The room set aside for him was stone, its hard lines made softer with expensive silk rugs on the floor and velvet curtains. Not that he cared for rugs or curtains or anything that could be termed ‘soft.’
Yet this little maid looked soft, and he liked that more than he’d anticipated.
‘What is your name?’ he asked in Russian, assuming she was Russian since she worked here. His voice sounded rusty and harsh, cutting through the silence like a rockfall in a quiet valley, but he took no notice. His vocal cords had been damaged in the fire and he was long used to that by now.
She gave a start. ‘Rose,’ she said in her light, husky voice. Then she turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder. ‘What’s yours?’
Her eyes were exactly as he remembered from a year earlier, like big golden coins, and once again there was no horror in them. No pity, either, or even compassion for the massive burn scars that pulled at his skin. She looked at him as if she didn’t see his scars at all.
Such pretty eyes.
The raw flicker of desire burned brighter, higher, yet he made no move. He wasn’t a boy at the mercy of his passions any longer, no matter how unfamiliar those passions might be these days. He was a man in complete control of himself. A man who could be patient when the situation demanded it.
A man who didn’t hide the scars that ravaged his face, a continual reminder of the dangers of pride.
He didn’t care what she thought of them. He didn’t care what anyone thought of them. They were no one’s business but his.
He stared back, letting her look. ‘You do not know?’
Her gaze never wavered. ‘No. I’m not told the names of our guests.’
Ares was due downstairs in five minutes, and it wasn’t appropriate to engage a servant in idle conversation, but Ivan, his father-in-law, could wait.
Ivan was a Russian oligarch with too many fingers in too many pies, and had never forgiven Ares for how his daughter had fallen in love with a lowly Greek shepherd boy while holidaying in Athens. Ivan had objected to the marriage, but Naya had always been a strong woman and she’d wanted Ares. She’d never cared that he lived in a hut in the mountains without a drachma to his name.
Over the years, Ares had increased in Ivan’s estimation after he’d left the hut behind and become who he was, the God of War, as he was known in some circles.
Ares didn’t like Ivan, though. Not that he was here for Ivan. He was here because Naya would have wanted him to be and so here he was.
‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked, deciding he wouldn’t give it to her yet. She was only a maid, though he had to admit, she didn’t much act like one.
She didn’t answer immediately, a small crease appearing between her golden brows. Then she dumped the shovel full of ash, and the brush, and turned around to face him. She stood up, ash dusting her uniform, but she didn’t brush it away. In fact, she didn’t seem to notice it at all.
Her expression had taken on a set look, as if she was steeling herself for something. ‘I...need your help,’ she said.
Ares stared at her, conscious of an unfamiliar feeling spreading through him. And it took him a couple of moments to realise that what he was feeling was surprise.
It had been a very long time since someone had surprised him, when these days he felt nothing at all. Not even a flicker of an emotion. So it was odd that one little maid should be able to coax it from him.
His legs were outstretched and crossed at the ankle, the black leather of his shoes—handmade by a shoemaker in Milan—glossy in the evening sun coming through the window. She was standing just shy of his feet. Close, even.
Close for a little maid with seemingly no fear of the man who was sitting bare inches away. A man worth billions who had governments in his pocket.
A man who was scarred, yet still physically powerful and who could crush her without effort.
A man she apparently thought could help her.
Ares was not accustomed to being asked for help and he was even less accustomed to giving it.
‘Help,’ he echoed, tasting the word. ‘You thinkIcould help you.’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t seem to notice that he hadn’t made it a question. ‘I have no one else.’
If she was coming to him, then she must indeed have no one else.
He tilted his head back slightly, studying her.
She wasn’t tall. In fact, even standing while he was sitting, she was barely at eye level. But there was a determination to her, a stubbornness, he could see it in the cast of her chin. Her gaze met his unflinchingly, though he could see the hint of desperation to it.