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Of course she had been.

“And I just shanghaied you without giving a damn.” He grimaced. “Sorry. I just thought it would be nice to find a little hole-in-the-wall place, hide out for a while. Have a nice meal. Some conversation. I forgot I’d kidnapped you under false pretenses.”

She laughed. “It’s all right. He was late.”

He. Of course she was waiting for a man. And what difference did it make?

“Right,” he said briskly. “Thanks for the rescue, Anny Chamion. I didn’t offend Mona Tremayne because of you.”

“The actress?” She looked startled. “You were escaping from her?”

“Not her. Her daughter. Rhiannon. She’s a little…persistent.” She’d been following him around since yesterday morning, telling him she’d make him forget.

Anny raised her brows. “I see.”

“She’s a nice girl. A bit intense. Immature.” And way too determined. “I don’t want to tell her to get lost. I’d like to work with her mother again…”

“It was truly a diplomatic maneuver.”

He nodded. “But I’m sorry if I messed something up for you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She held out a hand in farewell, and he took it, held it. Her fingers were soft and smooth and warm. He ran his thumb over them.

“I kissed you before,” he reminded her.

“Ah, but you didn’t know me then.”

“Still—” It surprised him how much he wanted to do it again.

But before he could make his move, she jerked, surprised, and stuck her hand into the pocket of her jacket.

“My phone,” she said apologetically, taking it out and glancing at the ID. “I wouldn’t answer it. It’s rude. I’m so sorry. It’s—” She waved a hand toward the hotel from which they’d come. “I need to get this.”

Because it was obviously from the man she’d been waiting for. His mouth twisted, but he shrugged equably. “Of course. No problem. It’s been—”

He stopped because he couldn’t find the right word. What had it been? A pleasure? Yes, it had been. And real. It had been “real.” For the first time in three years he’d felt, for a few brief moments, as if he had solid ground under his feet. He squeezed her hand, then leaned in and kissed her firmly on the mouth. “Thank you, Anny Chamion.”

Her eyes widened in shock.

He smiled. Then for good measure, he kissed her again, and enjoyed every moment of it, pleased, he supposed, that he hadn’t entirely lost his touch.

The phone vibrated in her hand long and hard before she had the presence of mind to answer it in rapid French.

Demetrios didn’t wait. He gave her a quick salute, pulled dark glasses out of his pocket, stuck them on his face, then turned and headed down the street. He had gone less than a block when he heard the sound of quick footsteps running after him.

Oh, hell. Was there no getting away from Rhiannon Tremayne?

He badly wanted Mona for a part in his next picture. To get her, he couldn’t alienate her high-strung, high-maintenance, highly spoiled daughter. But he was tired, he was edgy and, having the sweet taste of Anny Chamion on his lips, he didn’t relish being thrown to the jackals again. He spun around to tell her so—in the politest possible terms.

“I seem to have the evening free.” It was Anny smiling, that dimple creasing her cheek again as she fell into step beside him. “So I wondered, is that dinner invitation still open?”

CHAPTER TWO

PRINCESSES DIDN’T INVITE themselves out to dinner!

They didn’t say no one minute and run after a man to say yes the next. But she’d been given a reprieve, hadn’t she? The phone call had been from Gerard, who was going straight to Paris to get a good night’s sleep before his flight to Montreal.

“I’ll see you on my way back,” he’d said. “Next week. We need to talk.”

Anny had never understood what people thought they were doing on the phone if not talking, but she said politely, “Of course. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

She hung up almost before Gerard could say goodbye, because if she didn’t start running now, she might lose sight of Demetrios when he reached the corner. She’d never run after a man in her life. And she knew perfectly well she shouldn’t be chasing one now.

But how often did Demetrios Savas invite her out to dinner—at the very moment her prince decided not to show up?

If that didn’t confirm the universe’s benevolence, what did?

Besides, it was only dinner, after all. A meal. An hour or two.

But with Demetrios Savas. The fulfillment of a youthful dream. How many women got invited to dinner by the man whose poster they’d had on the wall at age eighteen?

As a tribute to that idealistic dreamy girl, Anny couldn’t not do it.

He spun around as she reached him, his jaw tight, his eyes hard. It was that same fierce look that had made his name a household word when he’d played rough-edged bad-ass spy Luke St. Angier on American television seven or eight years ago.

