Page 156 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 5-8

His mother was a spiteful woman, who hit out when thwarted and frequently acted against her own best interests when she felt ignored or insulted.

Telling Clemmie about it would achieve nothing, and for him to successfully negate that threat and protect Clemmie she needed to be here.

He just hoped that the fact he had invited some guests that would require his mother to be on her best behaviour would save Clemmie from the worst of his mother’s spite.

‘This place looks deserted,’ she said.

The men carrying their luggage had already vanished, and they stood alone amidst the carefully tended gardens of a courtyard garden, complete with fountains and statuary and hedges trimmed with surgical precision into the shape of leaping dolphins.

‘Would that it were... I realise it can be intimidating,’ he conceded.

‘I’m not intimidated.’

‘Fair enough.’

Clemmie smiled, grateful that he hadn’t called her out on the obvious lie. The place was as scary as hell—on so many levels.

‘I’ll give you a guided tour later. It’s basically a museum stroke art gallery—at least that’s the way I think of it.’

‘Not home?’

She was not surprised when he shook his head.

‘Is it open to the public?’

‘It is my intention that it will be. I expect the news to go down like a lead balloon. Sharing is not in the Perez family’s vocabulary.’

‘You really have come here looking for a fight,’ she observed.

Was she to be stuck in the middle?

Her accusation drew from him the glimmer of a grim smile. ‘My private apartments are in the bell tower,’ he said, and tipped his head to a building on the far side of the courtyard they stood in. ‘It is as far away as possible from the areas occupied by other family members. I took it over after my grandfather died. Not the furniture, though—his tastes were rather...erm... Gothic. Come on.’

Inside the building, she immediately understood his ‘museum’ description. The stone walls of the corridor he led her down were covered in what had to be priceless tapestries, and the vivid tiles underfoot were obviously ancient. Chandeliers hung from the dark wooden rafters overhead and the entire place had an almost ecclesiastical hush. There was no sound but the noise of their footsteps.

There was nothing Gothic about the suite of rooms that they ended up in. She got the impression of light and space. The furniture was antique, but not in a way that made you afraid to touch it, and books were haphazardly arranged in several bookcases. The walk-in closets in the main bedroom were vast and mirror-lined, and looking at the massive bed, with its Moorish carved headboard, made her imagination spike, causing her body to flush with desire as she imagined ending up there.

‘I could live in that bathroom,’ she called out, emerging from the first of two bathrooms, which boasted a massive copper bath set on a raised plinth. There was nothing ancient about the plumbing.

Joaquin, who had stayed in the salon while she explored, had poured himself a drink.

He offered her one, but she refused.

‘Are you hungry? Dinner won’t be before eight.’

She shook her head. She had eaten on the plane, choosing her food from a menu that had been prepared by a Michelin starred chef.

He put down his glass and walked across the room, coming up behind her to slide his hands to her hips and pull her hard against him.

She sighed, her eyes closing as he lifted her hair to kiss his way up her neck before he turned her to face him.

‘You look good in this,’ he said, tugging her cotton shirt out of her jeans and sliding his hands up her warm back. ‘You look better without it, though.’

‘Yes, I do,’ she agreed, her voice a low, throaty purr as she felt his hand work its way around to her breast. Anticipation hardened her nipples.

‘Talking of clothes...’ he said.

She squirmed. He still hadn’t got as far as her breast. ‘We weren’t.’

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