CHAPTER TWO
ADDICTIONWASAbeast of a thing. While Ares’s younger brother had struggled with it most of his life, following in the footsteps of their drug-addicted mother, Ares had never found that this demon resided within him. It was one reason he could pour himself a measure of Scotch some time before midnight, aware that one measure would bring him the sense of mental tranquillity he craved—but that one small measure would be sufficient. Unlike Matthaios, Ares had never drunk to excess, nor had he indulged in a penchant for drugs. Being in control was essential for him, and he sought that feeling whenever and however he could.
Drinking to excess or taking mind-altering substances was anathema to him. Perhaps that explained why he’d let his brother down so badly. If he’d shared the same proclivities as Matthaios, maybe Ares would have been better placed to help him. He might have seen the path ahead sooner, foreshadowing Matthaios’s unravelling after Ingrid’s untimely death. The loss of Matthaios’s beloved wife in childbirth, coupled with the burden of a screaming newborn, had obviously been too much for a man who’d struggled with addictive impulses all his life.
Ares’s grip tightened around the Scotch glass, his eyes chasing the lights of London’s renowned skyline. It was a view he drew little comfort from—he far preferred the outlook from his home on Porto Heli. Yet tonight he stared across the ancient city with a feeling that this was the only place he wanted to be in the world.
Or was it that his home was the last place he wanted to be? With the screaming, unsettled, demanding infant in residence, and a nanny looking to break the contract he’d had her sign before undertaking the assignment, Porto Heli had temporarily lost its charms. Every time he looked into little Danica’s eyes he felt a suffocating sense of failure.
The baby deserved better than him. Just as Matthaios had deserved better than to be raised by Ares, just as he should have been able to save their mother and hadn’t. It was history repeating itself over and over and Ares had no doubt he was out of his depth. Which was why he’d hired the best nanny he could find, a woman who came highly recommended by several sources. It was something he would never have dreamed of affording as a teenager. He and Matt had been on their own: poor, starving, alone, and Ares had had to do the best he could—and live with the fact that it had never been quite enough. But for Danica it was different. He could provide her with a nanny for as long as necessary, making sure she would always have what she needed.
Except that Cassandra, the nanny, had been threatening to quit for over a week.
If he wasn’t in Greece, perhaps human decency would force her hand. Perhaps she’d decide the right thing to do was stay. Perhaps she’d bond with the baby and decide she couldn’t leave her. And perhaps a drift of pigs would fly past his window right now.
He threw back the rest of the Scotch, cradling the empty glass in the palm of his hand.
The meeting this evening had been the last straw. Clare Roberts from the London Connection was someone he saw a few times a year and corresponded with marginally more frequently. She was incredibly organised, professional and detail-oriented and he’d been needing someone like that today. He’d wanted to walk in there and know that everything was in order in at least one aspect of his life.
Instead he’d got Bea. Her name bothered him less now than it had earlier. In fact, when he heard it in his mind, he saw her cupid’s bow lips framing the word and almost felt the soft rush of her breath across his cheek.
Something like shame gripped him as he recalled their interaction, everything he’d said to her slamming into him now, so he felt as though he’d taken out the hell his life had turned into on the first person he’d found he could blame for something. Yes, he’d used her to unleash his tension simply because he’d reached his limits, and that had been inexcusable.
Right before he fell asleep, Ares resolved to fix that—he’d been unreasonable, but he could undo whatever damage his tirade had caused. Tomorrow was a new day; perhaps things would look better in the morning.
‘Mr Lykaios, please, take a seat.’ Any hopes Bea had held that the arrogant billionaire might have become less good-looking overnight evaporated into thin air when he strode into the office a little after midday. Wearing a dark grey suit with a crisp white shirt flicked open at the neck to reveal the strong column of his neck, he was preposterously hot. Seriously, was it necessary for him to have that face, and that body? Wouldn’t one or the other have sufficed? Strong features, chiselled jaw, eyes you could drown in, and a body that looked as though he could run marathons before breakfast. Bea’s physical reaction was inevitable. Her mouth went dry and her stomach swooped, but she told herself the latter was owing to nerves.
