Page 111 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 5-8

‘Sir, you need to be checked out. The burns...’

Joaquin shrugged dismissively. He didn’t need to be a medical expert to diagnose that the pinkness of his skin under the sooty grime was superficial.

‘I’m fine,’ he responded, ignoring their frustration as he channelled his inner ‘billionaire in charge’ persona. It was a relief to step away from the unaccustomed feeling of helplessness, or at least to smother it.

He repeated his demand to see Clemmie, to be told what was going on, until people stopped looking sympathetic and nervously directed him to sit in the waiting area until they got someone more senior to speak to him.

Fighting the clutch of dread in the pit of his belly, feeling by turns furious and terrified, Joaquin was oblivious to the attention his physical presence, along with the cuts and grazes, the blackened face and singed clothes, was attracting. Even more attention came his way when the large TV screen on the wall playing silently was suddenly lit up with images of a tall man backlit by fire carrying a red-head. A red circle appeared on the screen, to highlight the sparkle of a ring on the unconscious figure’s finger.

It began to play again, on a loop, as the newsreader at the top of the screen spoke and the commentary scrolled across the screen, putting words to the action that he assumed had been recorded on someone’s phone.

The third replay filtered into his consciousness.

He swore under his breath. Just what he needed. He was now a billionaire hero who was engaged. To prove the point there was now an enlarged picture of the ring on Clemmie’s finger.

He was suddenly conscious of several phones being turned his way, recording images that would no doubt be added to the rubbish already out there.

His jaw set, Joaquin got to his feet as a man appeared, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and his tie tucked into his shirt. At last—someone with the authority to make a damned decision.

CHAPTER THREE

TENMINUTESLATERJoaquin walked into a room with the medic, who was explaining that his fiancée was asleep.

On the point of correcting him, Joaquin paused. It seemed worth playing the fiancée card...the risk that came with denying it might restrict the access he had finally been granted.

Would he live to regret his split-second decision?

That was not a question he asked himself.

‘Your fiancée has sustained some bruises and grazes, and a head injury, but other than that she is fine.’

Joaquin glossed over the fiancée reference once more—that was a correction for the future. His focus was the fact that Clemmie did not look fine to him at all.

He voiced his opinion. And then it was one of those occasions when his identity had gone before him. Because moments later—or at least it felt that way—the suits arrived.

He quickly separated the medics from the managers and addressed his questions to the medics, making it clear that he did not wish to patronised.

The replies he received were soothing, but it didn’t change the sick feeling of anxiety in the pit of his belly that he couldn’t even pretend was not fear. Not that this inner fear showed on his face; he had perfected his mask a long time ago and few people could see beyond it.

Clemmie could—but then he didn’t have to disguise things around her. She was a rare someone who would never exploit a weakness.

He controlled his impatience and listened to the doctor who had brought him here explaining the situation. Irritatingly, he was clearly of the mindset that favoured never using one word when ten would do and throwing in a few technical terms to baffle his audience.

But when he took away the word salad it seemed to Joaquin that the main concern was Clemmie’s head injury. His stomach contracted viciously as his dark, silvered glance slid to the line of neat stitches on Clemmie’s brow, surrounded by a darkened swelling that was half hidden by her red hair. Someone had made a passing attempt to wash out the blood.

‘The X-rays and scans are clear,’ the medic reiterated. ‘And, as I said, other than some cuts and bruises—’

‘Then why isn’t she awake?’

‘Head injuries are unpredictable, and when she does wake she might be totally fine.’

Joaquin heard the‘might’.

‘And if she’s not totally fine?’ His expression gave no clue to the fact that he had to force the question out—that this was a question he did not even want to think, let alone voice.

She had been in his car; he had been driving. Anything that happened would be his responsibility.

‘Head injuries are unpredictable,’ the doctor reiterated, lifting his hand as if to clasp the younger man on the arm and then changing his mind. He didn’t have to be psychic to know he was dealing with a man who wanted facts, not empathy. ‘After a concussion there can be some...confusion, but we are not anticipating any permanent cognitive impairment in your fiancée’s case.’

---