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‘This way.’ He gestured across the tiled entranceway to a room that had Bea gasping at its splendid beauty. Paintings adorned the walls, either late Renaissance or Baroque, swirling scenes with clouds and angels, rippling torsos and long white-bearded men brandishing golden spears to offset the panel framing, which was a lustrous golden colour. Candelabras adorned the walls and ceilings, the floor was a polished parquetry. The room was filled with guests dressed in the most incredible ballgowns and tuxedos, so Bea was glad she’d dusted off the dress she’d bought for one of her parents’ Christmas parties in the hope of fitting in.
‘This is a lot of people,’ she remarked grimly.
‘Yes.’ His eyes skimmed hers speculatively; trembles ran the length of her spine.
‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,’ she murmured as they moved through the crowd. He dipped his head closer to hers so that he could hear her better. People were staring at them. She felt a familiar prickling sensation on the back of her neck, aware that, as they cut through the elegantly dressed guests, heads were turning, scanning Ares first and then Bea, appraising her in a way that filled her veins with ice. She moved a little to the side, putting even more distance between them.
She didn’t belong with him. She wasn’t good enough for him.
It was just like being with her picture-perfect adoptive family. Bea was an outsider.
A waiter passed with a tray of drinks and Bea swiped a glass of champagne from it, her large hazel eyes almost the colour of burned caramel in the atmospheric lighting.
‘Why did you bring me here tonight?’
His expression was quizzical. ‘We covered this. I didn’t want to arrive alone.’
She waved a hand through the air. ‘Fine. But surely there are dozens of women who would have jumped at the chance to be your date?’
His lips flattened into a line that spoke of disapproval at her questions.
‘So why not ask one of them?’ she insisted.
‘Because I do not want any complications.’
She frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
He lifted his shoulders in a laconic shrug. ‘It means that I didn’t particularly want a date on my arm, just a companion. No expectations, no promises. No...romance.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘And any woman you asked would have expected more from you?’
He grimaced. ‘There is always that risk.’
‘So you don’t date?’
He nodded once. ‘I date. But not in the way you might expect.’
She laughed unexpectedly. ‘How many ways are there?’
His look was droll. ‘There is dating because you believe in the fairy tale, and there is dating because you enjoy companionship and sex.’
Heat burst through her. She found it impossible to breathe.
‘And I only do the latter.’
Bea opened her mouth to say something but a man approached them at that exact moment, and she was immensely glad. It was clear that the gentleman—Ares referred to him as Harry—was intent on having an in-depth discussion with Ares about an investment in Argentina. Bea shifted sideways, more than happy to leave Ares be—and to get her head together.
Ever since he’d arrived to collect her, things had been spiralling wildly out of control and yet his assertion just now that he didn’t welcome the complications of romance only served to reinforce the parameters of tonight. After all, they weren’t dating in the hope of the fairy tale and she certainly wasn’t going to have sex with him. Which meant this was business, pure and simple. She should have felt relieved by that, shouldn’t she?
Ares had learned, with difficulty, to control his emotions. As a child he’d frequently felt lost, angry, hurt, damaged and broken, and as a teenager he’d been terrified but he’d known he couldn’t reveal that to Matthaios, who’d depended on him for everything. He’d also realised that the more emotionally he behaved, the worse things got for them. He’d always been big for his age and the sight of a glowering, thundercloud-faced seventeen-year-old had hardly endeared them to the tourists they were depending on for small change. He could control his emotions with a vice-like skill, except recently.
Since Danica had come into his life he’d felt that control slipping, and tonight it was basically non-existent. He watched Bea walk away, catching the tiniest glimpse of her shoes as her skirts swished with her, and wishing more than anything that she’d stayed by his side. He’d liked the way she’d felt there, tucked against him, her softness the perfect antidote to his muscular strength. Instead, though, she weaved through the crowd; an irritating number of other women were wearing black so that, despite her height and natural grace, she disappeared from view far too quickly.
Between scanning the walls for the world class art and making sure she looked busy and distracted so as to avoid entreaties for conversation, Bea was also aware of a young girl with blonde ringlets and a pretty pale blue dress. She stood to the side of a gaily laughing group. From time to time she’d make a foray into the group, tugging on the skirt of one of the women, only to be rebuffed with a shake of the head and a pointed finger back to the wall.
‘I didn’t know there was going to be a real-life princess here!’ Beatrice remarked as she drew closer.
The little girl—Bea would have guessed her age to be six or seven—had eyes that shone when they lifted to Bea’s face. ‘A real princess? Is there really?’