Anny stopped dead.

Then at the sight of her, the muscles in his jaw eased. And she was, quite suddenly, rewarded by the very grin that had had thousands—no, millions—of girls and women and little old ladies falling at his feet.

“Anny.” Her name on his lips sent her heart to hammering. “Change your mind?” he asked with just the right hopeful note.

“If you don’t mind.” She wasn’t sure if her breathlessness was due to the man in front of her who was, admittedly, pretty breathtaking, or to her own sudden out-of-character seizing of the moment.

“Mind?” Demetrios’s memorable grin broadened. “As if. So?” He cocked his head. “Yes?”

“I don’t want to presume,” she said as demurely as possible.

“Go ahead and presume.” He grinned as he glanced around the busy street scene. Then his grin faded as he realized how many people were beginning to notice him. One of a gaggle of teenage girls pointed in their direction. Another gave a tiny high-pitched scream, and instantly they cut across the street to head his way.

For an instant he looked like a fox with the hounds baying as they closed in. But only for a moment.

Then he said, “Hang on, will you? I’m sorry but—”

“I understand,” Anny replied quickly. No one understood better the demands of the public than someone raised to be a princess. Duty to her public had been instilled in her from the time she was born.

That hadn’t been the case for Demetrios, of course. He’d become famous in his early twenties, and as far as she knew he’d had no preparation at all for how to deal with it. Still, he’d always handled fame well. Even in the tragic circumstances of his wife’s death, he’d been composed and polite. And while he might have gone to ground afterward, as far as Anny was concerned, he’d had every right.

He’d come back when he was ready, obviously. And while he clearly hadn’t sought this swarm of fans, he welcomed them easily, smiling at them as they surged across the street toward him

Confident of their welcome, they chattered and giggled as they crowded around. And Demetrios let them envelop him, jostle him as he laughed and talked with them in Italian, for that was what they spoke.

It wasn’t good Italian. Anny knew that because she spoke it perfectly. But he made the effort, stumbled over his words and kept on trying. If the girls hadn’t already been enchanted, they would be now.

And watching him, listening to him, Anny was more than a bit enchanted herself.

Of course he’d been gorgeous as a young man. But she found him even more appealing now. His youthful handsome face had matured. His cheekbones were sharper, his jaw harder and stronger. The rough stubble gave him a more mature version of the roguish look he’d only begun to develop in the years he’d played action hero Luke St. Angier. Hard at work on her university courses, Anny had rarely taken the time to watch anything on television. But she had always watched him.

Demetrios Savas had been her indulgence.

Looking at him now, admiring his good looks, mesmerizing eyes, and easy grin, as well as that enticing groove in his cheek that appeared whenever the grin did, it wasn’t hard to remember why.

But it wasn’t only his stunning good looks that appealed. It was the way he interacted with his ever-so-eager fans.

He might have run from the sharklike pursuit of some intense desperate starlet, but he was kind to these girls who wanted nothing more than a smile and a few moments of conversation with their Hollywood hero.

Actually “kind” didn’t begin to cover it. He actually seemed “interested,” and he focused on each one—not just the cute, flirty ones. He talked to them all, listened to them all. Laughed with them. Made them feel special.

That impressed her. She wondered where he’d learned it or if it came naturally. Whichever, it didn’t seem to bother him. Somehow he’d learned the very useful skill of turning the tables and making the meeting all about them, not him. For once she got to simply lean against the outside wall of one of the shops and enjoy the moment.

It was odd, really. She’d barely thought of him in years. Responsibilities had weighed, duties had demanded. She’d fulfilled them all. And she’d let her girlish fantasies fall by the wayside.

Now she thought, I’m having dinner with Demetrios Savas, and almost laughed at the giddy feeling of pleasure at the prospect. It was as heady as it was unlikely.

She wondered what Gerard would say if she told him.

Actually she suspected she knew. He would blink and then he would look down his regal nose and ask politely, “Who?”

Or maybe she was selling him short. Maybe he did know who Demetrios was. But he certainly wouldn’t expect his future wife to be having dinner with him. Not that he would care. Or feel threatened.

Of course he had no reason to feel threatened. It wasn’t as if Demetrios was going to sweep her off her feet and carry her away with him.

