Innocent Surrender: The Virgin's Proposition / The Virgin and His Majesty / Untouched Until Marriage. Robyn Donald

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      A man took her hand.

      Anny didn’t see him at all. He was nothing but a blur. Her heart pounded. She smiled perfunctorily, murmured politely, “Mr. Mikkelsen, a pleasure.”

      “And Daniel Guzman Alonso, the producer,” Gerard said, introducing the next man.

      Another blur. Another hand shook hers. Now her ears were ringing as well. Her voice worked, though, thank God. “Mr. Guzman Alonso, I’m delighted to meet you.” Years of social deportment practice had something to recommend it, after all.

      “And of course you must recognize Demetrios Savas,” Gerard was saying jovially, “whose latest film Rollo has just agreed to distribute.”

      Demetrios was not a blur at all. Sharp and clear, tall and imposing. And, judging from the hard jade glare in those amazing eyes, somewhere between stunned and furious. His gaze raked her accusingly.

      Anny could barely breathe. Nor could she stop her own eyes from fastening on him, hungrily, devouring him. Wanting him again so badly that how she could ever have thought one night would be enough, she hadn’t a clue.

      “Mr. Savas.” She held out her hand to him, polite, proper, sounding—she hoped—perfectly composed.

      Demetrios crushed it in his. “Your Highness,” he said through his teeth. “Imagine meeting you here.”

      A princess?

      Anny Chamion was a princess?

      She was the “delightful fiancée Princess Adriana” that Gerard had mentioned over dinner?

      His fiancée would be joining them later, the crown prince of Val de Comesque had said. She was busy with her day job—unspecified—and since he hadn’t given her any warning, he’d only asked her to come to the party, not appear for dinner.

      “Even we royals have to work hard these days,” he’d joked. “You will meet her tonight.”

      Now here she was, with Gerard’s arm around her, looking serene and elegant and every bit as royal as the man she was marrying.

      Which made Gerard her “elderly widower”?

      Demetrios’s teeth came together with a snap. Maybe she hadn’t used the term “elderly,” but that was what he’d thought.

      The slim fingers he was crushing between his were trying unsuccessfully to ease out of his grasp. For a moment he didn’t even realize he was still gripping them.

      Then, still staring into Anny’s—no, Princess Adriana’s—wide eyes, he dropped them abruptly, took a step back and shoved his hands into his pockets.

      It was probably some sort of social solecism, to have his hands in his pockets in front of a princess, but short of strangling her, he could think of nothing else to do with them.

      Besides, as far as social gaffes went, it was no doubt a bigger one to have slept with her!

      He shot her a glare. He doubted she noticed. She wasn’t looking at him. She was smiling at Rollo Mikkelsen, answering a question he’d asked her, her voice low and melodious, steady and completely at ease—just as if she were not standing between the man she was going to marry and the man she’d taken to her bed!

      And he’d thought Lissa was a lying cheat!

      Abruptly he said, “Excuse me. I see someone I need to speak to.” And he turned and walked out of the room as fast as he could.

      It was no bigger lie than hers. And almost at once he did see someone he knew. Mona Tremayne was standing on deck by herself, looking at the sunset, and even if it meant listening to her extol the virtues of her darling starlet daughter Rhiannon, he was determined to do it.

      It was better than standing there listening to the lying Princess Adriana charm all and sundry while her fiancé looked on!

      Mona was delighted to see him. She kissed him on both cheeks, then patted his arm. “It’s lovely to see you, dear boy. I’m glad you’re back among the living.”

      Demetrios took a careful breath and tried to focus solely on her. “It wasn’t that bad,” he told her. He liked Mona, always had. She called a spade a spade, and she couldn’t help it if her daughter was a ditz.

      “Maybe not for you. But we can’t afford to let talent go to waste,” she said with a throaty laugh caused by too many years of cigarettes. “You do good work. You’ve been missed.”

      “Thanks.” His heart was still pounding, but he refused to look back toward the salon. He didn’t gave a damn where the princess was. He slanted Mona a grin. “Does that mean I can toss an idea at you?”

      “You want to marry my daughter?” Another wonderful husky Mona Tremayne laugh.

      Demetrios managed a laugh of his own as he shook his head. “I’m through with marriage, Mona.” Truer words had never been spoken.

      “I’m not surprised,” Mona said briskly, her eyes telling him that she knew more than he had said. Then she smiled and added, “Well, if you ever change your mind, you’ve got a fan in my household. More than one.”

      Demetrios smiled, too. “Thanks.”

      She leaned against the railing and stared out across the water before slanting him a sideways glance. “So toss me the idea,” she suggested. “I’m listening.”

      It was the sort of chance he’d been waiting for all week. Mona at his disposal, her daughter nowhere to be found. And he did have an idea for her. He tried to pitch it.

      He’d have done better if, a few minutes later, he hadn’t been instantly distracted by the sound of Anny’s voice nearby and the knowledge that she and Gerard had come out onto the deck.

      He lost his train of thought as he glanced over his shoulder to see where she was. His fingers strangled the railing because he still wanted to grab her and shake her and demand to know why the hell she hadn’t bothered to tell him who she really was. Not to mention what she thought she’d been doing inviting him into her bed!

      He was still steaming. Still furious.

      And not paying any attention at all to whatever Mona was saying in reply to his movie pitch.

      “—think I’ll jump overboard,” Mona ended conversationally and looked at him brightly.

      In the silence Demetrios recollected himself and tried to get a grip. “Huh?”

      “Oh, my dear.” Mona patted his cheek. “We should talk another time—when you can focus.”

      “I’m focusing,” he insisted.

      But only, it seemed, on Anny. He couldn’t seem to make sense of anything beyond her soft voice somewhere behind him, followed by the melodious sound of her laughter. Then he heard Gerard, too, chiming in, speaking rapidly in French to whoever they were talking to, and then Anny switched to French as well. Their conversation went too quickly for him to have any idea what they were saying.

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