‘Go on,’ he prompted.
She couldn’t look at him. Shame at her preconception—her misconception—made her mouth grow dry. ‘I just presumed you’d had an easier journey to success.’
‘You thought I’d been born into a wealthy family?’
‘Honestly, yes.’
He laughed. ‘Why?’
‘Because you are so wealthy,’ she said, gesturing around the plane by way of example. ‘Amassing this kind of fortune, the empire you command, having come from what you’ve just described... How did you do that?’
‘I was extremely well-motivated.’ He lifted the plate, offering her the biscuits. ‘Have one.’
She took a biscuit automatically. ‘I love kourabiedes.’
‘These are my pilot’s grandmother’s recipe,’ he said with a smile that might have disarmed a less well protected heart.
She took a bite, moaning as the flavour infused her mouth. Almond essence, but not so much as to be overpowering, ran through her, sweet and addictive. The insides were a soft, melt-in-the-mouth consistency, while the top was crunchy, so the texture was a contradiction she longed to enjoy more of. The dusting of icing sugar on top was the pièce de resistance.
Closing her eyes to savour the flavour more fully, when Bea opened them it was to find Ares staring at her in a way that drove every thought from her head. The full force of his dynamic attention was focused on her lips, his own mouth held in a tight line, his pupils large in his stormy grey eyes, his body tense, as though holding himself absolutely still against his will.
She lowered the biscuit to her lap, her heart hammering against her ribs.
‘You eat that biscuit as though you are making love to it.’
The husky words sent her nerve endings into overdrive. If he had any idea she’d never made love to anyone—man or biscuit—what would he say then? Panic flooded her body, awkwardness at her inexperience overpowering her. She dropped her eyes, staring at the floor.
‘It’s very good.’
‘As all lovers should be,’ he responded.
Bea wished the plane would somehow expel her onto a nice fluffy cloud she could hide out in and pretend that Ares Lykaios wasn’t talking to her about lovers and sex.
‘I’m sorry your childhood was so difficult.’
She risked a glance at him to find a speculative look in his eyes, as though she were a puzzle he wanted to make sense of.
‘Another apology?’ he murmured, but though it was in the tone of a joke, it wasn’t. At least, humour wasn’t flooding the air between them. Instead, there was a raw, sensual heat that pulsed with throbbing need.
‘A turn of phrase, I suppose.’ Her voice sounded strangled. She cleared her throat. ‘What other languages do you speak?’
He sipped his coffee, his eyes holding hers. His hands were so powerful-looking, and the cup so delicate, she had to fight an urge to tell him to be careful he didn’t break it. She imagined a man like Ares might drink from a goblet cast from stone, rather than pretty white porcelain with a fine gold rim. He replaced it on the tray, the action accompanied by a musical sound.
‘Italian, French, Spanish. Some conversational Cantonese.’
She blinked at him, lifting her fingers and counting. ‘Plus Greek, English and Japanese... That’s six and a half languages.’
He crossed his legs, his foot brushing hers, sending arrows of desire through her body.
‘Yes.’
‘And you speak them fluently?’
‘I couldn’t write a novel in all of them, but I can hold a conversation like this.’
‘You make me feel quite inadequate. I speak passable enough French to order my favourite meal in a restaurant, and that’s about it.’
His smile sent butterflies into her belly. ‘Which is?’