Page 3 of Modern Romance June 2025 5-8

Her mind drifted as adrenaline and panic powered her through the pain.

She hadn’t been thinking at all when he’d swiped her rucksack because she’d been transfixed by Santiago De Montoya—after spotting him on a balcony above the square.

She’d been glued to every aspect of his body language while he was deep in conversation with his girlfriend.

He had looked so tall and striking in the designer suit, his features so harsh and arresting in the light cast by wall sconces—the patrician nose, the stubbled jawline, the high cheekbones and the waves of carefully styled jet-black hair. But he had also been strangely detached, his stance radiating controlled irritation, while his date—a leggy, poised blonde—had seemed desperate. The woman had looked heartbroken when they’d appeared together at the building’s exit moments later. But just as the arriving limo had obscured Cerys’s view she had felt her bag detaching from her shoulders, the straps cut.

‘Stop running!Estùpida!’ The gruff shout coming from behind Cerys echoed off the walls of the alley.

Just as she was trying to make sense of it—who was calling who stupid—the thief stopped abruptly at the far end of the street and turned to face her.

He was only a few yards ahead now. Sweat dripped off his features. But this close she could see the scars on his face, and the anger in his eyes. And how enormous he was.

Oh, crap!

She skidded to a stop. The running footsteps behind her echoed in the silent alleyway, but were barely audible above her thundering heartbeat.

The thief shouted something in Catalan, then dumped the bag at his feet and tore it open.

‘Stop, that’s mine…’ she shouted as he grabbed her travel wallet and her phone and stuffed them both into his back pocket.

She rushed forward without thinking, determined to stop him, as he began yanking out her clothes and throwing them onto the cobblestones, searching for more valuables.

‘No, not that, please.’ She grabbed his wrist as he lifted out her mother’s journal. This close, she could smell his sweat—acrid, bitter. Fury flashed across his face, before something which felt like a brick slammed into the side of her head.

She shot backwards and landed on her back, dazed—when several shapes appeared, large and blurry, to grab her attacker with a roar of rage.

Her vision cleared, enough to see four people become two, the other man throwing a series of sharp punches. She tried to sit up, her face numb, her bum in agony where she’d hit the paving stones.

Was she dreaming? She had to be, because the man grappling with the thief was the same man she’d watched avidly minutes before. But as the dull thumps and grunts echoed in the alley—the two men tearing at each other, struggling to land punches—she couldn’t shake the sense of unreality. Of floating in a strange and painful dream.

What was Álvaro’s son doing here? He didn’t look detached any more, his jacket gone, his shirt torn, his face rigid with fury. He gained the upper hand, wrapping his forearm around the thief’s throat from behind, but then the guy elbowed him hard in the ribs. He bent over, grunting in pain… The thief scrambled away, pausing to grab the dropped journal as he disappeared into the darkness, his face bleeding.

‘No!’ she cried, lurching onto unsteady feet.

Everything hurt, but she had to get the diary back. She could work for more money, get the travel documents reissued, but the journal was the only connection with her mother she had left.

She tried to run but strong arms banded around her waist from behind, dragging her back against a rock-solid chest.

A musty and compelling mix of laundry detergent and citrus soap and salty sweat filled her aching lungs.

‘I have to get the book,’ she cried in Spanish, struggling against the cast iron hold without success.

‘Stop, it is gone.’ A breathless whisper, low with determination and demand, rasped in her ear. ‘Be still.’ His voice rose with temper and incredulity as she continued to struggle. ‘There is no purpose in being hurt for something you can replace.’

But I can’t replace it.

The thought echoed in her head, even as her strength and panic deserted her until all that was left was dizziness and exhaustion.

Her heavy legs dissolved, her knees buckling, and suddenly she was floating. An impossibly handsome face hovered above her—reminding her of someone else she was sure she’d never seen in real life before. The strong, angular features were so striking and forbidding, but also so familiar, the chocolate-brown eyes shadowed with concern and judgement.

The pain surged, her heart contracting in her chest, but with it came the spurt of adrenaline as a word jumped out at her…

Breathtaking. He’s breathtaking.

Her rescuer’s shirt had been torn open, revealing the tanned column of his throat, and she could see the stubble on his jaw, along with the already darkening bruise on his brow. But as he stared at her, prickling excitement rippled over her skin. His laboured breathing matched her own. The sensation sank low in her abdomen and surged…

…as if a fireworks display was going off in my belly.

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