All the while she was musing, though, the crowd around him, rather than dissipating, was getting bigger. Demetrios was still talking, answering questions, charming them all, but his gaze flicked around now and lit on her. He raised his brows as if to say, What can I do?

Anny shrugged and smiled. Another half a dozen questions and the crowd seemed to double again. His gaze found her again and this time he mouthed a single word in her direction. “Taxi?”

She nodded and began scanning the street. When she had nearly decided that the only way to get one was to go back to the Ritz-Carlton, an empty one appeared at the corner. She sprinted toward it.

“Demetrios!”

He glanced up, saw the cab, offered smiles and a thousand apologies to his gathered fans, then managed to slip after her into the cab.

“Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes it’s a little insane.”

“I can see that,” she said.

“It goes with the territory,” he said. “And usually they mean well. They’re interested. They care. I appreciate that.” He shrugged. “And in effect they pay my salary. I owe them.” He flexed his shoulders against the seat back tiredly. “And when it’s about my work, it’s fine. Sometimes it’s not.” His gaze seemed to close up for a moment, but then he was back, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Sometimes it’s a little overwhelming.”

“Especially when you’ve been away from it for a while.”

He gave her a sharp speculative look, and she wondered if she’d overstepped her bounds. But then he shrugged. “Especially when I’ve been away from it for a while,” he acknowledged.

The driver, who had been waiting patiently, caught her gaze in the rearview mirror and asked where they wanted to go.

Demetrios obviously knew enough French to get by, too, because he understood and asked her, “Where do we want to go? Some place that’s not a madhouse, preferably.”

“Are you hungry now?” Anny asked.

“Not really. Just in no mood to deal with paparazzi. Know any place quiet?”

She nodded. “For dinner, yes. A little place in Le Soquet, the old quarter, that is basically off the tourist track.” She looked at him speculatively, an idea forming. “You don’t want to talk to anyone?”

A brow lifted. “I want to talk to you.”

Enchanted, Anny smiled. “Flatterer.” He was amazingly charming. “I was thinking, if you’re really not hungry yet, but you wouldn’t mind talking to a few more kids—not paparazzi, not journalists—just kids who would love to meet you—”

“You have kids?” he said, startled.

Quickly Anny shook her head. “No. I volunteer at a clinic for children and teenagers with spinal injuries and paralysis. I was there this afternoon. And I was having a sort of discussion—well, argument, really, with one of the boys…he’s a teenager—about action heroes.”

Demetrios’s mouth quirked. “You argue about action heroes?”

“Franck will pretty much argue about anything. He likes to argue. And he has opinions.”

“And you do, too?” There was a teasing light in his eye now.

Anny smiled. “I suppose I do,” she admitted. “But I try not to batter people with them. Except for Franck,” she added. “Because it’s all the recreation he gets these days. Anything I say, he takes the opposite view.”

“He must have brothers,” Demetrios said wryly.

But Anny shook her head. “He’s an only child.”

“Even worse.”

“Yes.” Anny thought so, too. She had been an only child herself for twenty years. Her mother had not been able to have more children after Anny, and she’d died when Anny was twelve. Only when her father married Charlise seven years ago had Anny dared to hope for a sibling.

Now she had three little half brothers, Alexandre, Raoul, and David. And even though she was much older—actually old enough to be their mother—she still relished the joy of having brothers.

“Franck makes up for it by arguing with me,” she said. “And I was just thinking, what a coup it would be if I brought you back to the clinic. You obviously know more about action heroes than I do so you could argue with him. Then after, we could have dinner?”

It was presumptuous. He might turn her down cold.

But somehow she wasn’t surprised when he actually sat up straighter and said, “Sounds like a deal. Let’s go.”

The look on Franck’s face when they walked into his room was priceless. His jaw went slack. No sound came out of his mouth at all.

Anny tried not to smile as she turned back toward Demetrios. “I want you to meet a friend of mine,” she said to him. “This is Franck Villiers. Franck, this is—”

“I know who he is.” But Franck still stared in disbelief.

Demetrios stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said in French.

For a moment, Franck didn’t take it. Then, when he did, he stared at the hand he was shaking as if the sight could convince him that the man with Anny was real.

Slowly he turned an accusing gaze on Anny “You’re going to marry him?”

She jerked. “No!” She felt her cheeks flame.

