Chapter Three #2
She bit the side of her cheek as he closed the gap between them, and she found herself in the gravitational field of his body.
For a moment he held her eyes captive just as he had up on the roof of the hotel.
As if he was hungry and fierce and unstoppable and that urbane, civilised exterior was just a veneer.
Her toes curled up in her shoes as he reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone.
Swiping across the screen, he held out the phone.
It was a photo of a young woman with glossy dark hair and bee-stung lips that were pulled into a smile that made the camera’s flash unnecessary because her beauty was luminous.
‘My sister, Ariana, is twenty-four, but she’s particularly young for her age, for which I am partially to blame. I am her guardian, and she’s grown up protected and indulged by everyone around her so she is unusually trusting and naive, enough to believe that she is in love, and perhaps she is.’
There was a tension to him now that hadn’t been there before, as if instead of talking about love he was picking his way through a field of landmines.
Then again, that was probably how love made him feel; otherwise, why would he have fled so publicly from his bride?
‘Perhaps she is,’ he repeated, this time placing an emphasis on the she.
‘Which is why I’ve sent her to relax at a spa in Mexico with her godmother.
But—’ more emphasis ‘—as for her beau, I would imagine David Arteta’s affections are more deeply stirred by the trust fund she is set to inherit on her twenty-fifth birthday in just under seven months. Of which he is, no doubt, fully aware.’
There was a coldness to his voice now, and she felt a shiver run down her spine—and something a little like pity for David Arteta. Ares Konstantinou would be a formidable opponent.
She cleared her throat, took a breath. ‘And there’s no possibility that she could be pregnant?’
His profile was like a granite cliff face. ‘None. She did a test at the spa. They insist on it because some of the treatments are not recommended for pregnant women.’
‘It’s good to have that confirmed. And how old is Mr Arteta?’
He frowned, seemingly surprised by her question. Or perhaps it was merely being reminded that she was his lawyer.
‘Twenty-three.’
They were both young, then. Did that mean David Arteta was a gold-digger? Possibly. But if she had to guess, judging by the photo of Ariana, the money was probably just a potential bonus right now.
She met his gaze. ‘In my experience, young love is often oblivious to real-world matters.’
He stared at her, his mouth curling into something almost like a sneer. ‘A lawyer who believes in love. You surprise me. I wouldn’t have had you down as a hearts-and-flowers kind of woman.’
Her shoulders stiffened. Did she believe in love?
Once upon a time, absolutely and unsurprisingly.
Her mother’s tragic death and her father’s status as a grief-struck widower with a tiny baby more or less demanded that their love be the real deal, till-death-us-do-part type of love.
A love that had defied death through her.
But then she’d had that terrible conversation with her father and her view had changed.
Everything had changed.
The foundations of her identity had been smashed to rubble, and it was impossible not to look at the world around her and see only its fragility and falsity.
And her perception of the world wasn’t the only thing that had changed. She felt different. There was a hollowness at the heart of her, a lack of certainty. Loving someone, being loved, felt suddenly out of reach, because how could you love or be loved when you weren’t even sure of who you were?
But the scabs had hardly healed on those wounds, and now was not the time to be picking at them.
She met Ares’s narrow-eyed gaze. ‘I’m not. But even if I was, love is as irrelevant to the law as your sister’s and her fiancé’s ages, given that both are legally old enough to marry.’
‘She will not be marrying him,’ he said, and there was an authority to his voice, a reminder that he was a man used to getting his own way.
‘Whatever my sister might think, that is the true purpose of this prenup. To deter. To discourage. To dissuade her lover by making it absolutely clear that it will not be financially worthwhile for him to pursue her down the aisle.’
Was that why he’d bolted from her bed? From his wedding? Had he overlooked a prenup for himself and fled to protect his finances? Was that why he wanted to get everything watertight for his sister?
Leaving those questions unasked, she nodded. ‘I understand. And there are clauses and conditions that can help with that.’
Flicking open the folder, she scanned the document.
