LITMIR.BIZ

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just go below for a while,” she said. “If you need me again, shout.”

      Demetrios gave her a quick vague smile, but his mind still seemed far away. So she headed back down the companionway steps.

      She had put her suitcase and laptop backpack in the aft cabin, but she hadn’t unpacked them yet. Now she did, taking her time, settling in, discovering all the nooks and crannies that made living on board a boat so intriguing.

      It was a gorgeous boat. Nothing like as opulent and huge as either the royal yacht of her country or of Gerard’s, but it had a clean, compact elegance that made it appealing—and manageable. A good boat for a couple—or a young family like that of Demetrios’s brother, Theo.

      She felt a pang of envy not just for Theo’s boat, but for his family. Some of her fondest early childhood memories were the afternoons spent sailing on the alpine lakes of Mont Chamion with her parents.

      Now she found herself hoping that someday she and her own husband and children would do the same. Her mind, perversely but not unexpectedly, immediately cast Demetrios in the husband role. And there was wishful thinking for you, she thought.

      She tried to ignore it, but her imagination was vivid and determined and would not be denied. So finally, she let it play on while she put things away.

      Since she’d packed hastily in the middle of the night and had planned to escape Cannes by rail, she hadn’t brought any of the right clothes. She’d assumed she would be losing herself in a big city like Paris or Barcelona or Madrid. So most of the things she’d brought were casual but sophisticated and dressy—linen and silk trousers, shell tops, jackets and skirts. Not your average everyday sailing attire.

      The jeans and T-shirt she was wearing had been chosen so she could leave town looking like a student and not draw attention to herself. Unfortunately they were the only halfway suitable things she’d brought along, and in the heat of the Mediterranean summer she was nearly sweltering in them. She would need to go shopping soon.

      She just hoped no one would recognize her when she did.

      In the meantime she would cope. But somehow, for a woman who had spent her life learning what to do in every conceivable social situation, she had no very clear idea how to go on in this one.

      Madame Lavoisier, one of her Swiss finishing school instructors, tapping her toe impatiently and repeating what she always called “Madame’s rules of engagement.”

      “You are a guest,” Madame would say. “So you must be all that is charming and polite. You may be helpful, but not intrusive. You must know how to put yourself forward when it is time to entertain, but step back—fade into the woodwork, if you will—when your hosts have other obligations. And you must never presume.”

      Those were the basics, anyway. You applied them to whatever situation presented itself.

      And Anny could see the wisdom of it. But still it felt lacking now—because she didn’t want to be a guest. She wanted to belong.

      And how foolish was that?

      Demetrios had told her clearly and emphatically that he wasn’t interested in a relationship. He could not have made it plainer.

      If she let herself get involved with him now, it would not be some fairy-tale night with a silver-screen hero. Nor would it be the adolescent fantasy of an idealistic teenager. It wouldn’t have anything to do with duty and responsibility.

      It would be a lifetime commitment of love to a real live flesh-and-blood man—a man who didn’t want anything of the sort.

      “So just have a nice two-week holiday and get on with your life,” she told herself firmly.

      She vowed she would. All she had to do was convince her heart.

      About noon Anny brought him a sandwich and a beer.

      “I figured you’d be getting hungry.” She set the plate on the bench seat near where Demetrios stood, then went back down to return moments later with a sandwich of her own.

      “I’ve been through the provisions,” she told him. “Made a list of possible menus, and another of some things we should probably get when we go ashore.”

      He stared at her.

      She finished chewing a bite of sandwich, then noticed the way he was looking at her, and said, “What? Did I overstep my bounds?”

      He shook his head. “I’m just…surprised.”

      Anny didn’t see why. “Maybe it was presumptuous,” she went on after she’d swallowed, “but I’m a better cook than a sailor. And if I’m going to be here two weeks, I need to do my share. So I thought I’d do the meals.”

      “You cook?” That seemed to surprise him, too.

      She flashed him a grin. “Cordon Bleu,” she told him, causing his brows to hike clear into the fringe of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “All part of my royal education. But don’t expect that standard under these circumstances,” she warned him.

      He shook his head. “No fear. I’m happy with sandwiches. I wasn’t planning on cooking.”

      “I noticed,” she said drily. Besides bread, cheese and fruit, there was little in the pantry besides granola bars and protein bars and beer.

      “I wasn’t expecting company.” His tone was gruff. The wind was ruffling his hair, making him look dangerous and piratical and very very appealing.

      “I realize that. And I’m grateful. I—” she hesitated “—appreciate your offer to bring me along. Your insistence, actually,” she corrected. “It is a better alternative than wandering around Europe trying to stay a step ahead of Papa.”

      He nodded, then looked at her expectantly because the note on which she ended made it clear she had something else to say.

      Which she did. She just couldn’t seem to find the right way to say it. Finally she simply blurted it out. “But even so, I don’t think we should make love together again.”

      Yet another look of surprise crossed his face, this one more obvious than the earlier two. His green eyes met hers. “You don’t?”

      Anny gave a quick shake of her head. “No.”

      Demetrios tilted his head to regard her curiously. “You didn’t like it?”

      Anny felt her cheeks begin to burn. “You know that’s not true,” she protested. “You know I liked it. Very much.”

      He scratched his head. “And yet you don’t want to do it again.”

      “I didn’t say I didn’t want to do it again. I said I didn’t think we should.”

      He stared at her. “Your logic eludes me.”

      “It would mean something if we did,” she explained.

      He blinked. “I thought it did mean something last time. All that stuff about your idealistic youthful self…”

      “Yes, of course it meant something,” she agreed. “But it would be different if we did it again. That time it was…like…making love with a fantasy.” Now her cheeks really did burn. She felt like an idiot, didn’t want to meet his eyes. But she could feel his on her, so finally she lifted her gaze. “When we did it then, I was with the you I—I had dreamed about. The ‘fantasy’ you. The one I imagined. If we did it again, it wouldn’t be the same. You wouldn’t be the same. You’d be—you!”

      “Me? As opposed to…me?” He looked totally confused now.

      Anny didn’t blame him. She didn’t want to spell it out, but obviously she was going to have to. “You’d be a real live flesh-and-blood man.”

      “I was before,” he told her. “Last time.”

      “Not the same way. Not to me,” she added

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