After the disastrous ‘meeting’ the evening before, she’d spent most of the night reading every single thing she could on the man and his business, as well as swotting up on the current public relations undertakings the firm was making on his behalf. And that was no mean feat. He was a dynamo in the corporate world, with interests all over the globe. The London Connection was currently overseeing ten specific campaigns, as well as doing ad hoc PR work as the need arose. There were four staff members dedicated to him full-time, with Clare managing their work diligently, as—according to the file on Ares Lykaios, he preferred to have only one contact rather than needing to get to know ‘new people’.
Strike one, she was out.
As with the evening before, he ignored the chair, striding towards Bea instead, his pewter-grey eyes latched onto hers in a way that made her tummy flip and flop.
‘Miss Jones.’ He nodded in greeting and her tummy stopped flipping and started feeling as though it were under assault from a kaleidoscope of over-excited butterflies. He held out a hand and she slid hers into it on autopilot, but the second his fingers curled around hers Bea’s eyes flew wide, locking on Ares’s in shock. Sparks of electricity seemed to be exploding through her, heat travelling from the pads of his fingers to the centre of her being. Her breath was burning in her lungs and heat stole across her cheeks. She dragged her eyes away; it did little to alleviate her physical awareness of the man. Great, that was all she needed: to be attracted to this mega-client.
Bea had a minuscule degree of experience with men, and had always been glad she was far too plain and dull to attract anyone’s attention. That wasn’t strictly true—she’d been asked out on dates before, but the very idea of a relationship had made Bea feel as if her skin was being scrubbed with acid and she’d always backed off. Meaning she’d never had first-date tingles or a blush of attraction when a man she liked looked into her eyes as though he might find the meaning of life in their depths.
Whoa. Hold on. She didn’t like Ares Lykaios. He was a client first and foremost, and her ingrained professionalism and diligence prohibited her from thinking about him on any other level. But even if she were inclined to fantasise—which she definitely, truly wasn’t—how was she forgetting the way he’d treated her the night before? She’d grown up with enough spoiled, entitled, arrogant people in her orbit to know that these were her least favourite qualities.
Their hands were still joined. She pulled away jerkily, wiping her palm on the side of her trousers. That did nothing at all to stop the tingling in her fingertips.
‘I had some refreshments ordered in,’ she offered politely, pleased when her voice emerged cool and crisp. She sounded far more in control than she felt. ‘Pastries, fruit, sandwiches. Please, help yourself.’
His dark head dipped in silent acknowledgement, but he didn’t reach for any food. Instead, she watched as he lifted the sterling silver coffee pot and poured a measure into a mug. His focus was on what he was doing, which meant she could watch him—unguarded for a moment. As he poured the coffee, his sleeve shifted a fraction higher, revealing the flicking tail of a tattoo—cursive script, perhaps?—running up his wrist. Curiosity sparked in her belly; she tamped down on it post-haste. This wasn’t the time to be wondering about his tattoo, or his body.
Except...she found it almost impossible to stop.
He was tanned, as though he spent a lot of time outdoors. Given that it was only April, it suggested he lived in a warmer climate than London, which was just starting to see some clear blue sky and warmth thaw the ground. Bea had always hated the cold. It reminded her of long nights at boarding school when the blankets had never felt quite warm enough. Or perhaps it was more the ice in her heart, an ice that repeated rejections—first by her biological parents and then her adoptive ones—had locked in place.
His lashes were long and thick, the kind supermodels would kill for. As Bea knew first-hand—she’d witnessed her mother’s attempts at enhancement for long enough to understand what went into procuring such thick and radiant eye furnishings.
Unexpectedly, he jerked his gaze to her face and heat spread through her. Guilt too, at having been caught staring. She looked down at the tabletop in a knee-jerk response.
‘Coffee for you?’
She nodded quickly, taking up the seat at the head of the table. ‘Thanks. I’ve already had three cups this morning but if it weren’t for coffee I have no idea how I’d get by. I should have credited my law degree to the stuff.’ Stop. Talking. For the love of God.
He was the opposite to her. Silent and brooding, pouring the coffee with his long fingers holding the mug mid-air, replacing the pot then striding to her side of the table. Close enough for Bea to inhale his intoxicatingly masculine fragrance. Her gut kicked. What the hell was happening? She’d made an art form out of ignoring the opposite sex. Why was she suddenly obsessed with details like his tantalising cologne and curly eyelashes?