What had happened to him? Was that where his scars had come from? Had he been burned in a military operation? And who was that someone he was talking about? The someone who’d been important to him?
She suspected she already knew—his first wife probably—but asking him about it would be taking her interest in him too far, which, again, might be dangerous.
Instead, she changed the subject. ‘Why did you agree? To marry me, I mean?’
He took another leisurely sip of his champagne. ‘I told you. I want children eventually. Heirs for my company and a family for myself. You were also rather...insistent.’
She ignored that. ‘But why me? There must be lots of other women you could choose.’
He was silent, watching her the way he’d used to do back in that room in the compound, and she felt that awareness build between them once again. An awareness of each other that felt both exciting and dangerous at the same time. And she realised with a sudden lurch that he wasn’t looking at her as if she was a servant, and he wasn’t looking at her as if she was just another woman either.
He was looking ather. The person she was.
Then she realised something else. The enigmatic look on his face wasn’t all that enigmatic, after all. Desire glittered in his eyes, along with curiosity, as if he found her just as fascinating as she found him.
Her mouth had gone dry, her heartbeat suddenly fast. Her skin prickled, a shivery, shimmery sensation, like a fine electrical field moving over her body.
‘I think you know why I chose you,’ Ares said softly. ‘Tell me, little maid. Do you know what desire is?’
It was a simple question, the simplest, really, and she didn’t know why it felt so charged. ‘Desire?’ She tried to keep her voice light, ignoring the ‘little maid’ thing. ‘Of course. I was a prisoner. You think I didn’t desire freedom?’
‘I mean physical desire.’
Oh. She swallowed, trying to get some moisture into her suddenly dry mouth, and when that failed, she took another healthy sip of champagne. She didn’t know why the question made her so uneasy.
‘Yes,’ she lied determinedly.
Ares gave her a look, then put his wine down and pushed his chair back. ‘Come here.’
Rose narrowed her gaze. ‘What?’
‘I won’t hurt you. I just want to show you something.’ In the flickering light from the candles, his eyes gleamed silver. ‘But if you’re afraid, I won’t force you.’
This was a manipulation, of course, challenging her to make her do exactly what he wanted. Yet she found herself powerless to resist. She was curious and she wanted to know what he was going to show her. Knowledge was power, after all.
Ignoring the sudden clutch of trepidation, Rose pushed back her chair. Got to her feet and moved around the side of the table, coming over to where he sat. And while the scared part of her wanted to keep some distance between them, the braver part, the warrior in her, insisted on coming closer. Standing right at the arm of his chair.
He remained still, his long, powerful body stretched out. And this close, even in the humidity of the night, she could feel his heat, as if that iron-hard body contained a furnace. She could smell him too, a delicious, woody, masculine spice.
She hadn’t realised that she could like the heat of a man and his scent, and that it made her want to get closer, even though she knew she shouldn’t.
‘You are very beautiful,’ he said quietly, staring up at her. ‘Did you know that?’
She wasn’t, though. Beauty had been valued in Vasiliev’s house, but she certainly hadn’t been. ‘No.’
‘Well, you are.’ He lifted one hand and held it up to her in silent invitation.
His hand was large, long-fingered and strong-looking. There were scars on his fingers, old and white, standing out against his dark olive skin.
Rose’s mouth was very dry. This shouldn’t feel so scary. It was just a hand. He wasn’t going to hurt her, he’d said, and she believed him. But she was conscious of a certain reluctance, as if touching him would change things, would start her off down a path she didn’t want to go down. But still, this was a challenge, and she wasn’t going to refuse it.
Slowly, she reached out and placed her hand in his.
His skin was hot, far hotter than she’d expected, and his palm was rough, his fingers callused. He might have been a businessman, yet his hands were those of someone who did hard, physical work.
It was shocking, this touch. She could feel that electrical current ripple all over her skin, prickling down her spine, stealing her breath. And he watched her, his silver-green gaze unwavering as he slowly curled his fingers around hers.
His hand was so warm and so large, engulfing hers completely, containing it in a way that she thought might be threatening, yet it wasn’t. It was reassuring, comforting even. But the way her own skin was prickling wasn’t comfortable in the slightest.