“You said you had to leave early because you were going to meet your fiancé.”

Oh God, she’d forgotten that.

“He got delayed,” Anny said quickly. “He couldn’t come.” She shot a look at Demetrios.

He raised his brows in silent question, but he simply said to Franck, “So I invited her to dinner instead.”

Franck shoved himself up farther against the pillows and looked at her. “You never said you knew Luke St. Angier. I mean—him,” he corrected himself, cheeks reddening as if he’d embarrassed himself by confusing the man and the role he’d played.

Demetrios didn’t seem to care. “We just met,” he said. “Anny mentioned your discussion. I can’t believe you think MacGyver is smarter than Luke St. Angier.”

Anny almost laughed as Franck’s gaze snapped from Demetrios to her and back again. Then his spine stiffened. “Could Luke St. Angier make a bomb out of a toaster, half a dozen toothpicks and a cigarette lighter?”

“Damn right he could,” Demetrios shot back. “Obviously we need to talk.”

Maybe it was because he, like Anny, treated Franck no differently than he would treat anybody else, maybe it was because he was Luke St. Angier, whatever it was, the next thing Anny knew Demetrios was sitting on the end of Franck’s bed and the two of them were going at it.

They did argue. First about bomb-making, then about scripts and character arcs and story lines. Demetrios was as intent and focused with Franck as he had been with the girls.

Anny had thought they might spend a half an hour there—at most. Franck usually became disgruntled after that long. But not with Demetrios. They were still talking and arguing an hour later. They might have gone on all night if Anny hadn’t finally said, “I hate to break this up, but we have a few more people to see here before we leave.” Franck scowled.

Demetrios stood up and said, “Okay. We can continue this tomorrow.”

Franck stared. “Tomorrow? You mean it?”

“Of course I mean it,” Demetrios assured him. “No one else has cared about Luke that much in years.”

Franck’s eyes shone. He looked over at Anny as they were going out the door and he said something she thought she would never hear him say. “Thanks.”

She thanked Demetrios, too, when they were out in the hall again. “You made his day. You don’t have to come back. I can explain if you don’t.”

He shook his head. “I’m coming back. Now let’s meet the rest of the gang.”

Naturally he charmed them, one and all. And even though many of them didn’t know the famous man who was with Anny, they loved the attention. Just as he had with Franck and with the Italian girls, Demetrios focused on what they were telling him. He talked about toy cars with eight-year-old Fran¸ois. He listened to tales about Olivia’s kitten. He did his “one and only card trick” for several of the older girls. And if they weren’t madly in love with Demetrios Savas when he came into their rooms, they were well on the way by the time he left.

Anny, for all her youthful fantasies about Demetrios Savas, had never really imagined him with children. Now she thought it was a shame he didn’t have his own.

It was past nine-thirty when they finally stepped back out onto the narrow cobbled street in Le Soquet and Anny said guiltily, “I didn’t mean to tie up your whole evening.”

“If I hadn’t wanted to be there,” he said firmly, “I could have figured out how to leave.” He took hold of her hand, turning her so that she looked into those mesmerizing eyes. She couldn’t see the color now as the sun had gone down. But the intensity was there in them and in his voice when he said, “Believe me, Anny.” How could she not?

She wetted her lips. “Yes, well, thank you. It hardly seems adequate, but—”

“It’s perfectly adequate. You’re welcome. More than. Now, how about dinner?”

“Are you sure? It’s getting late.”

“Not midnight yet. In case you turn into a pumpkin,” he added, his grin flashing.

Was she Cinderella then? Not ordinarily. But tonight she almost felt like it. Or the flipside thereof—the princess pretending to be a “real” person.

“No,” she said, “I don’t. At least I haven’t yet,” she added with a smile.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Then his voice gentled. “Are you having second thoughts, Anny? Afraid the missing fiancé will find out?”

He still held her hand in his, and if she tugged it, she would be making too much of things. She swallowed. “He wouldn’t care,” she said offhandedly. “He’s not that sort of man.”

He cocked his head. “Is that good?”

Was it good? Anny knew she didn’t want a jealous husband. But she did want a husband to whom she mattered, who loved her, who cared. On one level, of course, Gerard did.

“He’s a fine man,” she said at last.

