Page 65 of Modern Romance Collection March 2025 (1-4)

Diaz nodded his approval. Fresh blood was always welcome.

To apply, you needed to know about the event and only a very select number of people were in the know. Those who attended did not like to risk their places by widening the competition pool. It was Jorge’s job to vet the applicants and rubber-stamp their place.

‘Coffee?’

Jorge didn’t look up from the screens.‘Por favor.’

There were three coffee machines strategically located in The Hub. The work in here being too important to distract the staff with trivialities, Diaz always sorted his own coffee.

A couple of minutes later and he placed Jorge’s coffee in front of him, peering over his shoulder to see what was happening in the private room. The players had taken their seats. Two tables. Eight players per table. Top four players of each table went into the final…

A jolt of electricity zinged through his veins. He blinked to clear his vision and moved his stare to a different monitor, which was fixed, face on, on players seven and eight from table two.

He swore.

Jorge gave him a quick side-eye. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Player fifteen.’

‘Ms Gregory? What about her?’

His throat had gone dry. ‘What the hell is she doing here?’

‘She passed all the checks. Do you know the lady?’

The lady in question, as if sensing their attention on her, lifted her gaze to the monitor they were watching her through.

Diaz’s heart thumped.

Clenching his jaw, he gave a grim laugh. ‘That’s no lady. That’s my wife.’

* * *

He’d seen her. She could feel his stare on her. She’d always been able to feel it, a fuzzy electrical sensation like nothing else on this earth.

Rose had been fourteen when she’d first experienced it. She’d been hiding at the bottom of the garden under the cherry tree, headphones on, listening to music, trying to drown out the noises…screams…in her head and calm the terror that had gripped her so tightly. As young as she’d been, she’d known she couldn’t fall apart. Her mother needed her. Mrs Martinez needed her.

She’d felt Diaz’s presence before she’d seen him, like an internal antenna had come to life and started softly buzzing, and hurriedly pulled her headphones off.

He’d stopped a good distance from the tree. Even then, a decade past, he’d not wanted to get close to her. She’d repelled him from the start.

His hands had been jammed in his shorts pockets, she remembered, a black T-shirt of a punk rock album cover covering his gangly torso. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mother,’ he’d said stiffly.

She’d wanted to throw her phone at him. ‘Did your grandmother tell you to say that?’

‘I would have said it anyway.’

‘Well, you’ve said it now so don’t let me keep you.’

He’d turned away and then turned back. Hesitated before quietly asking, ‘How are you holding up?’

Her response had been to stare at him defiantly and ram the headphones back on. She would not give Diaz Martinez the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Any hint of vulnerability and he’d use it as a weapon against her.

It was with the same defiance eleven years on that she gazed into the monitor now. The same knowledge that she had to remain strong for what was to follow, whatever the turbulence beneath her skin.

The first cards had been dealt. She looked at hers and looked at the table cards. She had possibly the worst poker hand it was possible to have. She pushed all her playing chips into the pile. ‘All in.’

There were audible gasps from her fellow players.

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