Книга - Postcards From Buenos Aires: The Playboy of Argentina / Kept at the Argentine’s Command / One Night, Twin Consequences

Postcards From Buenos Aires: The Playboy of Argentina / Kept at the Argentine's Command / One Night, Twin Consequences
Lucy Ellis

Bella Frances

Annie O'Neil












About the Authors (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)

Unable to sit still without reading, BELLA FRANCES first found romantic fiction at the age of twelve, in between deadly dull knitting patterns and recipes in the pages of her grandmother’s magazines. An obsession was born! But it wasn’t until one long, hot summer, after completing her first degree in English literature, that she fell upon the legends that are Mills & Boon books. She has occasionally lifted her head out of them since to do a range of jobs, including barmaid, financial adviser and teacher, as well as to practice (but never perfect) the art of motherhood to two (almost grown-up) cherubs.

Bella lives a very energetic life in the UK but tries desperately to travel for pleasure at least once a month—strictly in the interests of research!

Catch up with her on her website

at www.bellafrances.co.uk (http://www.bellafrances.co.uk).

LUCY ELLIS creates over-the-top couples who spar and canoodle in glamorous places. If it doesn’t read like a cross between a dozen old fairy tales you half know and a 1930s romantic comedy, it’s not a Lucy Ellis story. Come read rambling exposition on her books at lucy-ellis.com (http://www.lucy-ellis.com) and drop her a line.

ANNIE O’NEIL spent most of her childhood with her leg draped over the family rocking chair and a book in her hand. Novels, baking and writing too much teenage angst poetry ate up most of her youth. Now, Annie splits her time between corralling her husband into helping her with their cows, baking, reading, barrel racing (not really) and spending some very happy hours at her computer writing.


Postcards from Buenos Aires

The Playboy of Argentina

Bella Frances

Kept at the Argentine’s Command

Lucy Ellis

One Night, Twin Consequences

Annie O’Neil






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-09522-8

POSTCARDS FROM BUENOS AIRES

The Playboy of Argentina © 2015 Bella France Kept at the Argentine’s Command © 2016 Lucy Ellis One Night, Twin Consequences © 2016 Annie O’Neil

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Table of Contents

Cover (#uedacbc80-6845-5027-8250-906e1e16dac0)

About the Author (#ub10ee8f7-8f4a-5e3a-93b6-27c439ba090a)

Title Page (#u0594a4cb-2e9e-5bb3-9185-e73df98410ac)

Copyright (#u607220d2-9992-5e25-84ef-179e4cd55a02)

The Playboy of Argentina (#u0e074b73-9aea-5205-b077-d4df069ae89f)

Dedication (#u5108e9ad-8642-54bf-a078-89eb8e244854)

CHAPTER ONE (#u2259b8e9-d925-5ca8-bc32-20e260c8bdef)

CHAPTER TWO (#u20fc9ed0-9ebd-51af-b8df-31947faae7d5)

CHAPTER THREE (#u1e9bcae8-591f-5af1-aeb5-f498428902cc)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u17e84f56-6f85-5137-b3b2-9f84f1816c66)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u6b35db82-6eb0-5469-abe1-9d53540dc3e8)

CHAPTER SIX (#ud05f9e42-6a82-5a96-af27-e0b5f7d30c08)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ub8f0b2cf-28bf-56a1-97d7-020afd6e537d)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ua406c898-5757-5ec7-93ec-45c1f06fe23f)

CHAPTER NINE (#ubd056fb3-7210-5f92-9cad-b861a2c00101)

CHAPTER TEN (#uebb14c7a-709f-5ca9-92ac-f3a92c4a2af2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Kept at the Argentine’s Command (#litres_trial_promo)

Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

One Night, Twin Consequences (#litres_trial_promo)

Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


The Playboy of Argentina (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)

Bella Frances


For my mother,

with all my love




CHAPTER ONE (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)


IN THE LAZY warmth of a summer afternoon, Rocco ‘Hurricane’ Hermida stepped out of his helicopter onto the utterly perfect turf of the Buenos Aires Campo Argentino de Polo. From her vantage point in the crowd Frankie Ryan felt the air around her ripple with the flutter of a thousand eyelashes. If awe was a sound it was the reverent silence of grown men turning to stare at their own demigod. No doubt the polo ponies were stamping and snuffling and shaking their shaved manes adoringly, too. Yet all she could feel were the unbidden tremors of hurt and humiliation and—damn him to hell—shame.

With every step he took across the springy grass his fabulous outline sharpened. A little taller, definitely more muscular. Could his hair be longer? It had seemed so shockingly defiant all those years ago. Now it just trademarked him as none other than Argentina’s own—her finest, proudest export.

Wind whipped at silk skirts and hands flew to hair and hats. The crowd swelled and leaned closer. For a second her view was obscured, but then there he was again. Clearer and nearer. Ruggedly, shockingly beautiful. And still making her heart pound in her ears—after all these years.

He turned, cast his profile; it was caught on camera and screened all around. The scar through his eyebrow and the break in his nose—still there. A hand landed on his shoulder, and then there at his side was his brother Dante, as blond as Rocco was dark—twin princes of Darkness and Light.

It really was breathtaking. Just as they said in the media. Only even more potent in the flesh. The dazzling smiles of their happy conspiracy, the excitement of the match, the thrill of the crowd. How intoxicating.

How sickening.

How on earth was she going to get through the next four hours? The party afterwards, the gushing hero-worship? All over the man who had looked her in the eye, kissed her full on the mouth and broken her soft, trusting heart.

Easy. It would be no problem at all. How hard could it be to watch a little polo, sip a little Pimm’s and keep well out of trouble?

Tipping too large sunglasses onto her too small nose, she took a seat on the high-rise bleachers and crossed her jiggling legs. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here today. She could so easily have made this stopover in Buenos Aires and not taken in a polo match. It wasn’t as if she was obsessed with the game itself. Not anymore.

Sure, she’d grown up more in a stable than in a home. And yes, once upon a time becoming a polo player had been her sixteen-year-old heart’s desire. But she’d been naive back then. Naive enough to think her father had been kidding when he said the best thing she could hope to become was a rich man’s secretary, or better still a rich man’s wife. And even more naive to throw herself into the arms of the most dashing man she’d ever seen and almost beg him to take her to bed.

Almost beg? That wasn’t strictly accurate, either.

At least in the ten years since then she’d got well past palpitations and hand-wringing.

She spread out her pale Celtic skinny fingers, frowned them steady. Looked at the single silver ring with Ipanema carved in swirling writing—a gift for her fourteenth birthday, worn ever since. She rubbed at it. She still missed that pony. And she still hated the man who had stolen her away.

But at least Ipanema’s line was alive and well. She was the dam of two of the ponies on Rocco Hermida’s string. His favourites, as he made no secret of telling the world’s press. And rumoured to be being used in his groundbreaking genetics programme. And about to carry him onto the field and to victory at this charity polo match. Well, that was what everyone here thought anyway. To the home crowd there was not a shred of doubt that Argentina’s darling was going to triumph over the Palm Beach team. Totally. Unquestionably. And, with his brother at his side, the crowd would be guaranteed eight chukkas of the most mouthwatering display of virile man candy in the whole of South America.

But Frankie Ryan wasn’t drooling or licking her lips. Oh, no.

She was rolling her eyes and shaking her head. As much at herself for her stupid reaction—thankfully she now had that under total control—as at the flirty polo groupies all around her.

The fact that Rocco Hermida was here, playing, was completely irrelevant. It really was.

He probably didn’t even remember her …

Which was actually the most galling thing of all. While she had burned with shame and then fury on learning that he’d bought Ipanema, and had then been sent off to the convent, he had appeared in her life like a meteor, blazed a trail and as quickly blazed off. He’d never been back in touch. He’d taken her pride and then her joy. But she had learned a lesson. Letting anyone get under her skin like that was never going to happen again.

She had a perfectly legitimate reason for being here that had nothing to do with Rocco Hermida. She might look like a tourist today, but she was full of business. Landing a job as product development manager at Evaña Cosmetics, after slogging her guts out as an overgrown intern and then an underpaid assistant just so she could sock it to her old man was a dream come true!

She could think of worse things than travelling to the Dominican Republic and then Argentina in search of the perfect aloe vera plantation. And she could think of much worse things than an overnighter in Buenos Aires to lap up the polo followed by a weekend at her friend Esme’s place in Punta del Este to lap up the sun and the sea.

Bliss.

She got another drink—why not? As long as she was fresh enough to start on her presentation tomorrow she could have a little downtime today. It might even do her good to relax before she went out on her last trips. She still had plenty of time to put it all together into a report before the long flight home and her moment in the boardroom spotlight.

It was such a big deal. She’d spent so long convincing the directors to take this leap of faith, to look farther than their own backyard for organic ingredients, to have a unique selling point that was truly unique. So while she could play the tourist here today, the last thing she’d do was jeopardise it by getting all caught up in Rocco damn Hermida.

She began to thread and weave through the contrasting mix of casual porteños and glamorous internationals. On the other side of the giant field, spread out like bunting, she spotted the exclusive white hospitality tents. Esme would be in one of them, playing hostess, smiling and chatting and posing for pictures. As the Palm Beach captain’s wife, she was part of the package. Frankie could imagine nothing worse.

An announcement rang like a call to prayer, and another headshot loomed on the giant screens. There he was again. The default scowl back in position, the dark hair swept back and landing in that flop across his golden brow. He was in the team colours, scarlet and black, white breeches and boots. As the camera panned out, she instinctively looked at his thighs. Under the breeches they were hard, strong and covered in the perfect dusting of hair. She knew. She remembered. She’d kissed them.

For a moment she felt dazed, lost in a mist of girlish memories. Her first crush, her first kiss, her first broken heart. All thanks to that man. She drew her eyes off the screen again, scowled at it. Muttered words under her breath that her mother would be shocked to hear, let them slide into the wind with the commentator’s jabbering biography—a ‘what’s not to love?’ on the Hurricane—and the brassy notes of a gaudy marching band.

The first chukka was about to start. The air around her sparkled with eager anticipation. She could take her place—she could watch this—and if he turned her stomach with his arrogance she could cheer on Palm Beach. Even if two of his ponies were from Ipanema, the Rocco Hermida on those screens was just an imprint of a figment of a teenage girl’s infatuation. She owed him nothing.

If only it was that simple.

He was electric.

Each chukka was more dramatic and stunning than the one before.

He galloped like the wind and turned on a sixpence. His scowl was caught on camera, a picture of composed concentration, and when he scored—which he did, ten times—a flash of white teeth was his momentary gift to the crowd.

And of course there was Dante, too. Like a symphony, they flew up and down the field. Damn, damn, damn, but it was utterly, magnetically mesmerising.

They won. Of course. And as fluttering blue-and-white flags transformed the stadium and the crowd hollered its love she scooted her way out. Head down, her face a picture of ‘seen it all before, can take it or leave it, nothing that special’, she made her way round to the ponies—the real reason she was here.

The grooms were hosing down the last of them when she slipped through the fence, and watery arcs of rainbows and silvery droplets filled the air. She sneaked around, watched the action. She loved this. She missed it. Until this moment she hadn’t realised how much.

Everyone was busy, the chat was lively and the whole place was buzzing at the fabulous result. Of course the Palm Beach team were no pushovers, and Esme would be satisfied, but the day belonged to Rocco Hermida. And Dante. As expected.

As soon as she had taken a little peep at the two ponies she wanted to see she’d head off, have a soak in the tiny enamel bath in her hotel’s en-suite bathroom. She would use some of the marketing gifts from the last plantation: a little essential oil to help her relax, and a little herbal tea to help her sleep. She’d been on the go for twenty-four hours. Even if she did make the party tonight, which Esme seemed so determined she would, sleep was going to have to feature somewhere.

No one was paying her any attention. She didn’t blame them. Small and slight and unremarkable, she tended to pass under most people’s radar. Unlike the polo scene groupies, who were just like the ponies—all perfect teeth, lean bodies and long legs. Treated as a boy until she’d realised herself that being a girl was a lot more fun, she’d run with her brothers, ridden the horses and wandered wild and free all over the farm. Until the day that she had flown out of the stables to hunt for her brothers and run straight into Rocco Hermida.

She would never forget that moment.

