Page 82 of Modern Romance Collection March 2025 (1-4)

‘No. Rosaria brought them.’

Rage burning back up in him, he’d kicked his stool away and prowled over to her. ‘You might have my grandmother fooled, but you don’t fool me. My sister was an innocent until you came into our lives.’

She’d stepped back against the counter and lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Then you must be the fool if you really believe that.’

He’d clasped her shoulders and brought his face down to hers. He’d been so close the mintiness of her breath and remnants of the sultry perfume she’d drenched herself in before she’d led his sister away to near death had swirled headily into his senses. ‘You are like Circe,’ he’d whispered, sliding his hands up her throat and spreading his fingers over her silky-smooth cheeks in a clasp. He’d felt the beat of her pulse beneath his little finger. ‘Beautiful on the outside but filled with malignancy.’ He’d brushed his mouth against her wide lips…such succulent lips… Heard the quickening of her breath. ‘I pity the man who falls under your spell and tastes your poisoned fruit.’

Headily aware of how close he was to taking a taste of the fruit for himself, he’d let her go and walked away.

And now, seven years later, his body still vibrating from the charge of awareness that had pulsed between them outside their bedrooms, Diaz hauled himself out of the pool and castigated himself for how nearly he’d succumbed to the irresistible temptation that was Rose again.

For the first time in so very long he’d watched the flame of awareness reawaken in her. Felt the flame that lived inside him rouse in response.

Only the instinct that came from knowing her so well had enabled him to temper that flame.

It was too soon.

When he made his move, he needed it to be with the real Rose, not the Rose with eyes bruised from exhaustion and a fog in her brain, but the Rose who didn’t shy away from confrontation and always,alwaysmatched fire with fire.

The Rose whose near-death still brought him out in a cold sweat just to remember.

Diaz had spent half his entire adult life fighting the toxic spell she’d cloaked him with but, as he’d learned that fateful night, one taste of her poisoned fruit created a singular hunger that neither time nor distance could erase. God alone knew how hard he’d tried to erase it.

Some fights could not be won.

For good or ill, Rose was as much a part of him as their babies were. And he was as much a part of her.

* * *

She must have imagined it, Rose told herself fretfully as she paced her bedroom and wished her babies to wake for the distraction they would provide. She’d had a little more sleep than she’d become accustomed to but nowhere near enough. She would need to sleep for a week to catch up on all the sleep she’d missed these last five months. Sleep for a month!

Sleep deprivation was proven to cause hallucinations, so that’s what the look she’d seen in Diaz’s eyes must have been. A hallucination evoked because her awareness of him had uncoiled from its dormancy and for the first time since the birth of their daughters, she’d been entirely alone with him. That was the only explanation.

She’d known since that awful night Rosaria almost died that he desired her and that he despised his desire almost as much as he despised her. The chemistry between them had simmered like poison for seven long years until it had finally taken possession of them both.

It made her want to weep to remember how beautiful it had been. His tenderness. The care he’d taken of her once he’d realised…

She squeezed her eyes shut to block the memories. Remembering was unbearable. It only brought home her desolation when she’d found his note where his head should have been.

In all those years his desire had always been wrapped up in resentment, the pulse of attraction in his eyes always accompanied by a twist of his lips.

There had been no twisted lips when his hooded stare had met hers that night.

And there had been no twisted lips when their eyes had collided that morning and that electrical pulse had ensnared them.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Areyounotenjoying your meal?’ Diaz asked politely that evening.

Rose, realising she was just aimlessly pushing food around her bone china plate, quickly popped a lemon potato into her mouth. She didn’t want him to guess how excruciating this meal had been for her.

She’d been skittish the whole day, her heart jumping into her throat every time footsteps approached. None of those footsteps had been Diaz’s so she’d been on tenterhooks for nothing, right until a maid entered the girls’ nursery with the request that Rose join him for dinner.

She couldn’t believe she was back to being on tenterhooks around him. Couldn’t believe how swiftly awareness had cloaked her again, and now she was eating what she knew to be a delicious meal but could hardly taste because she was too busy trying to tune out Diaz’s deliciously masculine scent and the fact of his strong thigh being only inches from hers.

Trying. And failing miserably. Failing, too, to stop herself side-eying his long, tanned fingers and the crisp white shirt covering his muscular torso.

She should have moved her place setting. The mahogany table was huge. If she’d moved her stuff to the far end, he’d have been only a blur in her vision. They could have shouted their polite, stilted conversation.

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