Page 40 of Modern Romance January 2025 1-4

‘As for what I’m doing here.’ Now he smiled, his mouth curling slowly. But it wasn’t a smile of welcome or approval. It looked...sharp. Razor-sharp. ‘I was buying some artwork, what else?’

Of course he’s not here to see you. He didn’t even know you were here.

A man spoke from behind her shoulder. ‘Mr Tomaras, I thought you’d left.’ Portia turned to see Piers Jameson, the director of the auction house. ‘Can I help you with something...?’

She didn’t hear the rest because she was too busy grappling with what he’d said.

Tomaras.

But his name wasn’t Tomaras! It was Moran. Lex Moran.

‘...old acquaintances.’

Portia only caught the last couple of words when both men turned to look at her. Piers Jamieson with an expression of mixed delight and surprise. Lex with an unreadable stare that nevertheless told her that after all this time he hadn’t forgotten. Or forgiven.

‘Well, what a coincidence.’ Jameson gave her an assessing look. ‘I won’t hold up your reunion. But I’ll send you that modern sculpture catalogue, Mr Tomaras.’

The catalogue Portia was in the process of proofreading before publication.

Alone now with this grim stranger, she was tempted to spin around and go back to her desk, using that as an excuse to avoid further conversation.

Except this was her only chance to see Lex, talk to him. They had unfinished business.

The thought made her throat constrict and her stomach quiver. So much had changed since then.

‘You look as wide-eyed as a rabbit in the spotlight.’

There was no humour in his expression, only a piercing yet distant curiosity, as if she were a specimen ready for dissection. Suddenly she wished they hadn’t met. Even though she’d wished, prayed for this opportunity for years.

Of course he doesn’t care. The past is just that, over and done with.

She shrugged. ‘It’s a surprise, seeing you again.’

‘Don’t you mean, seeing mehere? A working-class lout among the well-heeled?’

Her cheeks turned fiery at his sarcastic tone. But who could blame him? It was a direct quote, after all. Her father hadn’t kept his prejudices to himself.

Suddenly Portia was too bone weary to face this.

‘You look like you need reviving. Come on.’

He tucked his hand beneath her elbow and turned towards the street. Instantly her blood fizzed and her pulse leapt. His fingers tightened convulsively around her as if he felt it too, before he eased his grip. She was aware of a swift, sideways glance, so intense it scorched.

So it’s still there, after all this time.

She’d told herself the attraction was no more than a memory. She couldn’t believe the man beside her felt anything but cold curiosity. As for her own feelings... They were too confused to decipher.

Liar.

Portia found herself walking beside him, incredibly aware of his size, his heat, and a tantalising hint of cologne that made her think of white sand beaches in the sunshine and toned male flesh.

A shiver ripped through her and again his hand tightened. Holding her captive or supporting her?

A bubble of laughter rose in her throat and she wondered if it was hysteria. She felt strange, the street and the other pedestrians blurring as if unreal. The only reality was the man beside her and the queasy mix of excitement and distress roiling in her stomach.

They entered a bar, a famous, exorbitantly priced place that Portia had never visited. The furnishings were opulent and the service discreet as they were led to an alcove booth upholstered in smoky grey velvet.

‘What would you like to drink?’

---