Page 88 of Modern Romance December 2025 1-4

A frisson of warning skimmed his spine. Even with lovers, sharing the most intimate passion, Fotis never gave up his whole self. Yet with Rosamund a simple kiss made him lose himself.

He forced himself into speech. ‘There’s a photographer down on the road. He must have grown tired of waiting for us to leave.’

Rosamund’s face flushed and her mouth set in a straight line. But her lips were still full from their kiss and he knew a crazy urge to forget where they were and resume what they’d just started.

‘He saw us?’

‘Saw and photographed. But it doesn’t matter. You wanted to prove to Ricardo you’re not hiding in a corner. We definitely succeeded.’

She frowned and looked like she was about to protest.

‘It’s done, Rosamund. No point fretting about it.’

After a second or two she nodded and his admiration grew. He had some inkling how hard she found the intrusive press attention. He’d only been subjected to it occasionally but she’d faced it all her life. Instead of ranting about it she moved on, choosing to put it aside.

That took courage. And incredible determination.

As he watched, her posture and expression changed, tiny alterations he could barely catalogue. But within moments she transformed from the unguarded, sensual woman he’d just kissed into a princess, serene and aloof. He felt a pang of loss.

Yet her lips were plumper than before and her eyes held a hazy shimmer that, this close, spoke of arousal.

Heat shafted through his lower body and his hands flexed against the need to reach out and ruffle her newfound poise. To pull her hard against him and make them both forget photographs and headlines and duty.

But he had to keep her safe. Not ravish her in public. So he took her arm and they walked through the restaurant, nodding to a couple of acquaintances and thanking the staff.

No one else knew he still tasted her on his tongue. That her sweet and spice scent teased his nostrils. That his body was tense with the memory of her lithe waist in his hands and the delicious curve of her body, straining against him.

His task was a thousand times more difficult than before. How could he ignore the way she made him feel, so he could keep her safe?

The sun was low as they flew across a scattering of islands so tiny they looked like pearls against the deep blue sea.

Now they reached a larger island and the helicopter began to descend. The land rose steeply from the shoreline to a razorback ridge topped by a row of ruined windmills. They were roofless stone shells. Only the last one was whole, whitewashed and with sails neatly furled.

Rosamund craned to take in the iconic building, striving to concentrate on the view, not the man beside her. Or the fact they were going to be alone together for the foreseeable future.

Excitement warred with worry. When they’d first met it had been much easier, because she’d told herself she hated him.

That didn’t last, did it?

Now she felt like she teetered on the brink of something momentous. Because of Fotis.

It didn’t make sense because she never let thoughts of any man cloud her judgement. Been there, done that, learnt her lesson. She’d been duped so easily, she didn’t trust her thinking around a man who made her feel too much. Even her mother, the person she’d most looked up to, had been taken in by the man she’d married.

Yet it was hard to think of that with Fotis.

Why did you kiss him in a public place, in front of a paparazzo?

Rosamund firmed her mouth and peered again at the scenery.

Past the steep ridge, the other side of the island was more fertile. Gentle slopes interspersed with ancient stone terraces sprawled down towards a semicircular bay. A village sat on the shore. She saw orchards and a breeze ruffled the grey-green foliage in olive groves.

But what held her attention was a jumble of rocks on a steep hill between the razorback ridge and the village. Late sunlight turned the rubble into blocks of bronze.

The chopper banked and she found herself looking down on a roofless building. And another, a cobblestoned street wending between them. Then the terracotta tiles of a domed Byzantine-style church. Sprawling stone steps that led nowhere. Large trees shivered and swayed as they dropped closer.

‘Thisis where you live?’

Fotis nodded, his attention on the instrument panel and the scene before them. ‘One of the places. I have a home in Athens but this is my retreat. Easier to keep you safe here than in the city. There’s excellent electronic security and any outsiders would be noticed immediately.’