Rounding the corner, she’d seen him, blazing like sunshine after thunder in the shadows of the muddy lane. He’d stood and stared. She’d slammed to a stop and gawped at him. She had never seen anything more brilliant, more handsome, more menacing. He’d looked her over, taken his time. Then he’d turned back to Mark and Danny and wandered away, rattling off questions in his heavily accented English, turning her life on its head, oblivious.

Now he was responsible for this world-class string of ponies, his world-class genetics programme and a whole host of other businesses. But polo was his passion. Everyone knew that. And the giant horse transporter with ‘Hermanos Hermida’ on it, parked at the rear of the campo and drawing her closer, was an emblem of how much care he put into his ponies.

It was immaculate. A haven. Ponies were hosed down, dried off and resting in their stalls. Gleaming and proud. She walked amongst them, breathing in their satisfied air. Where were her girls? She was so keen to see the mix of thoroughbred and Argentinian pony, trained to world-class perfection. She knew she’d recognise Ipanema’s progeny—the ponies he’d kept on the string were her living image. She felt sure she would feel some kind of connection with them.

‘Que estas haciendo aqui?’

Right behind her. Frankie started at the quiet growl. Her stomach twisted. Her whole body froze.

‘Did you hear me? I said, what are you doing?’

Words stuck, she willed herself calm. ‘Just looking,’ she finally managed.

‘Turn round.’

She would not—could not.

‘I said, turn round.’

If she’d been in the heart of an electric storm she couldn’t have felt more charged. The voice she hadn’t heard for years was as familiar as if he had just growled those unforgettable words, ‘You are too young—get out of here!’

A pony turned its head and stared at her with a huge brown eye. Her heart thunder-pulsed in her chest. Her legs felt weak. But from somewhere she found a spark of strength. He might be the most imposing man she had ever known, but she was her own woman now—not a little girl. And she wouldn’t let herself down again.

She turned. She faced him. She tilted up her chin.

He stared, took a pace towards her. Her heel twitched back despite herself.

‘I knew it was you.’

She forced her eyes to his even as the low growl in his voice twisted around her.

He was still in his playing clothes, his face flushed with effort and sweat, his hair mussed and tousled. Alive and vital and male. She could hardly find the strength to stand facing him, eyeing him, but she was determined to hold her own in the face of all that man.

‘I came to see Ipanema’s mares.’

Her words were stifled and flat in the perfectly climate-controlled air. Another pony stamped and turned its head.

‘You came to see me.’

Her eyes widened in shock and she spluttered a laugh. ‘Are you joking?’

He stepped back from her, tilted his head as if she was a specimen at some livestock market and he might, just might, be tempted.

He raised an eyebrow. Shook his head—the slightest movement. ‘No.’

He was appalling, arrogant—outrageous in his ego.

‘Look, think what you like—and I’m sorry I didn’t ask permission to come to a charity match—but, really? Come to see you? When I was sixteen I had more than my fill of you.’

A rush of something dangerous, wicked and wondrous flashed over his eyes and he closed the gap between them in a single step. His fingers landed on her shoulder, strong, warm and instantly inflaming. He didn’t pull her towards him. He didn’t need to. She felt as if she was flush against him, and her body sang with delight.

‘You didn’t get your fill—not at all.’ He curled his lip for a moment. ‘But you wanted to.’

The coal-black eyes were trained right on her and she knew if she opened her mouth it would be to whimper. She clamped it shut. She would stare him out and then get the hell away from him.

But his hand moved from her shoulder, spread its warming brand up her neck.

‘Frankie … Little Frankie.’

He cupped the back of her head, held her. Just there.

She jerked away.

‘What?’

If she could have spat out the word with venom she would have, but she was lucky to get it out at all, the way he was simply staring at her.

‘All grown-up.’

He took another step. She saw the logo of his team in red silk thread: two balls, two sticks, two letters H. She saw the firm wall of muscle under his shirt—hard, wide pecs, the shadow of light chest hair framed in the V. She saw the caramel skin and the wide muscular neck, the heavy pepper of stubble and the rich wine lips. She saw his broken nose, his intensely dark eyes, his questioning brows. And she scented him. Pure man.

That hand was placed on her head—and it felt as if he was the high priest and this was some kind of healing ritual.

One she did not need to receive.

‘Yes, all grown-up. And leaving.’ She pulled away. ‘Let me past. I want to go.’

But he held her. Loosely. His eyes finally dropped to absorb every other possible detail. She could feel his appraisal of her sooty eyes too big for her face; her nose too thin; her mouth too small; her chin too pointed. But instead of stepping back he seemed to swell into the last remaining inch of space and he shook his head.

‘In a moment. Where are you staying?’

She wavered—rushed a scenario through her mind of him at her cute little hotel, in her tiny room. Filling up all the space. The picture was almost too hot to hold in her head.

‘That doesn’t matter. I’m only here for a day or so.’

He was in no hurry to move. She looked away, around, at the empty glass she somehow still clutched in her hand. Anywhere but at him.

‘I think you should stay a little longer. Catch up.’

There was nothing but him—his body and his energy. Ten years ago she had dreamed of this moment. She had wept and pined and fantasised. And now she would rather die than give him the satisfaction.

‘Catch up with what? I’ve no wish to go over old ground with you.’

‘You think we covered ground? Back then? In that tiny little bed in your farmhouse?’

His words slipped out silken and dark.

‘You have no idea, querida, how far I would have liked to have gone with you.’

He caught a handful of her bobbed hair and tugged. She flinched—not in pain, but in traitorous delight.

‘How far I would go with you now …’

He smoothed a look of hunger all over her face. And her whole body throbbed.

‘You’ve got no chance,’ she hissed.

A smile—just a flash. Then his mouth pursed in rebuttal. A shake of his head.

It was enough. She put her hands on him and shoved. Utterly solid—she hadn’t a hope. He growled a laugh, but he moved. Stepped to the side.

His tone changed. ‘Your horses are resting. They played well. In the stalls at the top. Take your time.’

She pushed past him, desperate to escape from this man, but two steps away she stopped.

She swallowed. ‘Thank you.’

‘The pleasure is mine, Frankie.’ He whispered it, threatened it. ‘And I aim to repeat it.’

He left her there. She didn’t so much hear him go as feel a dip in the charge in the air. The ponies looked round at her—sympathising, no doubt, with how hard it was to share breathing space with someone who needed his own solar system.

She found her mares. Saw their Irish names—Roisin and Orla—and their white stars, but most of all their infamously wonderful natures, marking them out as Ipanema’s. She could never criticise what he had done with them—the effort and love he poured into all of his stock was legendary. And she was proud that Ipanema’s bloodlines were here, in one of the best strings in the world. If only Ipanema was still here, too …

Her brother Mark would be delighted. His own expertise was phenomenal in the field of equine genetics and this line had put their stud farm on the map. She knew he kept in touch with Rocco, sharing professional knowledge from time to time, while her father had fumed silently every time his name was mentioned. His suspicions had never been proved, but he’d never let her forget that he had them. Oh, no. And he’d punished her by sending her off to the convent to learn to ‘behave’.

But she’d been away from Ireland five years now. Away from that life and forging her own. Madrid was her home; Evaña was her world. Her father had passed the business to Mark and all her contact with beautiful creatures like these was sadly limited to the infrequent trips she made to see him.

She kissed their polished necks and they whickered their appreciation, soothing her heated blood before she went back out into the day.

Sometimes animals were a lot easier to deal with than people. Actually, animals had always been easier than people. They had their moods and their own personalities, of course, but they never judged, never made her feel like the slightly gawky, awkward tomboy that everyone else did. Especially Ipanema. Being given her as a foal to bring on had changed her life completely.

She’d loved that pony, and Ipanema had loved her right back, and when she’d been sold to Rocco her heart had taken its first battering.

She stepped out into the warm afternoon. The thrill and roar of the crowd had died down, but the celebrations were only just beginning. There was to be a party at the Molina Lario Hotel later, hosted by the champagne sponsors. Esme had told her to join her there.

It’s only the most talked-about event in the charity polo circuit after Dubai and Deauville! You need to let your hair down—there’s more to life than work!

But Rocco would most likely be there. And her reserves were running low. Maybe she’d call it a day, lap up the night safe in bed and swerve the whole unfolding drama attached to seeing him again.

She pushed her glasses back up her nose and wound her way round to the flotilla of white hospitality tents, her legs more obedient, less shaky now. But she should have known better than to think she was home free. At the edge of the field and up on the screens were four tall men in red, black and white, four in blue and yellow. All were standing on the podium, and every eye was drawn to them. Even hers.

Round about them were all the beautiful people. She hung back, watched.

A cheer … The cup being passed over, held up. Dante beaming his easy, confident golden smile. Rocco curling his lip. The crowd adoring.

They stepped down and into the flow of people—mostly girls, she noticed. Well, they were nothing but obliging! Letting themselves get all wrapped up in them, posing together in a spray of champagne, moving to another little group. Another pose, a squeeze, kisses on cheeks.

She’d seen it all before, of course—most recently in the pages of various magazines and in online news. But watching it like this she felt a flame of anger burst inside her. Anger at herself for still being there! Still gawping. She was a respected businesswoman now. Not a stupid, infatuated little girl!

She turned and began a fast path out. She’d get a cab, get away, get her head straight.

Her flat-heeled sandals moved swiftly over the grass, her stride long in her cotton sundress. Molina Lario was getting less and less attractive by the moment. More of that? No, thanks. Esme would understand. She knew her feelings for the arrogant Rocco ran to pathological disgust—she just didn’t know why.

No one did.

The one thing she could thank him for, she supposed, was igniting that fire for her to get the hell out of County Meath. When she’d watched him swing his rucksack over his shoulder and walk away from her, down the singletrack farm lane, through the dawn light and rain dust, she’d realised he was heading back into a world wide open with choices and chances. She didn’t need to be tied to County Meath, to Ireland, to the narrow options of which her dad thought her capable.

She’d taken a cold hard look at herself. Skinny, flat chested, unattractive and unkempt. Her dressing table cluttered with riding trophies instead of make-up. And when she’d stopped wailing and sobbing into her pillow she’d plotted her escape.

And now here she was—out in the world.

And here she would stay—proving them all wrong.

Head down, she reached the gates.

Just as a figure in black stepped alongside her. Large, male, reeking of strength.

‘Señor Hermida asks that you join him.’

A rush … a thrill thrummed through her. For a moment she felt the excitement of flattery. Tempted.

But, no. That way disaster lay. She was headed in a whole different direction.

She didn’t even break her step.

‘Not today. Or any other day, thanks.’

She eyed the gate like a target board, upped her pace. Lost him.

Almost at the gate, she felt his presence again.

‘Miss Ryan, Señor Hermida will collect you later for the party. 10:00 p.m. At your hotel.’

She spun on her heel, ready to fire a vicious volley of words right back. But he was walking away, obscured by the hundreds of people crossing in front of her. As obscured as her own feelings at seeing the Hurricane.

So sure he’d mean nothing to her, she’d turned up as if it was all in a day’s work to bump into him. But skulking about in the crowds, sneaking among the horses when she could so easily have done things properly …? She should have asked Mark to set it up. That was what someone who truly wasn’t fazed would have done—brushed off what had happened between them and joined him for a drink and a chat for old times’ sake …

Instead of spontaneously combusting when he’d come up behind her.

He was dangerous. The last thing she needed.

Her career was her life. Not ponies. Or polo. Or dark, intense men who lit up her body and squeezed at her heart.

She emerged onto the pavement like a hostage set free. He didn’t know her hotel. And he didn’t know her. Collect her later? Arrogant fool. One overbearing father and two extremely alpha brothers did not make Frankie Ryan anyone’s pushover.

She would be swaddled in Do Not Disturbs and deep, deep sleep. He could just cross her off his list and move to the next name. There were bound to be hundreds.




CHAPTER TWO (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)


‘So MANY GIRLS, so little time,’ Dante mouthed, and winked at him over the heads of the two dancers from Rio who had just wound themselves around him.

Well, that was him taken care of for the evening—or the next couple of hours at least.

Rocco had just peeled a sweet little blonde from hm. Normally his preferences did run to sweet little blondes, but tonight … He strode to the wide windows that ran the length of the Art Hotel penthouse—Dante’s go-to joint for post-match partying. Tonight he was well off his game.

