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under her skin...

      But then he’d looked at her with a molten light in his eyes and said, ‘I want you, Trinity Adams. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.’

      He’d let her hair go.

      His words had shocked her so much that even though she’d known that was the moment to turn and walk out, her bare feet had stayed glued to the floor.

      A reckless desire had rushed through her, heady and dangerous, borne out of the impossible reality that Cruz De Carrillo was looking at her like this...saying he wanted her. She was a nobody. She came from nothing. And yet at that moment she’d felt seen in a way she’d never experienced before.

      It had come out of her, unbidden, from the deepest part of her. One word. ‘Please...’

      Cruz had looked at her for a long moment, and then he’d muttered something in Spanish as he’d taken her arms in his hands and walked her backwards until she’d hit the bookshelves with a soft thunk.

      And then he’d kissed her.

      But it had been more like a beautifully brutal awakening than a kiss. She’d gone on fire in seconds, and discovered that she was capable of sudden voracious desires and needs.

      His kiss had drugged her, taking her deep into herself and a world of new and amazing sensations. The feel of his rough tongue stroking hers had been so intimate and wicked, and yet more addictive than anything she’d ever known. She’d understood it in that moment—what the power of a drug might be.

      Then his big hands had touched her waist, belly, breasts, cupping their full weight. They’d been a little rough, unsteady, and she hadn’t expected that of someone who was always so cool. In control.

      The thought that she might be doing this to him had been unbelievable.

      He’d pulled open her robe so that he could pull down her vest top and take her nipple into his mouth, making Trinity moan and writhe like a wanton under his hands. She remembered panting, opening her legs, sighing with ecstasy when he’d found the naked moist heat of her body and touched her there, rubbing back and forth, exploring with his fingers, making her gasp and twist higher and higher in an inexorable climb as he’d spoken low Spanish words into her ear until she’d broken apart, into a million shards of pleasure so intense that she’d felt emotion leak out of her eyes.

      And that was when a cold breeze had skated over her skin. Some foreboding. Cruz had pulled back, but he’d still had one hand between her legs and the other on her bared breast. He’d been breathing as harshly as her, and they’d looked at each other for a long moment.

      He’d blinked, as if waking from the sensual spell that had come over them, and at the same time he’d taken his hands off her and said, ‘What the hell...?’

      He’d stepped away from her so fast she’d lurched forward and had to steady herself, acutely aware of her clothes in disarray. She’d pulled her robe around herself with shaking hands.

      Cruz had wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and Trinity had wanted to disappear—to curl up in a ball and hide away from the dawning realisation and horror on his face.

      ‘I’m sorry... I—’ Her voice had felt scratchy. She hadn’t even been sure why she was apologising.

      He’d cut her off. ‘No. This was my fault. It should never have happened.’

      He’d turned icy and distant so quickly that if her body hadn’t still been throbbing with the after-effects of her first orgasm she might have doubted it had even happened—that he’d lost his control for a brief moment and shown her the fire burning under that cool surface.

      ‘It was an unforgivable breach of trust.’

      Miserable, Trinity had said, ‘It was my fault too.’

      He’d said nothing, and then, slightly accusingly, ‘Do you usually walk around the house dressed like that?’

      Trinity had gone cold again. ‘What exactly are you saying?’

      Cruz had dragged his gaze back up. His cheeks had been flushed, hair a little mussed. She’d never seen anyone sexier or more undone and not happy about it.

      ‘Nothing,’ he’d bitten out. ‘Just...get out of here and forget this ever happened. It was completely inappropriate. I never mix business with pleasure, and I’m not about to start.’ He’d looked away from her, a muscle pulsing in his jaw.

      Right then Trinity had never felt so cheap in her life. He obviously couldn’t bear to look at her a moment longer. She’d felt herself closing inwards, aghast that she’d let herself fall into a dream of feeling special so easily. She should have known better. Cruz De Carrillo took beautiful, sophisticated and intelligent women to his bed. He didn’t have sordid fumbles with staff in his library.

      The divide between them had yawned open like a huge dark chasm. Her naivety had slapped her across the face.

      Without saying another word, she’d fled from the room.

      Trinity forcibly pushed the memory back down deep, where it belonged. Her stop came into view and she got up and waited for the bus to come to a halt.

      As she walked back to the huge and ostentatious house by Regent’s Park she spied Mrs Jordan in the distance with the double buggy.

      Her heart lifted and she half ran, half walked to meet them. The boys jumped up and down in their seats with arms outstretched when they spotted her. She hugged each of them close, revelling in their unique babyish smell, which was already changing as they grew more quickly than she knew how to keep up with them.

      Something fierce gripped her inside as she held them tight. She was the only mother they’d ever really known, and she would not abandon them for anything.

      When she stood up, Mrs Jordan looked at her with concern. ‘Are you all right, dear? You look very pale.’

      Trinity forced a brittle smile. She couldn’t really answer—because what could she say? That Cruz was going to come the next day and turn their world upside down? That lovely Mrs Jordan might be out of a job? That Trinity would be consigned to a scrap heap somewhere?

      The boys would be upset and bewildered, facing a whole new world...

      A sob made its way up her throat, but she forced it down and said the only thing she could. ‘We need to talk.’

      * * *

      The following day, at midday on the dot, the doorbell rang. Trinity looked nervously at Mrs Jordan, who was as pale as she had been yesterday. They each held a twin in their arms, and Matty and Sancho were unusually quiet, as if sensing the tension in the air. Trinity had hated worrying the older woman, but it wouldn’t have been fair not to warn her about what Cruz had said...

      Mrs Jordan went to open the door, and even though Trinity had steeled herself she still wasn’t prepared to see Cruz’s broad, tall frame filling the doorway, a sleek black chauffeur-driven car just visible in the background. He wore a three-piece suit and an overcoat against the English spring chill. He looked vital and intimidating and gorgeous.

      He stepped inside and the boys curled into Trinity and Mrs Jordan. They were always shy around their uncle, whom Matty called ‘the big man’.

      ‘Mr De Carrillo, how nice to see you,’ Mrs Jordan said, ever the diplomat.

      Cruz looked away from Trinity to the older woman. There was only the slightest softening on his face. ‘You too, Mrs Jordan.’

      They exchanged pleasantries, and Mrs Jordan asked if he wanted tea or coffee before bustling off to the kitchen with Sancho. Trinity noticed that he’d looked at his nephews warily.

      Then he looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘I presume we can talk alone?’

      She wanted to say no, and run with the boys and Mrs Jordan somewhere safe. But she couldn’t.

      She nodded jerkily and said, ‘Just let me

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