“I’m sure he is,” Demetrios said gravely. “So if I promise to behave in exemplary fashion with his fiancée, will you have dinner with me?”

He held her hand—and her gaze—effortlessly as he hung the invitation, the temptation, dangling there between them. He’d already asked before. She’d said no, then yes. And now?

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I would like that.”

She wasn’t sure that she should have liked the frisson of awareness she felt when he gave her fingers a squeeze before he released them. “So would I.”

He wanted to keep holding her hand.

How stupid was that?

He wasn’t a besotted teenager. He was an adult. Sane, sensible. And decidedly gun-shy. Or woman-shy.

Which wasn’t a problem here, Demetrios reminded himself sharply, determinedly tucking his hands in his pockets as he walked with Anny Chamion through the narrow steep streets of the Old Quarter. She was engaged and thus, clearly, no more interested in anything beyond dinner than he was.

Still, the desire unnerved him. He’d had no wish to hold any woman’s hand—or even touch one—in over two years.

But ever since he’d kissed Anny Chamion that afternoon, something had awakened in him that he’d thought stone-cold dead.

Discovering it wasn’t jolted him.

For as long as he could remember, Demetrios had been aware of, attracted to, charmed by women. He’d always been able to charm them as well.

“They’re like bowling pins,” his brother George had grumbled when they were teenagers. “He smiles at them and they topple over at his feet.”

“Eat your heart out,” Demetrios had laughed, always enjoying the girls, the giggles, the adulation.

It had only grown when, after college where he’d studied film, he’d taken an offer of a modeling job as a way to bring in some money while he tried to land acting roles. The modeling helped. His face became familiar and, as one director said, “They don’t care what you’re selling. They’re buying you.”

The directors had bought him. So had the public. They had found him even more engaging in action than in stills.

“The charisma really comes through there,” all the casting directors were eager to point out. And it wasn’t long before he was not just doing commercials and small supporting parts, he was the star of his own television series.

Three years of being Luke St. Angier got him fame, fortune, opportunities and adulation, movie scripts landing on his doorstep, plus all the women he would ever want, including the one he did—the gorgeous and talented actress, Lissa Conroy.

The last woman he had felt a stab of desire for. The last one he’d cared for. The last one he would ever let himself care for.

But this had nothing to do with caring. This was pure masculine desire confronted with a beautiful woman. He couldn’t expect his hormones to stay dormant forever, he supposed, though it had been easier when they had.

He glanced up to see that the distraction herself had stepped over to talk to the waiter in a small restaurant where they’d stopped. The place was, as she’d promised, no more than a hole in the wall. It had a few tables inside and four more, filled with diners, on the pavement in front.

She finished talking to the waiter and came back to him. “They know me here. The food is good. The moussaka is fantastic. And it’s not exactly on the tourist path. They have a table near the kitchen. Not exactly the best seat in the house. So if you would prefer somewhere else…”.

Demetrios shook his head. “It’s fine.”

And if not perfect because the table really was right outside the kitchen door, no one paid any attention to them there. No one expected a film star to sit at the least appealing table in the place, so no one glanced at him. The cook and waiter were far too busy to care who they fed, but even though they seemed run off their feet, they doted on Anny. Menus appeared instantly. A wine list quickly followed.

“You come here often?”

“When I don’t cook for myself, I come here. They have great food.” And she ordered the bouillabaisse without even looking at anything else. “It’s always wonderful.”

He was tempted. But he was more tempted by the moussaka she had mentioned earlier. No one made it like his mother. But he hadn’t been home in almost three years. Had barely talked to his parents since he’d seen them after Lissa’s funeral. Had kept them at a distance the entire year before.

He knew they didn’t understand. And he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t make them understand about Lissa when he didn’t even understand himself. And after—after he couldn’t face them. Not yet.

So it was easier to stay away.

At least until he’d come to terms on his own.

So he had. He was back, wasn’t he? He had a new screenplay with his name on it. He had a new film. He’d brought it to Cannes, the most public and prestigious of film festivals. He was out in public, doing interviews, charming fans, smiling for all he was worth.

And tonight moussaka sounded good. Smelled good, too, he thought as he detected the scent mingling with other aromas in the kitchen. It reminded him of his youth, of happier times. The good old days.

Maybe after he was finished at Cannes, he’d go see Theo and Martha and their kids in Santorini, then fly back to the States and visit his folks.