He braced his hands on the glass and stared out across Palermo to the outskirts, where he knew her hotel was. One phone call and he’d found out everything he needed to know. One phone call that had confirmed she was in town long enough for him to scratch the itch that had started all those years ago.

The blonde put her arms around his waist again. He was losing patience with her, but she would be well looked after—by someone else.

He looked round at his team members and friends. All getting into the party spirit one way or another. For Rocco the party wouldn’t start until he had Frankie Ryan in his arms. Then and only then would he get rid of this tension that had built almost to a frenzy since he’d seen her sneaking into the transporter.

He checked his watch.

Too early, but he had a feeling she wasn’t going to be waiting on the steps of her hotel wearing an expectant look and a corsage. No, something told him that she was going to be a little less easy to convince than the nowsulking blonde, who’d finally realised he wasn’t just playing hard to get.

He called his driver. He couldn’t wait anymore.

‘Dante—I will catch you up.’

His brother, busy, lifted an arm in acknowledgement. He hadn’t told him he’d seen her at the match. Wasn’t in the mood for questions. Why? Because he barely understood himself why this slip of a girl, now a woman, had occupied so much of his head for so long.

The last time Dante had raised the subject with him, after a particularly broody day in Dublin when he’d failed to make contact with her, it hadn’t gone well. He’d called her Rocco’s ‘Irish obsession’. It was probably the only time they’d failed to agree on anything. He’d admit it now, though. He was definitely obsessing about her now.

He checked his phone, his money and, for the first time in a long time, his appearance. He knew how he looked. He wasn’t coy or stupid. Normally it was irrelevant. There were far, far more important things in this world—like loyalty, like honour. Like family …

And if he was honest, that penthouse full of beautiful women back there …? None of them interested him more than the skinny, hazel-eyed Irish kid he’d met ten years earlier. A little bit of closure on that particular puzzle would be good—it had been a long time coming.

He swung into the back of the sedan. An hour earlier than he’d suggested and the city was limbering itself up for the night ahead. The party at Molina Lario would be good, for starters. But he was feeling post-match wired and just this side of in control. He spread his arms across the back of the seat, watched the sights of his town slip past. A bit of Barcelona here … a look of Paris there. The spill of people on wide streets, corners alive with café culture. Vibrant, creative and free.

But he was no romantic fool. Yes, he loved it. Loved it that he had run its streets and slept in its parks. Loved it that he had survived. Was grateful that he had survived when so many others had fallen or, perhaps worse, were living the legacy of those years in prisons or still on the streets. He would never, ever forget or take that for granted.

But all he had—his wealth, his businesses, his health, his adoptive family—all of that he would trade right now for one more day with Lodo. One more chance to shield him and protect him and cherish him—better than he’d managed last time …

The car cruised to a stop. They were here. He hadn’t been in this part of town for years. Villa Crespo was outside Palermo and on the up, but he would have preferred that she’d stayed closer to the centre, where the worst that could happen was pickpocketing. He got out. Looked around. It seemed quiet enough. The hotel was traditional—a single frontage villa. Ochres and oranges. Cute, he supposed. He went inside.

The concierge was startled to see him, and he jumped up from his TV screen, gave him the details he needed. Her room, first floor; her visitors, none; and her movements, she’d been in her room since her return earlier.

He ignored the old cage elevator and took the stairs three at a time. If she felt about him the way he thought she did they could stay in her room. No problem. Or they could hang out for a while and then go on to another party, or back to Dante’s pad, or even to the estancia. It had been a long time since he’d taken a woman back there. But he felt even now that one night with Frankie Ryan might not be enough. An undisturbed weekend? That might just about slake this thirst for her.

He stood outside her door.

Dark polished wood. Brass number five.

He knocked. Twice. Rapid. Impatient.

Nothing.

She should be getting ready, at the very least.

He knocked again.

Still nothing.

He’d opened his mouth to growl out her name when the door swung open.

And there she was.

Bleary eyed, hair mussed and messy, one bony white shoulder exposed by the slipped sleeve of her pale blue nightdress, her face screwed up against the light from the hall.

He’d never seen anything more adorable in his life.

‘Frankie.’

He stepped forward, the urge to grab hold of her immense.

But she put a hand to her head, set her features to a scowl and opened her mouth in an incredulous O.

‘What—what are you doing here?’

He still couldn’t believe how sleepily, deliciously gorgeous she looked. His eyes roamed all over her—the eye-mask now awry, the milky pale skin and the utter lack of anything under that thin jersey nightdress. It clung to her fine bones and tiny curves. As beguiling as he remembered, though maybe her breasts were rounder, fuller …

‘What are you—? Why are you—? I told your guy I wasn’t coming.’

He dragged his eyes back to her face. Heard a noise at the end of the corridor. The concierge was peeping, making an ‘everything all right?’ face, wielding a pass key. Rocco nodded, put up his hand to keep him back.

‘Let me in, Frankie.’

She seemed almost to choke out her answer. ‘No!’

‘Okay, I’ll wait here—get dressed.’

‘I’m. Not. Coming.’

He was slightly amused. Slightly. The irony of the situation was not lost on him.

‘We’ve been here before, querida, only last time it was you on the other side of the door. Remember?’

And there it was—that wildness he had seen all those years ago. That almost wantonness she’d exuded that he’d found exhilarating, intoxicating. She leaned out into the corridor, to check who was there, then looked right up at him. He drew his eyes away from the gaping lines of her nightdress, followed her gaze.

‘I can’t believe you’re actually standing here!’

‘It would be better if I came in. As I recall, that was your preference last time.’

‘I was sixteen! I made a mistake!’ She blazed out her answer.

Then she gripped her arms round herself. All that happened was that the neckline of her nightdress splayed open even more, letting him see right to the tip of one small high breast. He reached forward, gently lifted the fabric and tugged it back into position, ignoring her futile attempts to swat his arm away.

‘Why don’t we discuss that inside?’

His hand hovered, then retracted. He badly wanted to touch her, but he was nothing if not a reader of women and he sensed she was going to need more than a pep talk to get her on-message.

‘You made yourself perfectly plain the last time we met. And I don’t have any wish to spend any more time with you. I told your guy. I couldn’t have been plainer.’

‘The last time we met was four hours ago. You were in my horse transporter. You came looking for me.’

She was so wild, standing there in next to nothing. He was getting harder and harder just looking at her. Memories came of her slipping into his bed, waking him up with her naive little kisses and her hot little body. Him literally pushing her out of his bed—like rejecting heaven.

Her eyes blazed. ‘I came looking for our bloodline, not you! You arrogant ar—’

He put his finger on her lips where they framed the word he knew she was about to launch at him. Her eyes widened even more.

‘Don’t belittle yourself, querida.’ He lowered his voice, stepped closer. ‘Go inside, get dressed, and I will take you to the party and tell you everything you want to know about your ponies.’

But lightning-quick she grabbed for his hand and tried to pull it away. The sleeve of her nightdress fell lower and the pull of the fabric strained on her breasts. Her nipples, twin buds, drew his eyes—and, damn it, the flame of heat coursed straight to his groin.

‘I call it as I see it, and I see you as an—’

He couldn’t hold back. She fired him, inflamed him. He wanted to taste her so badly. He had to contain her, have her mouth under his.

She lifted her arms to push him and he scooped her wrists together, pinned them behind her. Then he heaved her against him and crushed her insolent mouth. Fragile but strong, she strained and stiffened and held her lips closed. Which just drove him wilder! He could smell her desire. He could taste her passion. So why was she so intent on keeping him back?

He gripped her head and stared into her eyes.

Her hands flew to his wrists. She dug in her nails. She flashed and fumed and forced out her breath through the clenched teeth in her mouth. But she didn’t pull back, and he needed to know. He grabbed her hips and ground her into his hard, throbbing length, felt her sweet mound and watched her shocked face.

And he saw. Oh, yes. Oh. Yes. She told him. Her eyes closed. Her head dropped back and she moaned. Dark and deep and long.

That was it. All he needed to know.

He thrust her away, spun her round, slapped her backside.

‘Get in there. Get dressed. Meet me outside. You have half an hour.’

He’d had to get back onto the street—get some air. Calm his blood.

So he’d been right all these years when he’d wondered if he was idolising a memory. If she really had fired him up as fast and hard as his youthful body had ever experienced.

He really should have been given a medal after that weekend. The utterly overt way she’d tried to seduce him had been sweet, but he doubted her family had thought so. And they hadn’t known the half of it.

From the first moment when he’d seen her in filthy jodhpurs to her sidling up beside him at dinner as he’d tried to keep focussed on the deal he was supposed to be there to cut with her brother, her face covered in make-up she’d clearly had no notion of how to apply, and wearing a dress—which had seemed to cause her family some amusement. To the full-blown assault of her coming into his room.

Kiss me, Rocco.

That look in her eyes … the shadow between her open wet lips. He had wanted to—so badly. She’d blown his mind. But of course he had chased her away. What kind of guy took advantage of a girl five years younger, barely aware of her own sexuality, acting as if she’d never even been kissed? And there was the fact that her family’s hospitality to him had been beyond reproach … She was off limits, and then some.

But in the predawn light she’d woken him again. Naked. In his bed. The memory still packed a punch.

He had been disorientated, but harder than he had ever thought possible. Seconds, maybe minutes had passed as they’d found each other, and he’d done things he should never have done. But thank God he had stopped in time—before it had gotten out of hand. She had begged and wailed and made it even harder for him to send her away. So in the end he’d left himself. After one look back at her, wrapped in a sheet, all eyes and white skin. One look that he had never erased from his mind.

He pushed up off the sedan’s door, walked, paced down the street. He had already drawn attention to himself. He should be waiting in the car. A crowd was starting to gather—people who were wondering what the hell the captain of the polo team that had just won the biggest charity match ever seen in Palermo was doing, tonight of all nights, outside a midrange hotel in Villa Crespo.

He checked his watch.

Forty minutes.

And then he knew.

She wasn’t coming.

He stared up at the first-floor windows. Maybe a curtain twitched.

The throng of interested happy people watched and waited. The concierge wrung his hands at the door.

Rocco turned away from the crowd. Got into the car. Nodded to his driver and was driven off through the streets.

What kind of stupid game was she playing? They had unfinished business. A hot physical agenda to work through and close down. It was that simple—that straightforward. Where did all this chasing feature? He was Rocco Hermida. He didn’t chase. Not like this. Not like a stupid adolescent.

If she wanted him the way he knew she wanted him she could damn well quit her coy little act and juvenile games. She could come and get him. And she would.

He smiled grimly at the passing scenery as he made his way back to Recoleta. Yes, she would. He would lay money on it. His Irish obsession? Su obsesion Argentina! Her Argentinian obsession. She was right in it with him. Up to her neck.

Frankie pulled closed the curtain as the sleek black car skirted the corner and vanished. She stepped back into the shabby-chic room and sat down on the edge of the bed. In a short silk shift, her arms and legs bare but slick with oil, she looked as good as it got.

Her hair was washed, conditioned and straightened into a sleek, shiny bob. Her face was clear, the dark circles camouflaged by the miracle concealer her company were just about to launch. She had lined her eyelids with shadow the same blue as her dress and coated her lashes in black. Lip gloss plumped her lips and the lightest hint of bronzer dusted her cheeks. She’d come a long, long way from the pony-mad teenager who’d tried to bag Rocco Hermida.

So why had she not quite been able to follow through?

One look at the television screen showing the pictures the rest of the world would be watching—well, the rest of the polo world—had confirmed it all. Rocco, Dante and their teammates. Pictures of the match, of the cup being presented, of the fans in and outside the stadium. Of the women who’d featured past and present on the arm of the Hurricane. A never-ending cornucopia of beautiful blondes. One after another after another.

The TV programme was admittedly more focussed on his love life than on his sporting prowess, but still Frankie had been utterly transfixed by the flow.

And when the final pictures of the piece had showed the team heading off with a troupe of polo groupies to a luxury penthouse in a luxury barrio this very evening she had sat down and sighed. Really? It was one thing to offer yourself on a plate to a playboy aged sixteen. It was another thing entirely to do it when you were twenty-six. Especially when she had more than a hunch of what would follow.

