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.
Her lips pressed together repressively. "Good day, m'sieu.
Thank you for what you did just now.'She started to move
off.
Markos watched her go. She got about twenty metres before
a lanky Scandinavian stopped her, guidebook in hand,
asking her the way, then pointing invitingly towards the
cathedral entrance. The girl shook her head, and the
sunlight dazzled in her glorious hair. She moved sideways
around the Scandinavian and straight into the path of a
North African, who fell into step beside her, oblivious of
her attempts to repulse him.
With no change in his leisurely gait, Markos strolled
towards her. The creeping edge of ennui started to
dissolve.
*** Fury fizzed through Vanessa again. This was just
unbearable! Her very first day in Paris and she was being
pestered to death. Whether she stood still or kept
walking, they just kept coming. And all she wanted was to
be left in peace to do what had been a dream for years and
years — see the glories of the most beautiful city in
Europe.
"Va't'en!" she snapped at the one trying to talk to her
now. "Get lost. Leave me alone!"
"Eenglish?" said the man, and grinned. "I show you good
time."
Then, from just behind her, a new voice spoke. It wasn't a
language she knew, but she recognised the voice. Her head
whipped round.
It was that man again. The man who'd got rid of those two
Frenchmen. Who'd said that this was Paris and what else
should she expect but to be pestered. Words to that
effect. Who'd told her she needed a bodyguard.
Who was the most devastating male she'd ever seen.
Her eyes swept over him again. Dear God, but he really was
jaw-dropping. Not French, she thought. He was powerfully
built, tall, but with a kind of casual continental
elegance to him that was almost sensual in its effect. Yet
he'd spoken English without an accent, despite his dark
hair, his Mediterranean skin tone. She couldn't tell what
nationality he was. He'd spoken English to her, French to
those pests and something else — Arabic? — to this one.
Whatever nationality he was, he made the breath stop in
her lungs.
But she mustn't let him. Mustn't do anything as stupid as
respond to his incredible looks in any way! The last thing
she needed was to give any male — even this one! — the
slightest sign of encouragement.
Even though he had come to her rescue twice in a row.
The North African had vanished as if he'd never been. She
took a short breath.
"Thank you,'she said to her rescuer, as stiffly as she
could. He seemed undeterred by her coolness. "You know,
you really do need a bodyguard," he observed. "These
foreign johnnies are the very devil."
His accent had changed suddenly, with his second sentence,
from normal English to the old-fashioned speech of a pre-
war film.
Vanessa glanced up at him — he really was very tall, and
she was no muppet herself heightwise. Humour was sparking
in his eyes.
They're grey. I thought they were black, but they're not.
They're a very dark grey...
The irrelevant observation distracted her a moment. Then
the expression in his eyes got her. For a second it hung
in the balance.
Then she fell.
She felt her lips quirk. "Are you trying to tell me you're
not a "foreign Johnny"?"
"I'm probably more English than you are," he replied
urbanely.
"What?" Her face furrowed.
The dark grey eyes flickered over her. "Only Celts have
red hair," he murmured.
"Scottish grandmother," Vanessa acknowledged. There was
something wrong with her speaking voice. It was sounding
breathy, and more high-pitched than usual. She swallowed.
She mustn't stand here talking to a complete stranger,
even if he had rescued her twice from unwanted admirers —
It was as if he was reading her mind. "You know,'he went
on, and his voice had that smooth note in it again, that
did strange things to her insides, "there is no need at
all to be suspicious. I really am very respectable.
And, if you would allow me —" the note in his voice
changed slightly ' — I would be more than happy to walk
with you around the cathedral — if that is what you were
intending — and ensure you are not pestered."
He smiled down at her, and Vanessa found herself searching
his face. There was nothing in it except a bland
politeness. For a moment she felt — quite ludicrously,
given the situation — disappointment.
She bit her lip, eyes dropping away from his face, and
thus not seeing the way something flared in the dark grey
depths of his eyes. When her gaze went back to him his
expression was bland once more.
He was a businessman, she realised. He was wearing a
business suit, very smart, very formal. And very
respectable.
He's just offered to go round the cathedral with you,
that's all. He's not asking for a night of torrid sex, for
heaven's sake! And he's proved he can keep all those pests
away from you...
She took a breath, and lifted her chin. "Thank you," she
said. "That would be very kind."
Markos glanced down at the glorious red-gold head averted
from him, focused on whatever the audio guide was
describing to her. It was a novelty to have something
compete with him for a woman's attention, especially a
medieval cathedral. But then, the girl's concentration on
the glories of the interior of Nôtre Dame was allowing him
to concentrate on her own glories.
And they were remarkable.
She really was, he mused as they made their slow way
around the cathedral, quite exquisite. Everything — from
the fantastic sunburst of her hair, the tender line of her
throat, the delicate curve of her cheek, the silken
translucence of her skin, to the unconscious grace of her
slender, yet shapely body — was exquisite. And that she
seemed unconscious of it was enticing all on its own. She
seemed to have no idea just how beautiful she was. A wry
smile quirked at Markos's lips. Was the girl mad to walk
out in Paris, of all cities, with her breathtaking looks,
and then be surprised that she was a honeypot to every
male around? Including, he thought cynically, himself.