Page 64 of Modern Romance Collection March 2025 (1-4)

Spaniard’s Shock Heirs

Michelle Smart

Sorry for ruining your life again, but I’m pregnant.”

A siren roared in Diaz’s ears.

He grabbed the side of the desk that was the only thing stopping him from slumping to the floor. “How?”

Her answering laughter contained no humor. “How do you think?”

“But… We…”

“No, we didn’t.”

An image flashed. Rose pinned beneath him. High cheekbones slashed with colour. Blue eyes liquid with the same desire that had liquidized his loins…

He hung his head and tried to breathe. Tried to think coherently. That night. He never allowed himself to think about it, had locked it away.

He’d woken with the soft weight of Rose pressed against his skin and a suffocating weight pressing down on his chest. All the emotions that had taken him over when making love to her had compressed under the sense of doom throbbing in the back of his head and he’d known before opening his eyes that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life.

Forgetting that mistake had been the hardest task he’d ever set himself.

Rose, pregnant?

“Oh, and just for extra fun, we’re having twins.”

CHAPTER ONE

DiazMartinezstrodethrough the lobby of his Mayfair hotel and descended the wide stairs to the restaurant. He noted with unsmiling satisfaction that every table was occupied, the hum of chatter only slightly higher than the specially chosen melodious background music. A number of diners were taking pictures of their food. Their expressions suggested their social media postings would be favourable. As it should be.

In the kitchen, ordered chaos ensued. The head chef, whose famous name was on the restaurant door, ‘Tom Carlow at the Martinez,’ noticed Diaz’s appearance but was too busy to do anything but nod an acknowledgement. As it should be.

When Diaz had bought the worn-down hotel two years ago, he’d known it would take time and money to bring it up to the standard of his other hotels. The previous owners had driven it to the wall. By the time they’d been forced to sell, their client base, fed up with overinflated prices for substandard service and crumbling decor, had deserted them, the hotel reduced to ridicule.

No one was ridiculing it now. A full-scale refurbishment followed by stringent hiring and an unrelenting attention to detail meant the grand reopening, filled with specially curated guests, had been hailed a spectacular success. Hiring the Michelin-starred Tom Carlow as head chef had been just one of many components that had seen the latest chain in Diaz’s empire pay back tenfold the investment he’d put into it.

Back in the lobby, he climbed the cantilevered stairs two at a time to the first floor and swept past the doormen and into the hotel’s real money pit. The casino.

Almost nine o’clock on a Saturday evening and already the atmosphere was thrumming. Where the music in the restaurant was kept low-key to enable his diners to relax, the volume in the casino was upped, the tempo fast. In another hour, all the gambling tables would be full and would remain full until the early hours. People would have to wait their turn to play on the slots. As it should be.

Satisfied that standards hadn’t slipped in his absence, he headed for the door at the far end, using his fingerprint to open it.

Imagining the large Scotch he’d have when he retired to his suite for the night, he walked the narrow corridor to the far end, then used his fingerprint and inputted the access code to enter his security hub.

The Hub, as it was known, was the unseen heart of his casino, containing almost as many monitors as patrons. Not an inch of the first floor went unobserved. Everyone, from the guests to the croupiers to the tellers, knew they were being watched. None of them knew just how closely.

‘Has it started?’ Diaz asked, taking his usual seat.

‘Eight minutes,’ Jorge answered, not averting his eyes from the screens in front of him.

Once a month, Diaz hosted a private poker event that was the most sought-after ticket in the gambling world. He rotated the venue. Last month he’d held it in Madrid, next month it would be in Paris. To gain entry, you had to apply. For your application to be successful, you had to produce proof of a minimum ten million euros or equivalent in a deposit account. To play, you needed to bring that ten million euros—or equivalent—in cash. Sixteen players. Winner takes all. One hundred and sixty million euros. Ten per cent handed to the casino—Diaz—in fees.

Diaz always made sure to be there, not to gamble—to his mind, only fools gambled—but to oversee. When that kind of money was at stake, anything could happen.

He studied the monitors surveying the private room the event was being held in. Chyna, hostess that evening, was welcoming the selected fools into the room. ‘Usual faces?’

‘Mostly. A couple of new ones.’

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