He’d unleashed something in her that no other man could. He had barely touched her and she had almost screamed with need. He had kissed her and it had been all she could do not do jump into his arms and wrap herself round him. And when he’d put his hands on her hips and ground them together …

The ten years she had waited had flashed and were gone and she was back in his arms, in his bed, with that first white-hot flame of passion. But all she’d gained in the past four hours was the knowledge that he saw her as unfinished business. Was she really going to let herself become that? An arm-candy statistic? Would it be her face that flashed up next? Entering the Molina Lario at his side for the whole world to see? The whole world, including her father …

She had battled her way out of the black fog of depression, had rebuilt herself piece by piece, layer by layer, after her father had stripped her bare of everything she’d ever cared about. Hidden her away and punished her. The bruise of the slap that had landed across her cheek had faded so much faster than the bruise that had bloomed across her heart for all those years.

Was being Rocco’s ‘Irish squeeze’ going to be her legacy? Her mother would have a fit and her father would roll his ‘I told you so’ eyes.

She lifted up the remote control and changed the channel to some glitzy, ritzy soap opera—probably much like Rocco Hermida’s life. And what would her part be? The beautiful heroine? Hardly. More like the kooky best friend put in as a comedy foil. Because that was the other thing—she didn’t really measure up as his type of leading lady. She was distinctly lacking on all the fronts he seemed to major in—like big hair and big breasts. And, though her confidence was never rock bottom now, it was hardly skyscraper high, either.

A tiny part of her did wonder, even if she arrived at Molina Lario with Rocco, was sure she would leave with him, too? After all, she’d never managed to stay the course with any previous man.

She was twenty-six. She was doing well for herself. She didn’t need to create a whole load of heartache. So she’d waited ten years to see if he was still as hot as she remembered? Answer—yes. What was the next question? Was there going to be a day after the morning-after? Answer—no. Conclusion—put all thoughts of Rocco Hermida out of your head. And don’t spend the next ten years in the same state of perpetual wonder as the past ten.

There were bound to be other men who could light her up like he did. Surely!

Frankie turned the television off altogether and sighed. Her phone flashed and she leaned across to the bedside table to check it. Esme.

Hey, beautiful. We need you! Come shake off your jet lag and meet the Palm Beach boys. Told them all about you so you’d better get here soon! No excuses! X

She stared at the message. She could pretend she hadn’t seen it. She could turn her phone off and read her emails instead. But, knowing Esme, she’d turn up and drag her out anyway. So should she? Meet the Palm Beach boys? Maybe that would be just the thing to cure this once and for all. To go. Confront her demon. Let the dream shatter for good. And maybe she’d even get herself worked up over some other handsome man who was just a fraction less arrogant, less dominant, less utterly overwhelming.

The phone lit up again.

The car’s on its way. Tango time! X

That was decided, then. She stood up. In her silver sixties slingbacks she made all of five-five—‘the height of nonsense’, as her father had used to say, and not in a good way. But whatever she was, she was big enough to play in the playgrounds of the porteños and their Palm Beach buddies.

She could pull this off. Of course she could. If she could lift herself out of the blackest depression and keep it at bay for all these years she could damn well paint on a smile, slip in and hang out with her best friend.

Esme knew more than anyone that parties weren’t her thing, but this was a watershed moment. A mark of her own maturity. She had weighed it all up and traded a night or an hour with Rocco ‘Hurricane’ Hermida. She had so much more to get from life than an empty inbox and a roll in his hay.

She slipped on the Bolivian silver earrings she’d bought at a market in the Dominican Republic, grabbed her clutch. Incredible that two days earlier she’d bought these earrings, totally unaware that Rocco Hermida would hurricane his way back into her life. But there was nothing surer that in two days’ time, regardless of what happened, he would be hurricaning his way back out of it.

Just remember that, she told her wild side. Remember that and stand well back.




CHAPTER THREE (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)


THE GLAMOUR OF polo had never held any attraction for Frankie. Sure, she’d learned how to dress, how to style her hair—okay, she’d learned how to plug in straighteners—and since working at Evaña Cosmetics for the past four years she’d grudgingly warmed to the wonders of make-up.

But the hats and the heels, the sponsorship deals and the general buzz about anything related to the ponies or the players she could still, if she was honest, pass on.

Tonight, though, entering the grand Molina Lario Hotel—a French-style mansion house renowned for its exclusive, excessive entertainments—she lapped up the atmosphere and soaked up the vibe. People there exuded something purposeful, joyful and wholly sensual—and it seemed to chime with the city itself. There was passion in the air and there was anticipation all around. She could smell it. She could taste it. Would it be possible, just for a night, that she could actually live it?

She skipped up the carpeted stairs. Cameras flashed ahead, but none flashed at her. She was a nobody. And that suited her perfectly. She glanced at the anything-goes glamour. This was South America meets Europe. It was relaxed, but it was sexy. It was just how she felt. And for once she felt that she’d actually nailed the look.

She wandered through to a lounge that exuded a quiet buzz. Clutches of people were laughing, sipping and looking around. Glasses of Malbec. Bottles of beer. Canapés of steak; morsels of cured meat. Waitstaff in long white aprons and fabulous smiles.

No sign of Esme, but she was in no rush. She wandered back through to the main reception area. An alluring orb of Lalique glass gifted light to the huge oak table below, heaving under the weight of champagne. Its impressive spread drew her closer. Long-stemmed flutes in columns and rows fizzed and popped with tiny clouds of bubbles—perfect. That would be her tipple of choice tonight.

Marketing screens were strategically but discreetly placed all around, and here and there the people who made headlines were positioned in poses, eyes on the cameras and smiles for the crowd. The double-H logo of Hermanos Hermida caught her eye and flipped her stomach. So she was immune to him? She was going to pass on him? Really?

Yes, really.

She wasn’t naive enough to think that when she saw him her heart wouldn’t leap and her blood wouldn’t flame. But she was smart enough to know that these were physical reactions. They would pass. And she was not going to be held in thrall by her passion for a playboy. Not with the world looking on. Not with so much to lose and so little to gain.

She sipped at her drink and rubbed at her silver ring. A roar of laughter and energy flooded the hallway. A crowd approached along the red carpet. And there he was.

Tall and dark, the flop of hair his instant brand. Blue shirt, dark trousers and a body that her fingers clawed at themselves to touch. Air and energy thrummed around him. Simmering, menacing, mesmerising. Faces turned awestruck and adoring.

Frankie turned away, clutched at the table and steadied herself.

She’d half expected that he would come for her. Chilled when he didn’t, she looked back. He and his brother were surrounded by lights, laughter, a myriad of love. He looked at her—just for a moment. Long enough to let her know that he had seen her and had dismissed her.

Was that it? Had she had her moment in the sun? Had he already moved on?

Of course.

She was ridiculous to think otherwise.

Suddenly her ‘New Frankie’ plan seemed preposterous. She put down the flute, saw the huge smudge of lip gloss on its edge and rubbed at it almost apologetically. Esme must be here somewhere. She would find her and camp out with the Palm Beach crew. That had been her plan all along, and she owed it to Esme and to herself to follow through. It was either that or go back to the hotel. And, really—was she going to give in that easily?

Still aware of the Hermida circus to her left, she turned her back and fumbled in her bag, found her phone. Thank God for distraction. And a text from Esme.

Hurry up! Tango Bar—Hugo waiting. ;-)

There were lots of Hugos in the world of polo, but only one on the Palm Beach team. He was nice, she supposed—a tall, square-jawed picture of health and handsomeness. And he played well—really well. But the thought of small talk with such a big guy held very little appeal.

She clicked off her phone and dropped it back in her bag. Still, if she was going to make a go of the evening, she’d better fill it with something other than the mouthwatering sight of Rocco.

Her eyes slipped away of their own accord, to see if she was even on his radar, but he was now in front of the screens, his arms round some girls, gaze straight ahead. The understated scowl of a smile just added to his allure and made her recoil like a sulky cat. So she was that disposable?

Tango music drifted up the stairs, meaning that she was going to have to walk past the impromptu photo-shoot to get to it. She could do that. Sure she could.

Trying to paint ‘not bothered’ all over her face, she tilted up her chin and began her stalk past. A photographer stepped back to get a better shot and she had to swerve swiftly to avoid him. Her ankle twisted in her shoe and she swallowed a yelp of pain.

Big biceps reached out, steadied her. She looked up, startled, into the face of Dante Hermida. Like a sunbeam of happiness he sorted her stumble, flooded her path with smiles.

‘Hey—are you okay?’

His touch was disarming, warming, lingering just that second more than necessary.

Solid—like a brother’s.

‘Fine. Thanks.’

‘Are you sure? You seemed in a bit of a rush, there.’

Frankie opened her mouth to speak, but a figure immediately loomed up, put an arm across Dante’s shoulder, steering him round.

‘I’ll take over here.’

Rocco. Like an unexploded bomb.

His brother didn’t lose a beat.

‘You reckon?’

Rocco didn’t even reply, just exuded danger.

Frankie stared from the bemused smile of Dante to the intense frown of his brother. Like a wall of testosterone. One of them was hard to cope with, but two was ridiculous.

Looking past them was not an option. Rocco’s eyes demanded hers. Her heart thundered in her ears. Resolve began to crack and crumble.

She spoke up into the rock-like face. ‘Thanks—that’s kind of you, but I’m going to meet my friends.’

Dante laughed, thumped Rocco on the back.

‘You win some …’

Rocco continued to stare. One second more and she would cave in completely. She had to go. She dragged her eyes back and, head down, she bolted. Distance was her only hope. Because there was something he did to her that nobody else could do.

He entranced her. Absorbed her. All she could see were those eyes. She could still feel the touch of his lips. Longed for them.

It was frightening just how much.

She rattled down the sweep of stairs, glanced back—couldn’t not. He was staring down. In the sea of people his eyes were trained on hers.

She kept going. Another close encounter? Another lucky escape? Why did it feel as if the hunt was on—that it was only a matter of time?

The Tango Bar was dark and the caress of the music was mesmerising. Simple piano melodies and the undercurrents of slow-burning passion thrummed through the room. She scanned the shadowy space for Esme and within moments had tracked down her party. Another bunch of golden-skinned, smiling sunbeams, not even dusky in the gloom.

Esme was in her element, surrounded by handsome men like cabana boys, and their attention was forced on Frankie as Esme spotted her. Introductions flew past in a good-natured blur and ended with her being set up with Hugo.

Which should work—if she managed to stop her three-sixty swivels, checking who was coming and going from the bar. If she could settle with her champagne and enjoy the company—because it was fun! Everyone was having a good time. Her, too. Damn right she was!

Anyway, Esme wasn’t great with no, so she would stay—as long as she didn’t pull a muscle forcing this smile—and then slink off back to her adorable little bed. She’d get up for brunch and then catch some sights or work on her presentation before she joined Esme to take the short trip to Punta.

Rocco who? He’d be so far in the past by then that she might even need to be prompted to remember him. And that was good. It was. What was bad was this unhealthy obsession that had gripped her in the past few hours. It was like being sixteen all over again.

But she was twenty-six. In Argentina. On a business-with-pleasure trip. She was accomplished, confident … ish and worldly. She caught herself starting another head twist and forced a redirect onto the dance floor. Surely this next round of dancing with these outrageously sensual dancers would focus her on something other than Rocco Hermida.

She sat on the edge of her small wooden seat, watching Buenos Aires at its best. This passion was what she’d felt all evening. This was why this city was alive as no other. Lingering looks, perfect posture, movements laced with stark innuendo. The trail of the male dancers’ hands over their partners and the mirrored responses. Truly, she was spellbound.

When the first round of tunes had passed a dancer approached her, and she rose as if in a trance to join him on the floor. Esme whooped behind her and she suddenly wondered how she’d got to the edge of the floor, in the light grasp of this man, when she was pretty likely to make a fool of herself.

Those dreaded Saturday-morning dance lessons might turn out to be useful after all. Six months of her life, dragged there by her mother, who’d been worried she would turn into a boy completely.