‘Given the short time between your sister meeting Mr Arteta and the two of them getting engaged, I would start by suggesting an extended cooling-off period. Typically, twenty-eight days is considered the bare minimum between any prenup being signed and the marriage. As a rule, I always push for longer. It will give your sister pause for thought, and Mr Arteta may well lack the patience to wait. But if they do go ahead and the marriage fails, the court will be satisfied that both parties entered into the agreement of their own free will, which makes it more likely to uphold the terms of the prenup.’
She took a breath and braced her shoulders, but there was no point in prolonging this agony. ‘But this is something you can discuss with my replacement.’
There was a short, unpleasant silence. Ares’s expression didn’t alter, but there was an undercurrent of hardness in his voice as he said, ‘Your replacement?’
She lifted a hand to her throat, feeling her pulse jerking under the tips of her fingers, and automatically, to calm herself, she reached beneath her blouse to touch her mother’s engagement ring. His gaze followed the movement of her hand, his pupils drilling through the thin fabric.
Now, the chill in the air had nothing to do with the air conditioning. His gaze was so harsh and unwavering she felt as if it was turning her to ice, and she had to force the muscles in her face to smile stiffly.
‘Obviously I’m not suggesting we need to discuss what happened between us after the anniversary party.’
A sense of foreboding snaked down her spine as Ares straightened his shoulders, and she wondered if she should have kept quiet. But that was why she had come to London. To stop hiding, to stop pretending. She didn’t want to live like that anymore. To be the skeleton in someone’s wardrobe.
She forced her chin up.
‘But I would also prefer to be transparent—’
‘Transparent?’ He stared down at her, his mouth curving into what could only be described as a mocking smile, his gaze rolling through her like storm-clouds so that it was suddenly hard to catch her breath, and she wondered if her heart had ever beaten so loudly.
She cleared her throat. ‘Yes, transparent. Given our…history, I think it goes without saying that another lawyer would be a better fit for you,’ she said carefully.
‘So what I would recommend is for the two of us to come up with a suitable explanation for why that should be the case. For example, you could say you would prefer to deal with a partner as opposed to an associate. That’s just an idea, of course. You might have your own thoughts.’
* * *
Staring down at Willa Hamilton, Ares felt his whole body tense.
It had bugged him for weeks now. Not knowing her full name. Even though it was better that way. It made that whole crazy night easier to file under Miscellaneous. Or that was the theory, but the reality was that he couldn’t let it go.
Couldn’t let her go.
She was captive inside his head, still naked, the smell of her damp, warm skin playing havoc with his thoughts, making his own skin twitch like a dog with fleas.
And now she was here and, apparently, she was his lawyer.
Getting to his feet when Larry came into the room, he hadn’t registered the woman at first. Partly because he was focusing on Larry. And partly because it hadn’t occurred to him that Nancy Kemp’s replacement might be the woman he’d slept with two weeks ago.
He stared at Willa, disbelief vying with fury, except fury didn’t really do justice to the sheer scale and breadth of what he was feeling, what he’d felt when he found that ring.
It shouldn’t hurt so much. He’d told himself that at the time, and it was even more true now, and yet it did.
It felt like a betrayal. That she could lie to him, that her body had lied to him—
Their night together had been a new kind of pleasure. The heat of her and his own pulsing hunger had made something charged and unparalleled shimmer through his body.
How could that have been a lie?
But it wasn’t just that he felt betrayed physically.
She’d been so direct that night, so explicit, never mind that she’d felt even better than she looked or that her body had fitted with his in all the right ways. He had trusted her, believed her, and that was what hurt.
His head was spinning. Or maybe that was the walls.
Why had she picked him? Why was she betraying her fiancé? How did she live with herself with such apparent sang-froid? He’d wanted answers to those questions. He still wanted answers. One way or another, he intended to get them.
And maybe in the moment, he’d gotten confused into thinking their night together had somehow forged a connection beyond bodies and breath. But he’d been wrong.
She’d been wrong too, to think that she was in charge here.
‘I don’t think so.’
He let his gaze rest on her face, wanting to see her reaction. He was not disappointed.
She frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Your recommendation. I’ve decided to ignore it.’
Her eyes slammed into his, and he felt as if he’d been kicked by a horse. Her irises darkened, he realised, when she was angry and frustrated.
And aroused.