How easy it would have been to take it further, to undress her and show her the full extent of her dishonesty. But Ares knew his limits, and he’d already stretched them well beyond an acceptable level. He broke his mouth free, staring down at her with darkly glittering eyes.
‘You can lie to yourself all you want, Beatrice. Tell yourself you do not want to sleep with me, if you like. But don’t lie to me, or I will take great pleasure in showing you the truth.’ He stalked across the room, picking up the airphone and speaking a few words into it. He had his back to her—time he desperately needed to cool his temper and put a halt to the raging blood in his body. When he turned to face her, shame washed over him. She was shaking like a leaf, so pale and fragile-looking. Regret chewed through him, but he refused to show any form of weakness. ‘A member of staff is on their way to show you to your room. Goodnight, Beatrice.’
She wanted to strangle him. She wanted to put her hands around his throat and strangle him for what he’d done, but at the same time her anger was really all directed at herself. Her stupidity in kissing him back, in immediately begging him to make love to her. The way she’d pleaded with him, over and over, his name moving from her mouth to his, begging him for so much more than a kiss, wanting satisfaction and fulfilment as she never had before.
He’d been right about hormones. That was all this was. Some kind of pre-programmed biological response. Her oestrogen responding to his testosterone, causing a hurricane of desire she’d been unable to ignore.
All night she lay in the luxurious bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to work out if he’d carry out his threat if she were to leave. He was hugely important to the London Connection but it wasn’t a one-way street. They were important to him too. He wasn’t a man to suffer fools so, without knowing the details of previous PR campaigns and the ongoing management they did for his various business interests, she had to believe Clare was doing an excellent job for him. Surely he wouldn’t rip his business away simply because she’d said no to helping him with a baby—a job for which, despite what he might think, she was manifestly unsuited.
Except, at the same time, Bea had to acknowledge there was a risk. Although the London Connection was fast gaining recognition for its client management, there were other firms out there that had been established for much longer, that had more resources, bigger teams, larger reach. How many of the London Connection’s clients had come across to them simply because they had someone like Ares Lykaios on their books?
It wasn’t just about losing Ares’s business then, but about losing the prestige that came from his association with them. Beatrice couldn’t be responsible for that, and yet she was sorely tempted to roll the dice and see what happened. Despite his words, there was a part of her that suspected he was bluffing. She couldn’t say why, but she had an undeniable faith in his inherent goodness and fairness—it was incompatible with his threat, and yet she felt almost certain that if she were to tell him she was leaving his home—come what may—he’d let her go, and continue working with Clare regardless.
But being almost certain wasn’t good enough.
She prevaricated all night, veering from one opinion to the other. She tossed and turned and, somewhere in the early hours of the morning, before the sun had started its ascent into the night sky over Greece’s Argolic Gulf, she gave up on trying to sleep and pushed out of bed. Her ballgown was where she’d left it—hardly suitable attire, but for lack of other options...
She had a quick shower and as she reached for a towel she saw that some clothes had been left folded on the cupboard beside the linen. The trousers were a size too big; she had to knot them at the waist to keep them from falling down, but the shirt—long-sleeved and a pale yellow in colour—was a perfect fit. She finger-combed her hair and rubbed a scented moisturiser over her face, regretting that sleep deprivation had left two brown smudges beneath her eyes, then defiantly reminding herself she didn’t care.
She moved through the house, intending to hunt down a coffee, but a noise stopped her. Crying.
Baby crying.
Her feet moved towards the sound quickly and silently, piecing together the route to Danica’s room. It wasn’t easy. The house was huge and she’d been turned around by everything that had happened after she’d put Danica to bed. The crying grew louder though, leading her there, and she pushed the door inwards without hesitation, without a pause for what she might find on the other side.
It certainly wasn’t this.
Ares stood dressed in only a low-slung towel, his chest bare, his hair damp, the crying infant in his arms. A lamp had been turned on near the bed, casting them both in a warm glow.
Bea’s heart thumped painfully at the sight. He turned to look at her, his dark eyes defensive and then utterly bleak.
The baby howled. Bea held her ground, unable to move.
‘Beatrice...’ His voice was thick, groggy. ‘Please...stay. We need your help.’