There had been no way Frankie would signed up for the local Irish-dancing classes, for fear any of her classmates would see her. But she had reluctantly agreed to a block of ballroom lessons, which everyone had found strange at the time. Strange—but no one had complained. And she might have kept it up—it had been quite fun—but her Saturday mornings had been precious. They’d been for ponies and stick-and-ball practice. So, age fourteen, she’d put her foot down and refused to return. Stubborn, she supposed. At least that what everyone had said she was.

And proud.

So she kept her head up now and moved in the way he directed, basic steps coming back to her moment by moment. She’d been so charged since she’d arrived in this city she felt as if she must be oozing passion, and this dance was just what she needed to get some of it out. She stepped as he stepped and turned when he threw her, spilled herself back into his arms.

Right back. Right in front of Rocco.

There, at another small table at the side of the floor, he was sitting. Watching. One arm over the back of the chair, strong legs splayed open. Face in a scowl of such intensity. He stared right into her eyes. She felt her legs almost buckle. But she was scooped up and she finished the dance. Clearly a novice, but she hadn’t disgraced herself. Except for that moment.

The music stopped. A kiss of her hand and she was escorted back to her seat. Everyone whooped at her bravado, high-fived her first-timer success, and she sat flushed and alive and breathless.

And then he was up. On his feet. Walking onto the floor. Walking around a female dancer. Stirring up the crowd. As the melody started, the place buzzed and bubbled expectantly.

‘He dances as he plays,’ she heard Hugo say. ‘And he used to box. Lightning reflexes—fearless and utterly controlled. What a guy.’

He was everyone’s hero.

His partner—blond hair slick and tied at the nape of her neck, short red low-cut dress, nude high heels—dipped her eyes and her head and answered his sensual commands. Wound her body slowly with his, stepped in quicksilver paces and flicked lightning-fast kicks. Rubbed her hands all over him. And he stood there. Directing her. Absorbing her. Tall, straight, thoroughbred man. They were electrifying.

Frankie’s heart pulsed. It was too much. Too much to bear. She shoved herself up from the table and pushed her way out through the crowd. Hating her stupid, ridiculous reaction to watching this man! He was just a man! So why had she given him this power over her?

She raged as she made her way upstairs and along a dimly lit porticoed hallway to the ladies’ room. A five-minute break and she’d go back to Esme, tell her she was done for the night, and then head off to her bed. It was still only 2:00 a.m., and they’d all be out for hours, but she’d had enough. She would work on her presentation tomorrow, meet up with Esme and then head for Punta. Then her last trip out to the Pampas and then back to Madrid. She couldn’t wait.

She brushed her hair, reapplied lip gloss and scowled at herself. Enough was enough. She was back in the game. Time to take control properly. Today could be chalked up to a bad trip down memory lane, but it ended here. Now.

She pushed the doors open to go and let Hugo down gently and bid Esme good-night.

But one step out into the quiet corridor and her arm was tugged, her hand clasped and off she was dragged. Rocco took four strides and turned into a dark alcove. He hauled her round and threw her down onto a hard velvet love seat as if he was still choreographing a dance. She fell down and her head fell back.

‘Is this what you want, Frankie? You tease me, stand me up—then flaunt yourself all around this party—dancing like an orgasm is waiting to explode from your body! And you think I’ll just stand back and watch?’

She gripped the sides of the seat and faced him. Her dress had ridden up and her bare legs skittered out in front of her. She breathed and fumed through angry teeth and stared up at his furious face, still working out what had just happened.

‘I thought more of you than that. All these years I have respected your memory. I never had you pegged as a little tease.’

She saw her own hand flying out in front of her to slap him. But he grabbed it and hauled her to her feet. The love seat dug into the backs of her legs. His body was flush with her front. His fury was too close, too real.

His hand still circled her forearm and she tugged it free. ‘Let go of me! Let me go. Go and dance with your blonde. I don’t want anything to do with you—I don’t want my name associated with you!’

He fumed, dipped his head closer to her. All she could see were glittering black eyes.

‘So that’s it? You want my body and my bed but you don’t want anyone to know? You’re still trying to play the good girl? Even though it’s obvious to anyone here tonight that you are desperate for my touch.’

As he spoke he trailed one featherlight finger over her cheek. She shuddered. Feverish.

He drew his head back an inch and smiled like the devil.

‘Desperada,’ he whispered.

Then he reached behind her and squeezed her backside, pulling her into furious contact with his pelvis again.

She opened her mouth, but the raging defence she’d intended to spit out died in her throat. There was no defence. She burned for him. She ached for him. She had to have him or she would never, ever be complete.

She reached for his face. Grabbed hold of his head in her hands and pulled it down—pulled down that mouth she had dreamed of and kissed it.

She thought she might drown.

Her fingers threaded and gripped his hair. His cheekbones pressed into her palms. Hot wet lips pushed against hers. His tongue darted into her mouth and her legs gave way. He licked and suckled and smoothed his tongue over hers.

He grabbed her head with one hand and the cheeks of her backside with the other. He pulled her flush against him. Hard against him. She moaned his name and he silenced the sound. He breathed her in and she breathed him. Her hands flew around, grabbing hair and shirt and skin. She moaned again and again. His mouth was on her throat, kissing and biting, and then moving back to her lips. She snaked her leg round his waist, heaved herself up as close as she could.

He walked them two paces, then slammed her against the wall.

‘You little wildcat. You crazy little wildcat.’

They were the first words he’d said, his breath in her ear as he held her against the wall with his body and ran his hands over her, up and under her dress. He found her panties and tugged them to the side, slicked fingers across her soaked, swollen flesh. The bullet of pleasure careered to her core and she bucked. Once, twice.

‘Rocco …’ she cried into his shoulder.

‘Here? In this hallway? We wait ten years and it is to be here?’

He barely touched her and she cried out again—almost a scream.

Over his shoulder she saw a figure, but she didn’t care.

He must have sensed it, for he immediately slid her to the ground and sorted out her dress. She stood like a rag doll. He tilted up her chin, smoothed her hair, looked at her with eyes blazing and glinting and fierce.

Then he cupped her face and bent down for a kiss. Slower, softer, but still a kiss that killed her. He tilted his brow to rest it on hers and held her close in his arms. She felt the heat, the strength, the fire of this man all around her.

‘I want you so badly. I want you like I’ve never wanted any other woman. Ever.’

He pushed back from her, still holding her head, stayed nose to nose with her.

‘You are with me now. The games are over.’

He kissed her again, fiercely branded her mouth with his tongue. Then he stepped back, ran one hand through his hair and took her hand in the other.

‘Come. We will go to my home.’

She started to move in a passionate trance, her legs and her head swimming and weak.

‘Wait—I need to tell Esme. I’m with her.’

‘Brett Thompson’s wife? I told her already. I told her you were leaving with me. Told her and Hugo. As if I would let you spend another moment with him.’

She processed that. ‘You did what? When did you do that?’

He looked down the hallway, tension and command rolling off him. ‘You’d left your table. I asked where you had gone. They presumed to the restrooms, so I told them you wouldn’t be returning—we had unfinished business.’

She stalled and her eyes flew open.

‘You said that?’

‘What? Was there really going to be another outcome, querida? Did I force your tongue into my mouth and your legs around my waist?’

Without waiting for an answer, he led her off down the plush carpet of the hall.

Oil-painted bowls of fruit and soft amber lamps lined their path. At the end, the giant Lalique chandelier marked the entrance and the exit. The table below it was cleared of champagne, its gleaming oak surface smoothly and proudly uncluttered. A few people still milled around. More rested in armchairs, their voices lower, softer, tired.

And outside the night was turning to day and the day was only beginning.




CHAPTER FOUR (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)


ROCCO HAD THREE HOUSES and one boat. His town house in Recoleta was mere streets away. They could walk it. His estancia, La Colorada, was two hours away by car. His seafront villa in Punta del Este was a short helicopter trip away. And his boat was somewhere off the coast of Cayman.

His head rolled options like dice as he palmed the small of Frankie’s back and escorted her out.

He wanted unrestricted, uninterrupted access and time with this woman. He deserved it—he needed it. And so did she.

He glanced at her and she turned big hazel eyes up to him. He put his arm round her shoulders and squeezed her into his side. She reached up and touched his chest, scraped her fingers across the new wound that throbbed under his shirt. Better than any physio, she would be the ultimate remedy for every last thumping bruise and cut from today’s match.

‘How long until you go back to Europe?’

He nodded to the doorman and walked her down the carpeted steps. His car rolled into view. He checked each way and across the street. Nobody. He checked behind them. Clear. He always checked. He was always his own security, but he was hers, too—for now.

‘A week. We go to Punta del Este later today—Esme and Brett and me. Then I have a business trip to the Pampas on Thursday. Flying back on Friday.’

So she was heading to Punta, too?

‘They’ll be going to the Turlington Club party,’ he said, almost to himself. So was he. He never missed it.

But if the world was heading to Punta, he would be heading in the opposite direction. With Frankie.

‘I’ll take you to Punta. Tomorrow.’

Dice rolled. Decision made.

She stopped right there on the pavement, a flare of anger replacing the passion that had flooded her body. ‘I told you my plans. There’s no way I’m changing them.’

‘No? You’ve already changed them. You’re here now. Are you really saying that you’d rather lie on a beach with your friend than climb into bed with me?’

He trailed a thumb across her jaw as her mouth pursed, framed a retort, then slid into a sexy smirk.

She dipped her eyes, then fired him a look. ‘I’ll give you a day of my time. After that I’m back on plan.’

He couldn’t help but smile back. He didn’t normally deal well with independence—women were all about love, not combat. But for the few hours they were going to have together, it wasn’t going to be a deal-breaker. So far it had even added to her allure. So far …

He kept his hand on her jaw.

‘I’ll take your kind offer of a day.’

He stepped a little closer to her, gripped her chin a little more firmly and watched as she dragged a breath in through bared teeth.

‘And since that’s all you’re offering, we’re not going to waste a moment. I’ve got a place round the corner …’

His eyes dropped to her mouth. Wet lips.

‘If you behave yourself I’ll take you to your friends so you’re …”back on plan”. Does that meet with your approval?’

Her narrowed eyes signalled that she knew he was mocking her.

‘It does.’

‘Excellent. Our first compromise. We’ll head straight to my town house, then.’

He held open the car door and waited. She fired him a look that told him he’d only won the first round. Then she slid inside. He scanned the street again and joined her.

The moment he closed the door they slammed together across the leather.

Seconds later and the flames roared around them. A pyre of passion.

But she hauled herself back, splayed her hands on his thighs and looked up, straight into his eyes.

‘Just for the record, I wasn’t playing games. I went to the party because I didn’t want to let Esme down—not to flaunt myself in front of you. If it hadn’t been for her I’d still be tucked up in my bed. So consider yourself lucky.’

Still in combat.

He grabbed her bare arms, his fingers closing round them easily. He stifled a chuckle. Nodded seriously. ‘Oh, I do—I do.’

But suddenly he was struck by just how close they’d come—how far they’d journeyed. How easily they could have lost this opportunity. How hard he needed to pursue her just to scratch this itch.

He added quietly, ‘I think there’s more than luck at work here. It was always going to end this way with us.’

The car moved slowly; the darkness loomed. Her heaving breaths answered him. Her skin looked silvery smooth, each slim arm still braced on his thighs. She was mesmerising.

He grabbed a handful of silky hair and tugged her head back. He wanted to savour every second, to devour her, to linger over every moment like an eight-course, wine-matched gourmet meal—to swallow her whole.

He met her mouth as she reached for his—succulent as watermelon, sweeter than syrup.

He tasted. Lost himself. Scooped her like sauce onto his lap and let her soak against him.

He sat back as she straddled him … as they went up in flames again.

Seconds more and the car turned a corner, then stopped. They were here.

He reached for the door handle, caught the flash of the driver’s eyes in the mirror, held her as he stepped out of the car and strode to the iron gates.

Still dark, the straight path to the curved, domed entrance was softly illuminated with studs of light. His finest home. His proudest purchase. Every step proof of how far he had come from thieving street child to national hero. Normally he lingered, savoured. But not tonight. Tonight he marched with his treasure. Past the low sweet-scented bushes, the spiky-headed lavender and geometric box hedge. None of that mattered.

He had waited for her. And now she was here. Right here in his city, in his house, in his arms.

