No, of course she wasn’t falling for him. That would be stupid in the extreme, and anyway, she’d never fallen for anyone before so how would she even know if she had?
And apart from all of that, he’d be the worst person to fall for since it was clear he was still grieving his first wife. He might say he’d moved on, but a man of such intense passions didn’t move on so easily.
Rose scrubbed her tears away. There was no point in thinking about her feelings for Ares, no matter what they were. She wasn’t even sure she was going to choose to stay married to him, and even if she did, she didn’t know if he’d want that too. Because it was his choice as well, not just hers.
Regardless, she needed to stop thinking about her feelings and concentrate on the most immediate issue, which was the fact that she now had an identity. She could contact her brother to let him know she was alive.
Except, before that, if she wanted to have the two weeks she’d initially planned, she was going to have to make things right with Ares. She’d apologised for how she’d pushed him, and then she’d thanked him for finding Castor. She couldn’t keep on doing both so perhaps the best way forward was to put the tension of what had happened just before aside and carry on as if it hadn’t happened.
She wouldn’t mention his wife again. She’d leave it up to him if he wanted to talk about it. Then with any luck they could go back to what they’d had in the Cotswolds, that warm intimacy, along with all the physical affection too.
In fact, maybe she should have a shower, then put on the pretty dress she’d spent some of her savings on, the one the sales assistant had assured her would drive her husband mad with desire. Then she’d show him exactly how much she’d missed him.
Pushing herself off the bed, Rose scrubbed away the last of her tears, then strode decisively into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
CHAPTER NINE
ARESSTOODINfront of the fire and knocked back the rest of the very good vodka he’d poured himself, hoping the icy burn of the alcohol would cool the anger that coiled like a dragon inside him.
He’d been petty with Rose, and he knew it. He’d let his anger get the better of him, and that was not permitted. Another example of him not learning the lessons the past had taught him.
He didn’t know how she’d got beneath his defences, but she had, and it was clear to him that he had to stop her from getting any further beneath them. Somehow.
So what if the sympathy in her face and the glitter of grief in her eyes had tugged at something painful inside him even though he hadn’t wanted it to? So what if she’d told him that he didn’t need to blame himself? She was wrong. She was just wrong.
And he wasn’t supposed to care. Yet he’d been angry at having to tell her about Naya, and that anger, both at her and with himself, had made him petty, refusing to comfort her distress as he’d told her about her brother. He hadn’t even put his arms around her.
You didn’t have to tell her about Naya. That was your choice. It’s not fair to take it out on her.
Ares put his empty tumbler on the mantelpiece and stared down into the flames.
It was true, he couldn’t say she’d forced him. He’d made the decision to tell her, and it was his own misjudgement that he’d kept it a secret in the first place. Turning it all into a big deal. That was hardly Rose’s fault.
He let out a breath, rubbing at his brow. He should apologise, especially if he wanted these next two weeks to be as blissful as the last couple in the Cotswolds had been. She’d been distressed and him not doing anything to ease her or comfort her had been cruel, and yes, very petty.
Ares turned from the fire, intending on going upstairs to find her, then froze.
Rose was standing in the doorway. She wore a crimson silk dress with a deep vee neckline and little straps, cut on the bias to hug every one of her generous curves. The colour made her golden skin glow and brought out the sparks in her eyes, her hair a golden halo around her head.
She looked stunningly beautiful.
His body hardened instantly, the weight of the past three months of celibacy descending on him like an anvil. All he wanted was to stride over to her, shove her against a wall and rip her dress away, pour all this sullen anger into her until ecstasy carried it all away.
But he stayed where he was, tense with the effort of mastering himself, because he had an apology to make.
She gave him an uncertain smile. ‘Do you like my dress? I wasn’t sure about it, but the saleswoman said my husband would love it.’
Her husband. Him.
It hit him hard right then. He’d had no issues with thinking about her as his wife, but for some reason, thinking of himself as her husband hadn’t occurred to him. But he was.
And will you fail her like you failed Naya?
A shiver of an emotion he couldn’t identify went through him, chilling him.
He ignored it. ‘Your dress is beautiful,’ he murmured, letting her see the appreciation in his eyes. ‘And so are you.’
She flushed, looking pleased. ‘Thank you.’