The Spaniard's Woman. Diana Hamilton

corner of his mouth curled wryly. ‘I stole it from Marcus’s greenhouse—though I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Not much of a birthday gift, ciertamente, but perhaps it will make you smile?’

      Sebastian straightened abruptly. Madre di Dio! She would think he was shooting a line! The impulse that had sent him to cut that bloom now seemed ridiculous.

      Until he had what he’d unconsciously known he’d been missing. That smile. And then he knew that the impulse hadn’t been ridiculous at all.

      Her eyes were on the blossom she held cupped in the curve of her hands, thick sweeping lashes hiding her expression, her silky blonde hair falling forward, a stray tendril kissing the petal-soft skin of her cheek. And then it began. A slight trembling of those luscious lips, an upward curve and then that radiant, brilliant smile her fathomless eyes winging towards his, deepest purest blue sparkling with dancing lights.

      ‘It’s perfect,’ she breathed, and then, propelled by something far stronger than his formidable will, he bent towards her again, dipped his dark head, and kissed her.