Once he’d have died to possess her, now he just might…

Beautiful, headstrong young widow Destiny Rhodes was every Cornish man’s dream. Until Divers O’Roarke cursed her with ruin and walked out of Cornwall without a backwards glance. Now he’s not only back, he’s just won the only thing that hasn’t fallen down about her head—her ancestral home. The home, pride demands she throw herself in with, safe in the knowledge of one thing. Everything she touches withers to dust.

He’d cursed her with ruin.

Now she’d have him live with the spoils of her misfortune.

Though well versed in his dealings with smugglers and dead men, handsome rogue Divers O’Roarke is far from sure of his standing with Destiny Rhodes. He had no desire to win her, doesn’t want her in his house, but while he’s bent on the future, is there one when a passionate and deadly game of bluff ensues with the woman he once cursed? A game where no-one and nothing are what they seem. Him most of all.

And when everything she touches turns to dust, what will be his fate as passion erupts? Will laying past ghosts come at the highest price of all?

The Destiny of Divers O'Roarke

 Destiny Rhodes. How the hell could it be, not just Destiny Rhodes, but Destiny Rhodes sitting up? “Oh, for any’s sake Divers, please stop trying to win first prize in the oh, how amazed am I competition, by letting your jaw lie about the sand like that--and help me up.” She held out her hand. ”You didn’t seriously think I’d take a bullet for you. Now, did you?” 


 He didn’t. He didn’t anything for the shock that thudded through him, driving his breath to the four corners of his being. Destiny Rhodes … Destiny Rhodes was alive. Not just alive, alive and holding court in that matter of fact, I’ll just open me mouth way. How the bloody hell was that when he’d just seen her die? 


 His mind reeled but he clasped her hand. Christ, he didn’t for one moment imagine she’d go to all these lengths for him either. Time was all she’d bought and what would be the point of spending herself on that? For him? He hardly needed it. Orwell dropped his funereal expression as if it was a hot coal. 


CHAPTER FORTY