Bought: The Greek's Innocent Virgin. Sarah Morgan

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Was it her?

      Had he finally found her, or was it wishful thinking on his part?

      She looked different. Wondering if he’d made a mistake, Angelos narrowed his eyes and imagined this woman with her hair piled on top of her head and her arms and shoulders revealed by the clever cut of her couture dress.

      And then her eyes met his, and all doubt faded. Even from this distance he caught a flash of sapphire-blue—the same unusual colour that had caught his attention that fateful night at the ball.

      Her eyes were unforgettable.

      Finally he’d found her. And where else but shopping in one of the most expensive districts of Paris?

      It should have been the first place he’d instructed his security team to look, Angelos thought cynically, wondering which deluded fool had provided the money she was clearly about to spend.

      The fact that he’d been compelled to search for her at all made the anger explode inside him and he switched off the engine and sprang from the car, as indifferent to the ‘No Parking’ signs as he was to the gaping audience of admiring women who were now watching his movements with lustful interest.

      At that precise moment he wasn’t interested in any woman except the one who was staring at him, and he almost laughed as he saw the shock in her eyes.

      It didn’t surprise him that she was shocked to see him, given the way they’d parted company.

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