His eyes flicked to her hair and again the punch of heat returned. Never in her wildest imagination would she have thought the colour of her hair would produce such a reaction. But every time Ari’s gaze slid hungrily over her hair she felt hot, bothered and more than a little on edge. Before she could stop it, a small sound escaped her throat.
His gaze locked on hers once more. The air thickened around them, blocking the sounds of the party and locking them in their own sensual cocoon.
‘Please, don’t.’ She was very much aware that she was begging. For as long as she could remember she’d wanted someone to notice her, give her a little bit of their time and attention. Although she’d found that to some extent with Terry and Sarah, it ultimately wasn’t the right kind.
The attention Ari was giving her now felt like the right kind. Which was extremely frightening because it was the skull-and-crossbones kind, guaranteed to annihilate her with minimal effort.
‘I’m as puzzled by my fascination as you are, pethi mou,’ he murmured. ‘Or perhaps my inner ten-year-old is still reeling from the discovery that his favourite TV actress’s red hair came from a bottle,’ he said dryly.
‘How traumatic for you. Would it be better if I dyed my hair black or shaved it all off?’ she half teased.
He sucked in a sharp breath and his grip tightened around his glass. ‘I invite you to dare,’ he breathed in a low, dangerous voice.
‘You know, this would be the moment when I tell you that it’s my hair, and I can do with it what I choose.’
‘And I would in turn threaten to lock you up in a faraway dungeon until you came to your senses.’
Against her will, she felt a smile curve her lips. His mouth twitched too, as if sharing her amusement, but then his face turned serious again, and they went back to staring at each other.
Dirty, delicious thoughts of dungeons and shirtless heroes cascaded through her brain, sending spikes of desire darting through her body.
Realising just how pathetic she was being to take pleasure in the possessive tone in his voice, she cleared her throat. ‘Can I make a suggestion?’
He took a sip of his drink without taking his eyes off her. She desperately wished she could follow suit but she needed to stay as clear-headed as possible. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Perhaps if we agree to stay out of each other’s way, this...thing will eventually go away.’
‘Haven’t you heard the new saying? Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder?’
‘I think we can both agree our hearts aren’t the problem here.’
His face slowly froze until it was a hard, inscrutable mask. ‘No. They’re most definitely not.’ The depth of feeling in his voice made something sharp catch in her chest. Again that torment stained his expression.
‘You must miss her very much. Your wife,’ she blurted before she could stop herself.
His fingers tightened so forcefully around the stem of his glass she feared it would snap. ‘Sofia’s death is a loss to the world. And to me.’ The agony in his voice cut right into her heart.
Unable to look into his face, bleak with pain and guilt, she glanced away. Her own fingers were curled around the warming glass of champagne which trembled wildly, threatening to spill its contents. Hurriedly, she set it down on a nearby table.
‘I never got the chance to say it before. I’m sorry...for your loss. Um, please excuse me. I think I’m needed now.’
She hurried away before she could do or say something rash, like ask him to define what that kind of love felt like. Or expose the emotion writhing through her that felt shamefully like jealousy.
She’d wanted a love like that for herself, had built all her hopes around Morgan, who had taken her desperate need and used it to blackmail her. Fate had kicked her in the teeth for daring to hold out her hand and ask.
She wasn’t foolish enough to even contemplate asking a second time. The lesson had been well and truly delivered.
* * *
Ari watched Perla walk away, stunned by what he’d just revealed. He never spoke about Sofia. Never. Not to his brothers, not to his mother. And certainly not to traitorous strangers he’d made the colossal mistake of sleeping with.
And yet, with one simple sentence, he’d spilled his guts; would’ve spilled some more if Perla hadn’t rushed away. Because the admission of how Sofia—a warm-hearted, gentle innocent whom he’d ruthlessly clung onto and used to soothe his ravaged soul right after his father’s betrayal—had come into his life and ultimately left it, had been right there on his tongue.