She laughed, unexpectedly caught off guard by that. ‘You’re right, it is.’ How could she feel otherwise, though, given the way her adopted status had been brandished by her adoptive mother only when it suited her purposes? If she ever needed the world to see her as a Mother Teresa figure, out would come Bea, some photoshoot or other arranged to convince the world of the Jones family’s altruism.
She looked towards the car window, her mood slightly dampened by the bitter reflection. ‘You didn’t say where we’re going tonight.’
‘No,’ he agreed laconically. ‘You’re new to the London Connection?’
His change of subject was swift and she frowned, but reminded herself that he was the client and she couldn’t afford to offend him again. It had nothing to do with what she wanted—if she had her way she’d be home bingeing Netflix, definitely not on the way to some swanky affair with this Greek god brought to life.
Before she could respond to his question, he reached for the skirt that covered her knees, lifting it a little.
Surprise had her dropping her eyes, and then, as she followed his gaze, wincing. He’d noticed her shoes. Red high-tops with their trademark white star on the sides, a little scuffed at the toe. Coupled with the sheer black stockings she wore, she was well aware they looked ridiculous.
‘In case you need to run away from me?’ he pondered, his smile the last word in sexy.
It was the kind of smile designed to melt ice, but Bea’s frozen heart was unlike anything Ares had ever known. She offered a cool smile in return. ‘Oh, absolutely. A girl never knows when she might have to break a world record.’
‘Usain Bolt, eat your heart out?’
‘You better believe it.’
‘Seriously, though. Did you leave your shoes at home? We can stop and get them if you would like?’
Bea didn’t want to admit that she’d chosen to wear these shoes out of habit—that at five foot ten she always wore flats to avoid looking like a giraffe.
‘Nobody will see them beneath the dress. I’ll be fine.’ She just managed to avoid adding ‘Won’t I?’
But when she looked at him he was scrutinising her thoughtfully. She uncrossed her legs and rearranged her skirt so the hem covered her shoes.
‘You were telling me about your job at the London Connection.’
‘No, you were asking,’ she reminded him, relieved the conversation had returned to something less personal than her choice of footwear.
He waited, watchful in that unnerving way of his.
‘It was a few months ago,’ she relented. ‘Though Clare’s been asking me to join for years.’
‘You’ve known her a long time?’
Bea’s expression assumed a nostalgic air as she thought back to her teenage years. ‘The three of us went to school together. They’re my best friends.’
‘You’re very different to Clare and Amy.’
She was, but his perceptiveness surprised her. ‘In what way?’
‘Many ways,’ he said, the answer frustrating for its lack of clarity. The car turned towards the river. She couldn’t think of any hotels here, but it had been a while since she’d ventured this way. Perhaps they were going to a converted warehouse?
‘Is being similar to friends a prerequisite to friendship?’
He put his arm up along the back of her seat, his fingers dangling tantalisingly close to her shoulder. ‘I couldn’t say. It apparently works for you.’
That drew her interest. ‘You don’t have friends?’
He frowned. ‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You kind of did.’
It was his turn to laugh. ‘You’re reading between the lines.’
‘Do you mind?’