He ordered the moussaka, then looked up to see Anny smiling at him.

“What?” he said.

She shook her head. “Just bemused,” she told him. “Surprised that I’m here. With you.”

“Fate,” he said, tasting the wine the waiter brought, then nodding his approval.

“Do you believe that?”

“No. But I’m a screenwriter, too. I like turning points.” It was glib and probably not even true. God knew some of the turning points in his life had been disasters even if on the screen they were useful. But Anny seemed struck by the notion.

The waiter poured her wine. She looked up and thanked him, earning her a bright smile in return. Then she picked it up and sipped it contemplatively, her expression serious.

He wanted to see her smile again. “So, you’re writing a dissertation. You volunteer at a clinic. You have a fiancé. You went to Oxford. And Berkeley. Tell me more. What else should I know about Anny Chamion?”

She hesitated, as if she weren’t all that comfortable talking about herself, which was in itself refreshing.

Lissa had commanded the center of attention wherever they’d been. But Anny spread her palms and shrugged disingenuously, then shocked him by saying, “I had a poster of you on my wall when I was eighteen.”

Demetrios groaned and put his hand over his eyes. He knew the poster. It was an artistic, tasteful, nonrevealing nude, which he’d done at the request of a young photographer friend trying to make a name for herself.

She had.

So had he. His brothers and every male friend he’d ever had, seeing that poster, had taunted him about it for years. Still did. His parents, fortunately, had had a sense of humor and had merely rolled their eyes. Girls seemed to like it, though.

“I was young and dumb,” he admitted now, ruefully shaking his head.

“But gorgeous,” Anny replied with such disarming frankness that he blinked.

“Thanks,” he said a little wryly. But he found her admiration oddly pleasing. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard the sentiment before, but knowing a cool, self-possessed woman like Anny had been attracted kicked the activity level of his formerly dormant hormones up another notch.

He shifted in his chair. “Tell me about something besides the poster. Tell me how you met your fiancé?” He didn’t really want to know that, but it seemed like a good idea to ask, remind his hormones of the reality of the situation.

The waiter set salads in front of them. Demetrios picked up his fork.

“I’ve known him all my life,” Anny said.

“The boy next door?”

“Not quite. But, well, sort of.”

“Helps if you know someone well.” God knew it would have helped if he’d known more about what made Lissa tick. It would have sent him running in the other direction. But how could he have when she was so good at playing a role? “You know him, at least.”

“Yes.” This time her smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes. She focused on her salad, not offering any more so Demetrios changed the subject.

“Tell me about these cave paintings. How much more work do you have to do on your dissertation?”

She was more forthcoming about that. She talked at length about her work and her eyes lit up then. Ditto when he got her talking about the clinic and the children.

He found her enthusiasm contagious, and when she asked him about the film he’d brought to Cannes, he shared some of his own enthusiasm.

She was a good listener. She asked good questions. Even better, she knew what not to ask. She said nothing at all about the two plus years he’d stayed out of the public eye. Nothing about his marriage. Nothing about Lissa’s death.

Only when he brought up not having come to Cannes for a couple of years did she say simply, “I was sorry to hear about your wife.”

“Thank you.”

They got through the salad, their entrées—the moussaka was remarkably good and reminiscent of his mother’s—and then, because Anny looked a second or so too long at the apple tart, and because he really didn’t want the evening to end yet, he suggested they share a piece with their coffee.

“Just a bite for me,” she agreed. “I eat far too much of it whenever I come here.”

Demetrios liked that she had enjoyed her meal. He liked that she wasn’t rail-thin and boney the way Lissa had been, the way so many actresses felt they needed to be. She hadn’t picked at her food the way they did. She looked healthy and appealing—just right, in his estimation—with definite hints of curves beneath her tailored jacket, scoop-necked top and linen skirt.

The hormones were definitely awake.

The waiter brought the apple tart and two forks. And Demetrios was almost annoyed to discover he wasn’t going to be able to feed her a bite off his. Almost.

Then sanity reared its head. He got a grip, pushed the plate toward her. “After you.”

She cut off a small piece and carried it to her mouth, then shut her eyes and sighed. “That is simply heaven.” She ran her tongue lightly over her lips, and opened her eyes again.