Page 126 of Modern Romance October 2025 5-8
‘Step One...’
‘Catch his eye,’ Sam added knowingly, having been heavily involved in the plan herself.
‘Which will happen at the party tonight,’ Erin concluded.
A party that, despite the money she had from the sale of her startup, she’d never have been allowed into if Marcus Rothsburry, the British billionaire whose party it was, hadn’t hired Angelique Xavier to plan it. Angelique was one of the first members of Conxion that Erin had come to know and the guest list she’d secretly added Erin’s name to only proved the truth behind the running joke about Conxion: that between them, they had the power to topple heads of state and small countries should they wish to.
Erin looked back to the yacht, where a speedboat was waiting for two female passengers to board from the deck. Erin picked up her binoculars but no matter how hard she looked, she couldn’t find a trace of Enzo anywhere.
He couldn’t even be bothered to see his guests off after a night of what—if the rumours were to be believed—would have been orgasmic delight. Multiple times.
‘Are you sure that this is something you want?’ Sam probed gently.
Erin narrowed her gaze through the binoculars, considering the question.
Was she sure that she could marry a man she didn’t like in order to get her family’s business back from an owner who was willing to shred an entire business just because he could? Outrage and anger whipped through her like a sudden sea squall.
She hadn’t been sure. Not really. Not until she’d done her research on the man who seemed torevelin his reprobate antics. Who ignored the reams of verbiage printed about the women who had loved and lost the Playboy of Amalfi. Convinced of his heartlessness, Erin was only too happy to do the women of the world a favour and teach Enzo Rossetti a lesson.
‘Yes,’ she answered truthfully. She could. And she would.
Which was how she found herself, several hours later, arriving at an ultra-exclusive, deeply private party on a beach far down below the rocky heights of the island of Capri.
Erin exited the lift that had brought her and all the other guests down the several hundred feet of cliff face with more than a little relief, having had her eyes clamped shut throughout the entire ride. She’d never liked heights and this had tested her. But still, when she stepped out onto the beach she had to stifle a gasp.
It wasn’t a large beach by anyone’s standards, but it was truly beautiful. Not far from the shore, great husks of rock reached into the sky. Some of the more adventurous revellers had stripped down to swimwear and were perched at various places, or hurtling down into the water. Beyond the three jagged bluffs, the sea stretched out to the horizon where the sun kissed the sea in a blaze of molten pinks and oranges.
Behind her, men and women glittered like jewels in silver and gold, their tans deep, their clothes expensive and their alcohol levels high, dancing on a concrete platform around a sunken pool beside the bar that was hewn out of the rock wall itself.
Thiswas how the glitterati partied: in luxurious hedonism.
Music rippled over the crowded beach, hands held high beneath a sky already pincushioned with stars, and excitement and joy heavy enough to taste in the air.
Almost immediately she saw him in the heart of the crowd.
Enzo Rossetti. Hair, darker than the night, slicked back thickly on top and faded at the sides, the closely cropped beard sharp around his mouth and chin. His dark blue shirt was open at his neck, the shimmer of a silver chain glinting in the night, and a whisper of the dark chest hair that she’d seen earlier slick against his torso from the water. The midnight-coloured suit clung lovingly to lean hips and broad shoulders, and the crowd all but shivered as he danced with them.
She watched him as he threw his head back and laughed, fascinated by the way he moved. Until he turned, his eyes opening straight onto hers, and even though she was prepared, even though she didn’t like anything about him, the breath wasstillpunched from her lungs.
Who was that?
The question circled in Enzo’s mind as he searched the crowds for any sign of the woman he’d just seen. From the corner of his eye, he’d caught the dramatic sweep of red hair—not light strawberry, but a deep fiery red—followed by a powerful punch of confident turquoise. But neither had eclipsed the magnificent clarity of her sparkling gaze.
She was tall. Unusually so, her features fine, nose just a little snub, between high cheekbones and a narrow chin. Eyes were the kind of blue that made him think of curaçao, his mouth near watering just at the thought of the sweet orange liqueur.
The blush that painted those cheeks when their eyes had connected was young, innocent. It was one hell of a combination with the dress and the hair. One he didn’t see very often. His fingers itched to wind a curl around his finger, and when she bit her lip, he fisted his hand, regretting the way she cut the connection a moment later, to slip invisibly into the crowd.
Marcus stumbled into his side.
‘Who is the redhead?’ he shouted into his friend’s ear, his gaze still scanning the crowd.
Marcus craned his head and peered in the woman’s direction, frowning, and offered him a shrug. ‘No idea. Why?’
‘No reason,’ Enzo dismissed as Marcus grinned and said, ‘there’salwaysa reason with you.’
Marcus turned back to him, his gaze sobering.
‘You should probably know that Jeremy is here.’