The heavy half-glazed door reflected them as they stepped up. She looked tiny, slight, and for a moment he remembered the girl she had been. So full of energy, so bold and uncompromising. She might have grown up, filled out slightly, but under her subtle make-up and silky hair and the well-cut dress, she was still that refreshingly natural, honest creature he’d first laid eyes on in that muddy lane.

And finally he was going to take her in the way he had longed to take her. He could hardly bear any more heat at his groin right now. He was slightly out of control—he could feel it.

His hand was steady as he pressed the keypad, but that was sheer force of will. The door swung open into the high domed entrance. Lamps glowed like sleepy sentries down the hallway. Palms bent their heads in welcome. Portraits calmly considered them. It was as if the whole house was waiting.

He felt her step in beside him.

‘Mother of God, what a place …’ she breathed.

She was turning three-sixty, gazing at the glass, the gilt, the marble, the grand sweep of carpeted stairs. But the normal flush of pride, the pause and then the proud history lesson, didn’t ease from his lips.

‘Upstairs,’ he said.

He caught her as she turned back to him, hoisted her weightless body into his arms and strode to the stairs.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said.

She didn’t lie back—not Frankie. She grabbed his head, tried to kiss him.

It was the sheer force of the habit of climbing those stairs that got him to the top without missing a step. She was insatiable. He could hardly contain her as she slid her legs round his waist, held on to his head and licked and tongued her way across his face.

He had to stop—couldn’t take another step with this erotic creature writhing all over him. He had to take her now. Here in the hall.

In a heartbeat he’d scooped his arm up her spine, bent her backwards and laid her straight down on the floor. Her eyes flew open with the speed of his move, but the wicked flash of joy told him she was even more fired up.

‘You don’t want to take this slowly, do you, querida? You haven’t got the patience.’

‘You can go slow with your blondes.’

She blew in his ear, her hot breath sending him into a fury of desire for her.

‘But I haven’t got all day, so get a move on.’

He braced himself just to look at her. No one spoke to him like this—no one. He would never tolerate any mention of previous partners, never entertain censorious comments. But she did it. And he was loving it.

‘You think …?’

She lay still. Just for a moment. Her hair was a spill of the darkest rum, her eyes diamond black in the hollows of her satin-skinned face. Mesmerising. Absorbing. So beautiful.

Something hovered between them in that second. Heavy, humid, portentous.

And then, like a tide taken at the flood, they grabbed for each other.

She pulled at his shirt—fingers grabbing, nails scratching. Vaguely aware of his wound throbbing, he filled his hands with her. Hauled her dress up and over her hips. She tried to scrabble towards him, to get at more of his clothes, but he had to see her and touch her. Had to.

He pinned her to the ground with his hand and stared at her slender bones, at the tiny triangle of her panties. She was so delicate, so feminine … Another jolt of lust made him even thicker. Even harder. He grabbed the fine fabric that covered her in his fist and tugged. She yelped and breathed out hard. But she still clambered to clutch at him as he balled the shredded silk and tossed it aside.

‘I liked those,’ she said.

‘You put them on knowing I’d take them off. Didn’t you?’

‘You’re so hot for yourself—aren’t you, Hurricane?’

He grinned at her again—couldn’t help it. She fired him up to be a little more rough, a little more bold.

‘I’m hot for you.’

He pulled her dress right up to her waist, exposed her nakedness to his hungry eyes.

‘You’re perfect.’

She was. Exquisite. The neat V of dark hair drew his gaze, and as the words left his lips he parted her flesh and slid his fingers home.

Like a wild beast calmed, she stilled, threw back her head, closed her eyes and moaned. She was swollen and soaked. Just as he’d known she would be. As he’d always remembered. Her clitoris was engorged, begging for his touch, and he circled and slid his finger over it just once. Her cry echoed off the walls and went straight to his heart.

‘I’ve got to taste you, hermosa.’

Hands to her hips, he slid her swiftly up the silk rug. She hauled at her dress, dragged it over her head and unhooked her bra. She lay back in the moonlight, clothes cast around under the domed ceiling. She was some bewitching fairy or nymph, clouding his head. Entrancing him. Robbing him of sense.

He lifted her hips, held her open under his gaze, drinking in the moonlit sight of her that he’d never had a chance to see properly in those few stolen minutes years ago. Then he bent his head until his lips and tongue lay between her splayed legs. And then he lapped her, tasted her and relished her.

She had orgasmed in seconds that first time. Caught him completely by surprise. And herself. He doubted she had even known what had happened. He’d catapulted himself out of bed in shock.

But this time as her legs tensed, her arms gripped his and she burst apart, pulsed and jerked in his mouth. As her cries echoed in the hallway he held her in place and licked at her until she thrashed her arms and legs and begged him to stop.

‘Rocco—Rocco, please!’

The words rang out, almost dragging him out of his frenzy. And then he was lifting her, hugging her up, plastered against his body, striding along the hallway, taking them both to his suite. She hung her head on his shoulder, lay limply in his arms.

‘Is that what it takes to calm you, Frankie? I must remember that …’

She felt so soft in his arms, lying back quietly as he paced past closed doors. Light was beginning to flood in through the huge stained glass window that marked the end of the hallway and the door to his suite.

‘I’m only taking a moment …’ She smiled, then tipped up her face, softened by dawn’s golden light.

God, she was even more beautiful like this. He didn’t think he could wait another second to have her.

He kicked open the door. Three paces and he laid her down on his bed. She leaned up on her elbows, completely naked. He zoned in on her tiny curved breasts, pink nipples erect and inviting. His hands fumbled like a teenager with his belt, his fly, his shirt buttons.

Her chest heaved up and down with hard, shallow breaths, then she kneeled up and grabbed at his shirt, hauled at it. Kissed him.

‘Back in the game—Hurricane.’

Sweat beaded between them—he didn’t know from whom. They made noises … breathed and gasped and murmured each other’s names. She was licking at his nipples, her fine little fingers running over his flesh, tracing the fresh scar that had begun to bleed.

‘Oh, my God—did I do that? I’m sorry.’

He kicked off the last of his clothes, pulled a handful of condoms from the drawer and scattered them on the bed.

‘Doesn’t matter. Come here. Lie down.’

He grabbed her by the wrists and held her as he kneed her legs apart and then tipped her down.

She strained, held herself taut as he positioned her. Her eyes were on him. His erection. He was so swollen it stood proud, huge, and just the sight of her staring made him nearly lose his grip.

‘Rocco, my God … my God.’

She leaned up, licked her wet lips and raised her eyes to his. He felt like a god. She did that to him.

His fingers peeled a condom packet apart and she reached to take the condom out. Then she cupped his straining sac and began to roll it delicately. Too delicately.

He’d had enough. His control was shot. He couldn’t wait any more.

He shook his head. ‘Lie back. Let me do this, Frankie. Come on, hermosa. Come on.’

She did as she was told. But her eyes drank him in. Every part of him.

Finally he was just where he wanted to be, leaning over her as he’d wanted, as he’d imagined. Finally he was getting to hold her under him and nudge the tip of his shaft inch by inch into her hot, sweet heaven.

She was so slight, so slender. But so ready. And even if he’d had an ounce of self-control left—even if he’d wanted to take it slowly—she had other plans. She slid down to meet him, her eyes never leaving his even as her body took him in and her hands smoothed their way around to his backside.

And he slid home.

The strain not to take her hard and fast nearly broke him, but he lifted her hips and took it as slowly as he could. He felt her fingers frame his face … looked down, opened his eyes. She was staring with those huge eyes, deep and dark and so full of secrets. She licked her lips and drove him on with her hips. Her breasts jiggled as he thrust into her and he knew then that this was the most erotic experience of his life.

‘Rocco, baby, this is too good … too good.’

She squeezed her hips even more, and just the perfect tilt of them sliding together nearly killed him. She called out to the day-brightened room as she lost it. He was losing it with her. This was it. The wait was over.

He grabbed her wrists with one hand and pinned them above her head, held her down. Then he threw each of her legs round his waist and hauled her by her hips as close as he could get her. She curled back on the bed, for once his supplicant, and he leaned over her, stared into her and ground himself free.

Released.

It was immense.

He came and didn’t stop coming. And she was there, squeezing him home.

Cradling her in his arms, he rolled over and spread her like silk over his body while he crashed back down to earth. His heart hammered and his vision struggled to return. The edges and curves of the white plaster cornice slowly took shape around the dark grey ceiling high above him. The blackout blinds were high on the windows, letting in the morning’s brightness.

It was days since he’d been here. Weeks, maybe even months since he’d had a woman here. And he’d never, ever had a girl like Frankie here. Anywhere. Ever.

He squeezed her to his chest, almost as if checking she was real.

‘What do you think? Worth the wait?’ he said finally.

She lay still. ‘I hate to burst your bubble, but I think it might need to be the best out of three.’

He smiled. Trust her …

She smoothed her hands over his chest, pressed her fingers into the bruise that now bloomed like a map of the world over his right pec.

‘Is that sore? Am I hurting you?’

He snatched at her skinny little wrist as she fired him one of her wicked grins.

‘The purple skin and burst stitches don’t give you a clue?’

She batted her eyes and lowered her head. Kissed the bruised flesh—little whispers of touch with that fiery mouth.

‘Is that better?’

He threaded his fingers through her hair, caught them up in a tangle and worked it free.

‘I’ll live. Come here.’

He wanted to feel her close against him. He was acting out of character, but having her wrapped over him felt so damn good. He loved women—of course he did—but he knew the chemistry, the bonding, the whole emotional fallout attached to the aftermath of lovemaking could lead to expectations he was never going to fulfil. But this moment he had waited for. And he was going to savour it.

‘Makes a change from the last time, when you tried to kick me out of bed.’

‘At least one of us had our head screwed on.’

He leaned up on his elbow to look at the sleek cat that lay across him.

‘You know how crazy that was? You tested me to the max. I’ve never been so tempted, and you were—what?—sixteen? Have you any idea how wrong that would have been?’

‘Didn’t feel wrong at the time, though, did it?’

She twisted her head round to look at him, pressed another whisper-kiss to his chest. Nothing about her felt wrong. Then or now.

He shook his head. ‘Your family didn’t strike me as being the most freethinking. It was a miracle that we weren’t caught.’

She turned her head, pulled herself away. Lay back on the bed beside him and stared up at the ceiling.

‘We were. Caught. Actually.’

‘What? Are you kidding me?’

He shifted up. No way. No. Way. He would have known—he would have been called to account. There was no chance her brother would have continued to do business with him—no way their professional or personal relationship could have withstood that type of interference.

She twisted her head. ‘Oh, don’t worry—I denied it. Until I was hoarse. And Mark doesn’t know—at least I think he doesn’t. But my dad—let’s just say he has suspicions … deep suspicions.’

Damn. He hadn’t considered that.

‘Angel—I’m sorry. I’d never have left you to handle that on your own had I known. What happened?’

She sighed, and he saw her twist at the silver ring on her finger.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know if we woke him with our noise or if he was just awake anyway. But after you’d got your stuff together and walked out I went to go back to my room and he was there—at the top of the stairs. He asked me outright what the hell I’d been doing.’

He remembered every second of that night. Stifling her cries with his mouth as she came in his hand from those few fevered touches. Pinning her down and then reality crashing round him as he’d realised what the hell had just happened—what the hell he’d been about to do. Trying to get out of bed, pulling on clothes that were icy and damp, buttoning himself up over the erection that wouldn’t go down. Heaving on his boots as she’d still tried to tempt him back to bed. Finally grabbing her shoulders and hissing at her to stop, to leave him, she was too young!

But she hadn’t given up. Naked, driving him wild. He’d hauled the sheet off the bed and wrapped her up. As he’d yanked the door open and tried to remember which way was out the farmhouse’s narrow windows and dark passages had lent him no clue.

Finally he’d stumbled down to the kitchen, past the sheepdogs lying in front of the fire’s dying embers, heard the tick of an old clock, heaved on the rusty bolts that had held the door closed.

She’d come down to stand in the doorway to the hall with a haunted look—as if the heart had been ripped out of her. He’d stopped then—aching to go to her, to make her feel better, to take away the hurt, take away his own hurt.

But he’d been young—only twenty-one! He’d spent so long getting to that point, working through his own pain. La Colorada had finally been ready. His polo career had been taking off. He hadn’t been able to stay there, to ally himself to a woman—a girl. He’d been only just beginning to taste the chance of a sweet future. It would have been madness to go to her.

