her the Eiffel Tower rose high, but Chantal didn’t spare it a glance. In the two months she’d spent in Paris she hadn’t once joined the throngs who jostled with each other in long queues for a chance to reach the top. She’d avoided the standard tourist traps and opted instead to discover the hidden Paris.

But now it was time to move on.

Not thinking or caring about her destination, she just walked, determined to enjoy her last moments in a city she’d grown to love.

Eventually she reached the river Seine, and she paused for a moment on the embankment, watching the way the sun glinted on the water. Behind her cars roared past, weaving in and out of lanes in an alarmingly random fashion. Horns blared, and drivers shook their fists and yelled abuse at each other through open windows.

It was a typical day in Paris.

She crossed the river and made her way up to the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré with its designer shops. This area was the heart of Paris design and fashion; Chanel, Lanvin, Yves St Laurent, Versace—they were all here. She paused outside a window, her attention caught by a dress on display, her brain automatically memorising the cut and the line.

Why were people prepared to pay such an indecent sum of money for something so simple? she mused. A length of fabric and a reel of cotton thread could produce the same for a fraction of the amount.

The dress she’d made for the ball had been a huge success, and no one had seemed to recognise it as an old piece of discarded curtain lining.

The low growl of a powerful engine broke her concentration, and she glanced behind her as a shiny black Lamborghini jerked to a halt in the road.

Chantal felt her heart skitter, and slowly the world around her faded into the background. She was oblivious to the fact that several other women had turned to stare and equally oblivious to the cacophony of car horns as other drivers registered their protest.

She knew that car.

She’d seen it two weeks before—at the ball she hadn’t been invited to.

It belonged to the man that she hadn’t been supposed to dance with.

The son of the man she wished she’d never talked to.

His attention caught by the gleaming blonde hair and long, long legs of the woman staring into the shop window, Angelos Zouvelekis slammed his foot on the brake and brought the car to an abrupt halt.

Ignoring the sudden swivel of heads that followed his action, he stared hard at the woman.