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CHAPTER ONE
MARKOS MAKARIOS STROLLED with a lithe, leisurely gait across the parvis in front of Nôtre Dame. Although it was crowded with tourists, all ogling the stupendous cathedral at the southern end of the wide area, he did not object to their presence. It was good, sometimes, to mingle with the masses. Not, he knew, that it made his security people feel comfortable when he did so. Both Taki and Stelios, discreetly following him, wouldn’t relax entirely until he was safely back in his limo.
But the warm September day was far too fine for sitting inside a limo crawling through traffic, Paris obscured by smoked glass, with nothing to do but study the latest communiqués from his direct reports around Europe. The sudden restless impulse to abandon wheeled transport as the limo had gained the Ile de la Cité had been the right one. Besides, he would probably reach his destination on the Ile St Louis faster on foot.
Not—he suppressed a flicker of irritation—that he was in any particular hurry to reach his scheduled appointment. Lunch with the chairman of the French company he was currently in negotiations with would be a long-drawn-out and inevitably tedious affair.
A flicker of boredom nudged at him. It was becoming familiar, and its arrival irritated him as much as the prospect of the lunch ahead. He had no reason to be bored. None at all. He was in the prime of life—a fit and healthy thirty-three—with a lifestyle that every man in the world would envy him for. The Makarios wealth saw to that!
With the single exception of the one element of his life that he could, frustratingly, do nothing about—the constant, exasperating importuning of his father for him to perpetuate the Makarios dynasty—he had everything he could possibly want. Riches, property in whichever part of the world took his fancy, a yacht in the Mediterranean and another in the Caribbean, a personal jet he flew himself when he was inclined, any number of top marque cars—and, of course, as many beautiful women as he wanted.
And yet—
Again, he felt that creeping sense of ennui flicker around him.
He needed to dispel it.
By any means necessary. Including, as he was now doing, acting out of character. Taking a walk across one of the most popular tourist spots in Paris, just like any other tourist.
He paused and lifted his eyes to the magnificent west front of the most famous cathedral in Europe, with its twin towers of glittering Caen stone, the vast rose window nested below, and the great arched entrances. Around him, tourists were chattering in all languages, cameras flashing, groups posing, guidebooks lifted and perused.
‘Oh, will you just leave me alone?!’
The vehement, infuriated voice just to his right drew his attention from the cathedral. As his eyes flicked sideways, he registered two things. The speaker had spoken in English, not French—and she was the most stunning female he’d seen in a long, long time.
It was the hair that registered first. A fantastic sunburst tumble of curls, cascading down her back almost to her waist, the colour of topaz caught with rich gold light. For a moment it dazzled him, taking all his attention. But then, with the perfectly honed instincts of the practised connoisseur of fine women, his gaze moved on to her face.
And stopped.
She could have stepped out of a pre-Raphaelite painting. An oval face, translucent skin, lustrous eyes and a rich, sensuous mouth. But her features were not arranged in the serenity of a painted image. Oh, no—Markos felt amusement tugging at his mouth—serene was the last word to describe her at this moment!
She was fizzing with exasperation, her expressive, long-lashed amber eyes snapping, jaw set tight.
And he could see exactly why. Two young men were blocking her way, grinning knowingly, glancing at each other, and then one of them was accosting her again in broken English, trying to get her to go and have a drink with them.
‘No!’ the redhead reiterated. ‘Leave me alone!’
The other of the two young men put out his hand to her, taking her wrist. She made to shake it off angrily, but he only laughed and repeated his unwanted invitation.
Markos found himself stepping towards her. A few succinct, highly vernacular phrases in fluent French came from him. The two young men froze. Markos added one more sibilant instruction, and then smiled. It was a smile without humour.
The young man dropped the girl’s wrist as if it had suddenly turned red hot, and without more ado he and his companion bolted off.
‘Merci, m’sieu.’
The voice was stiff, the accent English.
‘My pleasure,’ returned Markos urbanely, in her own language. His accent, thanks to his English mother, was all but perfect, he knew. He also knew it didn’t go with his appearance, which was not English at all.
He could see her expression registering the dissonance.
He could also see it registering something else entirely. Something that sent a spear of satisfaction shafting through him. For a moment he just let her gaze, then, timing it perfectly, he murmured, ‘I fear, however, that they will not be the last to…importune you.’
The flash of amber came again, and the tightening of the beautiful rich mouth.
‘Why can’t they just leave me alone?’ she demanded with rhetorical exasperation.
A laugh broke from him. Quite genuine. He spread his hands. ‘Because this is Paris. It’s what men do here. Pursue beautiful women.’
‘It’s just so annoying!’ she exclaimed. ‘And it’s so stupid, too! What kind of man thinks he can just pick up a girl in the street, for heaven’s sake?’
Not a flicker showed in Markos’s eyes. ‘What you need,’ he said smoothly, ‘is a bodyguard.’
Amber eyes rested on him. There was uncertainty in them now, not annoyance. And a lot more than uncertainty.
But the uncertainty won.