So he’d turned back to the door, hauled it open and stepped out into the early-morning rain. She’d come right out into the daylight, onto the huge slabbed courtyard, called his name one final time. But he’d just slung his bag onto his shoulder, taken one final look at her, wrapped up like temptation’s gift. And then gone.

‘He was just standing there—then he went into the guest bedroom, saw you were gone and the state of the room. Saw me in the sheet.’

She turned her face away.

‘He slapped me and called me a whore.’

Rocco sat up, but she’d turned onto her side. He scooped her in close, feeling the shock of those words.

‘Hermosa, lo siento mucho,’ he soothed, furious that he had not known this.

‘It’s fine,’ she said—too brightly. ‘I lied. I said you must have left ages earlier. That I’d just pulled the sheet off. I don’t know what else I said. I made it up.’

He kissed her shoulder, cursed his stupidity. Of course they had been heard. They’d been wild for each other—then and now. And he’d thought they hadn’t been. Stupid.

‘It’s not fine. I apologise.’ He pulled her back and turned her round, right round, until her head was tucked under his chin. He rocked her, hating the thought of her hurting. ‘What did he do? Were you punished?’

She gave a hollow little laugh.

‘If you can say being sent away to a convent for two years is punishment, then, yes, I was punished.’

He struggled to get his head around this, but knew he had no small part to play.

‘And he made sure that Mark sold Ipanema. That she went to you was coincidence, but it made it all the harder.’

Rocco squeezed his eyes closed, feeling her pain.

‘I see. Now I see. I didn’t think … Angel, I’m sorry. If you’d got in touch I could have sorted it—I could have spoken to him. I wish you’d let me know.’

‘You made it quite plain that the last thing you wanted was for me to get in touch, Rocco. Anyway, it’s totally in the past—it’s fine. I served my time.’ She laughed. ‘Honestly. It’s done.’

He pulled her close. He couldn’t deny that. Any more than he could deny how deep the scars of childhood could wound. How hard they were to heal. His own were like welts under his skin. No one could see them, but they were always there—always would be. Despite the ‘luxury’ of enforced therapy for five years. Five years until he’d learned to say what they wanted to hear: that he didn’t hold himself responsible, that it wasn’t his fault his baby brother had died.

Who else was to blame if not him? Who else had dragged him from doorway to doorway, scavenging, begging, stealing and worse? Who else had got caught up with the gangs, the drug runners and the killers?

He glanced past Frankie’s scooped silhouette to the tiny battered photo of Lodo that he carried with him and placed at his bedside wherever he was. Precious life snuffed out before he’d even turned four years old. Being responsible for him, letting him down, losing him—it was the hardest lesson he had ever learned. But he had learned it. And he would never ever forget it.

The knowledge that Martinez, Lodo’s killer, had never been held to account was like a knife to his ribs every day. But he would make it happen. One day.

He felt Frankie stirring, trailing hot little kisses over him and moaning with hot little sounds. She wriggled against him and he reacted instantly, his mouth seeking hers, his hands cupping her breasts and his knee shifting open her thighs. He positioned himself between her legs, so ready to slip inside her.

‘You owe me,’ she said as she rolled beneath him, ‘and I’m here to collect.’

He smiled as she slid her tongue into his mouth. He owed her, all right, and he was going to pay her what he could. But the guilt that was already unfurling from his stomach was telling him he was never going to give her what she really wanted.

He reached for another condom, turned Lodo’s picture face down and held her tight in his arms as he sheathed himself.

So if he wasn’t going to give her what she wanted, what the hell kind of game was he playing? Because he knew that with every kiss, every stroke, every whispered word, while she might be calling it payback, he was storing up a whole load of brand-new trouble.

She slipped around him, climbed on top, and his body responded hard and fast again. He might have been able to hold back the tide in her farmhouse but as he slid himself into that gorgeous sweet place he’d been dreaming of for years he felt the world reconfigure.

Trouble?

Totally.




CHAPTER FIVE (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)


HER EYES WERE SUNKEN. Her chin was grazed. Her thighs were weak and sore. Frankie hung on to the porcelain sink and stared at the wreckage.

Making love could do this to a person? She’d thought she might be glowing, radiant—rosy cheeked at the very least. The shadows under her eyes looked like a sleep-deprived panda’s. Was there any product on earth that could work actual miracles? Not any that she had in her bag. Nothing that Evaña sold could even come close.

She stared round the ‘hers’ bathroom in this glorious suite. It was easily the prettiest she had ever encountered. Antique silver gilt mirrors dotted the shimmery grey marble walls. Sweet little glass jars held candles and oils, and there were feather-soft white folded towels. Lush palms and filmy drapes. A huge bath like a giant white egg cracked open was set on a platform atop four gilded feet. She pondered filling it, but surely it would take hours?

And how many hours were left in the day? Had she really been in bed for ten of them? A good, convent-educated girl like her? Though in the eyes of her father she was ‘just a whore’.

She shivered in the warm humid air at the memory of that slap, those words. The stinging ache on her cheek had been nothing to the pain of Rocco’s walking away. And when he’d never come back, when all she’d been left with was a crushing sense of rejection, she’d had no fight left. Her father’s furious silence … Her mother’s hand-wringing despair … Going to the convent in Dublin had almost come as a relief. Almost.

Then finding out that her beautiful Ipanema had been sold …

Mark had come to tell her. She’d been sitting there in her hideous grey pinafore and scratchy-collared blouse in the deathly silent drawing room that was saved for visitors. The smell of outdoors had clung to Mark’s clothes—she’d buried her face in his shoulder, scenting what she could, storing it up like treasure.

He thought she’d be happy that the handsome Argentinian she’d been so sweet on—the one who was now scooping polo prize after prize—was Ipanema’s new owner. He’d known it would be upsetting, but she had always been going to be sold—surely she’d known that? She was their best, and they needed the money now that Danny had walked out on them and Frankie’s school fees were so high. It wasn’t as if she was home anymore, riding her every day after school. And Rocco Hermida was easily the best buyer they could hope to find—notoriously good with animals, and miles ahead in equine genetics. Soon there would be more Ipanemas. Wasn’t that great?

She’d painted on her smile until he left, knowing that she had nothing now. Not even the smell of fresh air on her clothes.

Dark days had followed. She’d moved listlessly through them. She’d lost her appetite, become even thinner, lost her sparkle, lost her motivation for everything. No one had been able to believe the change in her. Herself least of all. One minute naive, innocent, unworldly. Next moment as if she had been handed the book of life and it had fallen open at the page of unrequited love.

Because it had been love. She, in her sixteen-year-old heart, had known it was love. And he didn’t love her back. She had laid herself bare, body and soul, and he had played with her a little, then tossed her away.

The only ray of sunshine had been Esme. Relentlessly digging her out of her dark corners—relentless but never interfering. Just like now.

Frankie pulled out a bath towel, shuddered at her own selfishness.

What must Esme be thinking? Her best friend, whom she hadn’t seen for years, had been so excited to hear that she was coming all the way from Madrid—had sent a car to collect her, planned to show her such a good time at the Molina Lario, over the weekend in Punta …

She had managed one brief reply to Esme’s text to say she was ‘Fine! Xxx’, and then her phone had been powered off. She cringed, wondering what she must have made of Rocco’s dismissive statement that they had ‘unfinished business’. It would be news to Esme that they had any business at all!

Frankie Ryan was not a party girl—never mind a one-night stand girl. She was a no-nonsense career girl. A don’t-ever-give-them-anything-to-criticise girl. She hated anyone knowing her business, judging her or in any way getting past the wrought iron defences she had spent the past ten years erecting all around her.

Well done, she thought as she stared at her own mess. Well done for walking straight into the lion’s den. She looked at it—his den. The extravagant opulence. Everything in prime fin-de-siècle glory. Silvery marble and gilded taps, Persian rugs and domed cupolas. And Rocco Hermida … prowling.

She’d walked right in, lain right down and made sure that the whole world knew. So much for wrought iron. Everyone could see right through it.

She’d told him far too much last night. Given too much of herself away. She didn’t want this to be a pity party. She wasn’t here for his sympathy. She’d never breathed a word about that night to another living soul. Denials to her father, and her mother too shocked even to ask. Mark and Danny both oblivious. Rocco needn’t have known.

But it was done now. She couldn’t take it back. As long as he didn’t think he owed her or anything. That would be too much to bear.

She padded to the shower, turned on the jets and jumped back as water blasted from all angles. Then she adjusted the taps, stood determinedly under the slightly too cold spray and scoured herself. You could take the girl out of the convent …

She patted herself dry and swaddled herself in a robe. Used a brand-new toothbrush that made her think of all the other brand-new toothbrushes that would come after she’d gone.

One-night stand.

Whore?

Absolutely not. She was tying up loose ends. She was filing away memories and then moving on. She was here on business and she was having some pleasure. What was so wrong with that? People did it all the time! She just hadn’t got round to it until now.

Rocco was an expert at it. Had been from the very first moment she had met him. A roll in the hay and then off down the lane. She was going to learn from that. Surely, if nothing else, she would learn from that. Because she’d be damned if she was going to be the one huddled in a sheet with a broken heart this time.

It only took Dante twelve hours to track him down. In person. Rocco was walking back from the kitchen with two bottles of water and a decision about exactly where to eat lunch in his mind. He’d worked up a king-size appetite, and as soon as Frankie came out of the shower he was going to feed her, nourish her, make sure she had enough fuel for them to continue where they’d left off. It was pretty much all he had head space for just now.

He’d done too much thinking in the past few hours—watching her as she slept, biting down on his anger. He should have done more at the time. He should have checked she was all right. He should have at least figured out that the reason she’d never been mentioned was that she’d been sent away in disgrace.

Damn, but this just proved his point. Being responsible for others was a non-negotiable non-starter. Lodo, Dante—and now this. Nothing good came of it but feelings of guilt, regret, that he could have done more.

What concerned him most was that even though she had every right to hate him and hold him responsible she had come here—after all this time. And no matter what she claimed—that it was a business trip, that she’d wanted to see the ponies—she had tracked him down. And right now she was in his bedroom.

That part wasn’t the problem—not at all. And she didn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d turn needy and emotional. But still, you never knew … Sometimes it was the wild ones who were the most vulnerable.

So he had to be crystal clear that this was a short-term party for two. With no after-party. Of course, that would be a whole lot easier if he wasn’t so turned on by her. If he’d been able to get her out of his system like every other woman before. But that wasn’t looking as if it was going to happen any time soon.

‘Hey, guapo!’

Rocco paused, and scowled at Dante as he sauntered in from the grounds.

‘What are you doing here?’

Dante’s easy golden grin slid over him, for once jarring his mood.

He didn’t want to be disturbed—didn’t want to have to think through or account for what he was doing. He just wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

‘You didn’t seriously think I would stay away? Took me a while to track you down, though. Never thought you’d hole up here.’

He drew a hand through his dark blond hair, reached for one of the bottles of water.

‘There’s more in the fridge. These are for us.’

‘Us? As in la chica irlandés? So she’s still here?’

He whistled. And grinned. And removed his hand when he saw that Rocco wasn’t going to relinquish the bottle.

‘Ah. So we’re still working through the obsession?’

He nodded his head. ‘We’re getting there.’

Dante was smirking, prowling about, checking things out.

‘You got plans?’ Rocco cracked the lid on his water, necked half of it, tried to swallow his irritation at the same time.

‘Well, the party’s moved on—everybody’s in Punta. Waiting on you.’ He tossed away his jacket and eased himself onto a sofa, looking as if he was just about to film a commercial. As usual.

‘Don’t let me hold you back. I’ve got stuff to do at the estancia. Might take me the weekend to fix—’

Dante ignored him, cut in. ‘You know you’ve created a whole lot of buzz? The way you acted last night. But hey, it’s cool. I’ll get out of your hair. Leave you to work all the knots out. God knows you’ve been coiled up with it for years. A whole weekend, though? Impressive.’

‘You’re reading too much into this.’

‘What about Turlington?’

‘What about it?’

Dante pulled out his phone, started to browse through it as if he had all the time in the world. That was the thing about Dante—he made easy an art form.

