Page 39 of Modern Romance January 2025 1-4

She looked sharply away, rather than peer up at him in the dim light.

The boy she’d known had been all whipcord strength but lanky by comparison with this man. It was just the hair and the jacket that made her think of him. She blamed the painting of Cropley for bringing the past back to life again.

She hitched a shaky breath and stepped to one side, ignoring her rocketing pulse.

He sidestepped too.

‘Pardon.’ She moved to the other side of the corridor just as he moved that way.

Portia paused, deciding it was better to stand and let him enter rather than try dancing around him.

Except he didn’t move, just stood, stopping her exit.

‘Well, well, well. Imagine meeting you here, Princess.’

Heat doused her in a rush that made her cheeks burn. A second later the burn became a chill so absolute it felt like she’d turned to ice.

That voice.Once familiar. But she’d never heard it sound like this. So harsh.

Only one person had ever called her Princess. It had been their secret joke. He’d likened her to Sleeping Beauty, trapped in a castle surrounded by roses, waiting to be woken.

You woke all right. You lost your naïveté quickly.

In the end she’d rescued herself from her thorny prison.

Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her head while her heart beat a sickening tattoo high in her throat.

The clouds that had blocked the daylight filtering through the courtyards must have lifted. Or the staff had noticed how dim the lights were in the walkway and brightened them.

Whatever the reason she saw him clearly now.

Denim blue eyes against olive skin and glossy black hair. The unusual combination had always been incredibly captivating. His remarkable bone structure didn’t hurt either, all honed, spare lines and strong, almost arrogant features. All except for his mouth which was wide and beautifully sculpted.

And incredibly soft.

She remembered the feel of it against hers.

It took every scintilla of self-possession not to press her hand to her chest. She struggled to breathe.

She felt winded. Like on the day after her mother’s funeral when she’d saddled her mother’s horse to escape across the fields and taken a bad tumble at a high gate.

A voice came from far away. It was so reedy it took a moment to recognise it as her own. ‘Lex? What are you doing here?’

The stern lines of his features didn’t soften. The only change was the slight rise of slashing black eyebrows.

As if surprised she’d question him?

Once they’d been...

No, don’t go there.

Because now as her lungs and her brain started working again, she remembered he’d feel no pleasure at seeing her.

Instead of answering he stooped to pick something up.

‘You should take more care of your purse.’

Portia looked down to see her bag in his broad hand. She hadn’t even noticed it drop.

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