Page 74 of Modern Romance December 2025 1-4

‘Aren’t we getting out?’

She didn’t turn towards him, but then she’d ignored him the whole trip. Fotis knew an urgent desire to make her meet his eyes. He disliked the woman but having her ignore him was unbearable, though he deserved it.

‘Wait,’ he growled, pushing his door open.

He needed to get a grip, fast. Striding around the car he catalogued the crowd, thicker than last night and more excited, but nothing to raise an alert.

He opened the door and held his arm out to steady her. Last night she’d worn high heels but tonight she’d chosen spindly red stilettos. He didn’t want to be catching her if she wrenched her ankle and fell on her face.

For a second she hesitated, looking at him under veiling lashes. Then she took his arm lightly, rising from the vehicle with an easy grace that sent his thoughts tumbling into the bedroom and the joys of a fit, limber lover.

As she stepped onto the pavement, an unexpected surge of movement from the crowd made him wrap his arm around her, jerking her close so abruptly she lost her balance and leaned against him.

‘My purse,’ she hissed under her breath.

Fotis bent to retrieve it. As he did so, a volley of voices called their names. Rising, he turned swiftly just as Rosamund turned in the opposite direction.

It would have been better if they’d knocked heads. Instead their noses met, and their mouths. It was so swift it took a moment for his brain to catch up. That was what he told himself later.

For now he simply responded instinctively, forgetting the crowd and his tumultuous emotions, tilting his head to one side and brushing his lips across hers. He felt her mouth tremble, felt the quiver run down her spine as he held her close. Then her lips parted under his and he tasted sweetness.

Bolts of lightning soldered his feet to the ground. He pulled her in, flush against him, drawing bewitching softness against a body turned to stone.

Her hand pressed to his chest, slipped under his jacket’s lapel to settle over his thundering heart. He liked her touch, almost as much as he liked her delectable lips opening beneath his.

It took everything he had to drag himself free of the erotic fog clouding his brain. With a muffled groan that sounded disturbingly like surrender, he pulled back, straightening to his full height.

But the distance didn’t obliterate his hunger. For a second longer her head was upturned, crimson lips parted and half-lidded eyes tempting him to kiss her, properly this time.

A wolf whistle pierced the hubbub and her eyes widened, body stiffening. She thrust against his chest as if to make him move. Of course she couldn’t, but Fotis eased his hold around her waist and she took a step back. He felt her wobble but only for a second. When he knew she was steady he released her, hiding a grimace that felt like disappointment.

The noise of the crowd had become a roar. Cameras flashed as photographers fought for better positions.

Beneath the cacophony he heard a husky, cultured voice swear in an undertone. Even her voice turned him on, making him wonder how she’d sound in the throes of ecstasy. How his name would sound if she cried it out in rapture.

Not helping, Mavridis.

His burgeoning erection would be visible soon if he couldn’t stop it. Playing for time, he’d curved his lips into a smile, lowering his head so he could murmur in her ear. ‘Any suggestions on how to play this, Princess?’

She shifted away, far enough that he could see her eyes blazed more blue than grey. ‘We carry on as if nothing happened. Never excuse. Never explain.’

With those words she changed. It was like a cloak falling around her. He couldn’t put his finger on it but she seemed taller, more aloof. She smiled directly up at him but there was no heat in her eyes, nor softness, nothing to indicate she’d quivered on the brink of capitulation just seconds ago.

She held out her hand and he placed her clutch purse in it. Then he held out his arm and she looped her other hand around it before they took their time going inside.

The evening was more of a trial than the previous night. Then he’d stood beside her as she charmed guests, scrupulously introducing him and including him in the conversation, though he played little part. He’d observed and kept watch as they moved through the throng.

Tonight was different. It was a screening of one of her mother’s films. Which meant sitting beside her in the dark, close enough that hefelteach move she made, heard too the occasional hitch of her breath.

It was Juliette Bernard’s last film, made not long before she married and gave up acting. Instead of an ingenue or a sexy starlet, the woman on the screen was mature and riveting, eliciting emotion and engagement even from him. The story was poignant but ruthlessly realistic. No wonder both critics and the public raved about it.

What must it be like for her daughter, seeing her mother on the big screen, so long after she’d died? Beside him, his charge stirred. He glanced across and froze.

She wasn’t aware of his scrutiny. She was utterly absorbed in the movie and in its shifting light he saw a solitary tear slide down her cheek.

His throat closed over useless words of sympathy. She wouldn’t want him seeing her sadness.

But for the rest of the film, his focus wasn’t on the movie. It was on the puzzle of Princess Rosamund.