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“Honestly, Mia,” he said gently, “I’m going to buy the dress.” He put his hands on her waist and drew her toward him; the señora smiled and busied herself at a counter filled with brightly-colored silk scarves. “I want to see you in it,” he said huskily. “And then I want to take you out of it. All those tiny buttons…”

Her eyes darkened, the way they always did when they made love. He bent his head and kissed her. Then he drew back, watched as her lashes slowly lifted and her eyes met his.

Mine, he thought, with sudden ferocity. Mine, forever.

The breath caught in his throat as he realized that the impossible had happened.

He was deeply, passionately in love.

Mia changed in the dressing room.

The dress was beautiful. She’d never owned anything like it. The neckline swooped low, showing the curve of her breasts. Her gaze fell to the little buttons that went all the way to the hem and she shuddered with pleasure, imagining Matthew undoing them, one by one.

There was a knock at the door. It opened just enough for a large, masculine hand to reach around the edge. Delicate accessories tumbled on the cool tile. Slender-heeled sandals that might have been spun of gold. A gold purse. A black lace mantilla that looked too fragile to be real.

Mia’s heart turned over.

The emotions that filled her felt the same way. Too fragile to be real.

She leaned her forehead against the door. “Matthew,” she said in a choked whisper, “really, I can’t—”

“We’re having dinner at a restaurant the señora assures me is deserving of all this elegance.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “How can we disappoint her?”

How, indeed?

The señora was right.

The restaurant was perfect. It was small and candlelit; a group of musicians played softly in the background. Their corner table offered a view shared only by an Andean condor, soaring on enormous wings a thousand feet over the mountains.

And yet, the only sight Matthew feasted his eyes on was Mia.

He’d been right about the pale apricot dress. It might have been made for her. Her skin, her eyes, her hair, streaming in loose curls over her shoulders, all seemed shot with gold.

He ordered for them both, steaks and ensalada and a bottle of Chilean cabernet sauvignon. Mia said everything was wonderful and he believed her, but he couldn’t taste anything himself.

Mia filled his senses.

He loved her. God, he loved her.

And what in hell was he going to do about it?

Did a man tell a woman he loved her when she carried a secret she refused to share with him? Because the truth was, he knew, in his gut, that what Mia had told him about leaving Hamilton was a lie.

She hadn’t left because he wouldn’t take no for an answer. There was more to it than that.

Why wouldn’t she let him know what it was? It killed him that she didn’t trust him enough…but who was he to sit in judgment?

He had his own secrets.

He’d told her he’d been a soldier. Okay. He had, but there was more to it than that. He’d been a spy. A spook. Hell, he’d been an agent for a faceless government agency and even though he’d believed in his country, there were times he’d done things…

How would she feel, if she knew he had a past that still haunted him? If she knew that he’d been unable to save Alita, or even to avenge her death?

So many questions. So few answers. And yet, only one mattered. When he told Mia he loved her, would she tell him she loved him, too?

He reached across the table for her hand. The truth about himself, first. He’d tell her now. Right now.

“Mia?”