‘Oh, nothing. Except you’ve never missed it yet. And there will be a lot of disappointed people there if you don’t show up.’ He grinned at his phone. ‘In fact there will be a lot of disappointed people if you do show up with la chica. What’s her name again? Frankie?’

‘Yeah, that’s me.’

They both turned round. And there she was. Framed in falling sunbeams from the hallway, golden all around. She walked towards them into the kitchen. And if he’d thought she’d looked sexy in her little blue dress, it was nothing to seeing her decked out in one of his favourite blue shirts. Scrubbed clean, hair sleek, bare limbs.

Had she done the buttons up wrong just to add to the whole ‘tumbled out of bed’ look? His eyes zoned straight in on the asymmetric slices of fabric that skimmed her toned, succulent thighs.

She strolled right up and took the bottle of water that was dangling limply from his hand. Then she unscrewed the top, tipped the bottle head against his, winked, said, ‘Cheers!’ and took a long, slow sip.

His eyes zoned in on her throat. Swallowing the water. It killed him.

He’d really thought that some of her allure would have rubbed off by now. Didn’t feel like it. Not the way he was warming up. He turned away.

Dante beamed at her as if she was some kind of clever child who had taken its first steps or said its first words. Then he did exactly what he always did: he stood up and sauntered over as if he was being called to the stage to collect a prize—all easy charm and sunshine smiles.

‘I’m Dante. Absolute pleasure to meet you, Frankie. Again.’

He kissed her right cheek, kissed her left cheek. Held her by the shoulders and gave her a long once-over. Nodded.

Rocco sank the rest of his water and watched from the corner of his eye.

She was smiling that smile. She could be so intense, but when she smiled her face lit up like carnival.

‘Pleased to meet you, too, Dante. Again.’

‘Dante’s just leaving.’ He took his empty bottle and fired it into the recycling bin. It clattered noisily.

Dante didn’t miss a beat.

‘Yeah, I’m heading to Punta, Frankie. We always head there after the Molina party. It’s the Turlington Club party tomorrow night. I’d be happy to take you.’

It was the usual chat, but seeing the flash of dipped eyes and the curve of a smile made him bristle. Was she flirting? Was Dante flirting right back? Whatever—it was pushing his damn buttons. That was all it was. He should know that. What was wrong with him? He should calm the hell down.

She opened her mouth to reply but he cut in. ‘As I said, I have to call in at La Colorada. So I’ll let you know later if I’m going to make it up to Punta.’

‘How about you, Frankie? What would you rather do? Go and muck out horses with the Lone Ranger here, or drink cocktails at Bikini Beach with me?’

Rocco felt his fingers grip Frankie’s shoulders. ‘Frankie came all the way here to see the horses, so I reckon that answers your question.’

‘And I thought she was here to see you …’

The swine threw his head back and laughed. Round One to him.

Rocco palmed her back as he steered her down the hallway, with Dante’s chuckling words ringing in the space. ‘I’ll see myself out, then. See you at the Turlington Club, Frankie—save me a dance.’

How many times had Dante tried that routine on one of his girls? And how many times had Rocco found it entertaining? Countless. Watching their eyes widen, wondering who to look at—wondering if Dante really was flirting.

‘You never said anything about going to your ranch.’

She had stopped dead, in that way that she did. Like a mule.

‘No, I didn’t, but I have to go there now.’

He paused. This could be the moment. At any other time, with any other woman, this would be the moment. As soon as they got possessive, bitchy or mean: It’s been great, but change of plans. Thanks for a wonderful time. It would be that clean. The words would maybe sound harsh, but it would be short, sweet, simple.

He considered, but he just didn’t want to. Not yet anyway. Another day should see all the knots worked out …

‘But I’ve already told you I was only here with you for the day. I’ve come halfway across the world to see Esme.’

She was still with that? She couldn’t see herself that the minute she’d landed it was him she’d tracked down? He was still coming to terms with everything she’d told him, but he was slowly getting there—she couldn’t really be blind to the fact that it was his house she was standing in, in his shirt, after having his body all over her for the past ten hours.

‘Punta is a two-hour trip. If you want to leave now I’ll make the arrangements …’

She opened her mouth.

‘I have to go to the estancia. Juanchi, my head gaucho, wants to talk. He’s got a concern about one of the ponies on the genetics programme. It’s up to you. Easy to get you to your friends, if that’s what you want.’

She twirled a strand of hair, made a little face, shrugged. ‘Okay. Sounds like a plan. As long as there are no more surprises.’

Sounds like a plan? No more surprises? He almost did a double-take. God, she riled him like no other woman ever could.

But even as she stood there he wanted to wipe the coy little look off her face with his mouth.

‘That’s the thing about surprises—you can’t always see them coming.’

She slipped him a little smile. ‘I suppose …’

‘Take us—right now.’

He took the water from her hand, put it on the console table beside them.

‘Bolt from the blue.’

He slid his hands round her waist, felt the faint outline of her ribs, pulled her towards him. She was still holding back. Still playing her game. He could feel it. No arms round his neck … no legs round his waist.

‘This has been a very lovely surprise. Gorgeous.’

He stepped into her space, eased his thumbs to the underside of her breasts. Slowly, slowly rubbed the soft flesh, gently massaged.

‘So what if it’s only going to last a few more hours? A day? You go your way—I go mine.’

He kept up his sensuous caressing. She blinked her eyes, slowly, softened like butter in the sunshine.

‘But there’s no point denying that right now we’re very …’

His hands slid to the sides of her breasts and his thumbs found her nipples. Little light touches to begin with, just how she liked it.

‘Very …’

She closed her eyes.

‘Hot for one another …’

Her head fell back and she ground out a long, satisfied sigh. ‘Mmm …’

He nodded. Slid one hand to the hem of the shirt, gripped her hips, kept up the pressure on her nipples. Then he bent his mouth to the fabric, drew long and deep on each nipple, soaked his own shirt with his mouth, tugging those buds to hard points.

She was so easy to turn up and down, on and off. Like a geyser.

He stood back, admired his work.

‘Lose the shirt,’ he said.

For a moment she stood, dreamy and drugged. Then she fixed him with a look. Dipped her chin. Smiled like sin.

‘Make me.’

He grinned. He couldn’t help it. There she went again—matching him. Firing him up. Making him feel that here was a woman who could stand toe to toe with him.

Dammit, but he couldn’t afford to let crazy thoughts like those into his head.

He grabbed for her. ‘Make you, Angel? In ways you’ve never even dreamed of …’

She tried to duck away but he caught her. She screamed with laughter as he hauled her close to him and silenced her with kisses like a crazy man. She caved. Totally caved. Couldn’t get enough. She suckled his lip, his tongue, showered him with kisses.

She thought she was calling the shots?

He needed to be in complete control of this. Couldn’t afford any slip-ups.

He tossed her over his shoulder. Her shirt—his shirt—rode up, and he held his hand over her bare backside, bringing it down just a little hard. Just a little warning—he was in control. And that was how it would stay.




CHAPTER SIX (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)


FRANKIE WAS PREPARED for the long jacaranda-lined driveway. She was prepared for the still green lakes overhung with sleepy willows. The curved pillared entrance, the endless array of white-framed windows, the pops of colour from plants, pots and baskets—all of them were totally as she’d envisaged. She was even prepared for the unending horizons she could see on either side of the mansion-style ranch house, rolling into the distance, underlining the vastness of the lands, the importance of the estancia, the power of the man.

But she was not prepared for the huge lump that welled in her throat or the hot tears that sprang to her eyes when she saw the horses that galloped over to the fence to welcome their master home, racing alongside the car as he drove, happily displaying their unconditional love. Nor was she prepared for the uninhibited smile that lit up Rocco’s face as he watched them.

The freedom they enjoyed shone out as they played in the fields surrounding La Colorada. It had been so long … so, so long since she had enjoyed that self-same freedom. After Ipanema had gone she’d never felt the same. She’d barely even sat on a horse—she’d thought she’d grown up, moved on from her teenage fixation with horses, moved on to her adult fixation with escape.

But here, now, it all came flooding back. Maybe it was just because she was so tired, or maybe it was a reflection of all that had come at her these past several hours, but she struggled to hold back a sob as memories of her happy childhood slammed into her one after another after another. A childhood that had been so completely shattered with the arrival of Rocco Hermida.

She twirled her ring and swallowed hard.

‘I have to find Juanchi. You can wait in the house—relax until supper. Come on, I’ll show you inside.’

Those were the first words he had spoken to her in the best part of an hour. They’d gone back to bed, both drifted off to sleep, and when she’d woken he’d been pulling on clothes with his phone clamped to his ear. It hadn’t moved far ever since.

Her little vinyl carry-on case had arrived, its gaudy ribbon, scuffed sides and wonky wheel incongruous beside the butter-soft leather weekend bag Rocco had been chucking things into as he spoke.

Rattling out questions, he’d glanced at her, given a little wink, then turned his back and walked to the window, continuing to berate the poor director of some vineyard who was on the other end. His hand had circled and stabbed at the air as he’d punctuated his questions with a visual display of his frustration.

She’d showered and dressed quickly in what she’d thought might be appropriate—denim shorts and a pink T-shirt. What else would you wear to a ranch? She’d slipped her feet into white leather tennis shoes and thrown everything else in her case. Rocco had dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. He’d paced up and down. More gestures, more rattled commands, more reminders that the Hurricane was well named.

She’d looked around, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She wouldn’t be back there after all. Spotting her watch on the floor, where she must have thrown it earlier, she’d bent to pick up. Where were her new earrings? She’d glanced all around and then had seen them at the side of the bed, there beside a little photograph. She’d walked round and reached out to scoop them up, but her hand had closed on the tiny frame that lay face down instead. She’d placed it upright.

It had been a picture of a child. She’d lifted it up to have a closer look. A blurry picture of an infant, maybe two or three years old. Bright blond hair, kept long, but definitely a boy. Solemn dark eyes, only just turned to the camera, as if he really hadn’t wanted to look. There had been something terribly familiar in the scowling mouth. Dante? She didn’t think so.

She’d turned to ask Rocco. He had stopped his artillery fire of instructions for a moment, had been standing framed in the hugely imposing window, an outline of the blue day all around him—so light and bright that she hadn’t quite been able to see his features.

She had smiled, held up the picture.

The phone had been dropped to the end of his arm, a voice babbling into the air unheard. He’d paced forward as a thunderous tension had rolled through the room. Something akin to fear had spread out from her stomach at the way he’d moved, the slash of his features and the dark stab of his eyes.

He had taken the photo from her without so much as a glance, but she had felt the wall of his displeasure as if she had run against it, bounced off it and been left scrabbling in the rubble.

Nothing. Not a sound, a word, a look.

He had pulled open a zip in the leather holdall, tucked the photo inside, zipped it back up and then lifted the phone to his ear. He had taken her earrings, dropped them into her hand and then moved back to the window.

The conversation had continued.

She had tried not to be stunned, tried not to be bothered. It was clearly something personal. He was clearly someone intensely private. But it had hurt—of course it had. How much more private and personal could you get than what they had shared these past few hours? She’d opened up to him, told him about her father’s fury and her mother’s disappointment. He’d told her—nothing. Didn’t that just underline the fact that she’d served herself up and he’d selected the bits he wanted, then pushed back the platter, folded his napkin and was probably looking around for the next course.

Again.

She had to get smarter. Had to keep herself buoyant. More than anything else she had to make sure the black mood didn’t come back.

She’d stuffed her watch and earrings inside her case with her other belongings, rolled it to the door and swatted him away when he’d attempted to lift it. She could look after herself. And then some.

Then the two-hour car journey. The icy silence punctuated by more intense conversations on his phone. Frankie had drifted in and out, picking up snippets about equine genetics and shale gas fields, decisions about publicity opportunities he wanted reversed. Now.

She had rummaged in her bag, pulled out a nail file. She’d filed her nails into perfect blunt arcs. The scenery had been flat—green or brown—and the company had been intently and exclusively business. Her phone was still dead and her guilt about not speaking to Esme properly still rankled.

The car had rolled on. She had gazed out of the window, anger and upset still bubbling in her blood. Then she had felt her hand being lifted. She’d looked round sharply. He had smoothed her fingers, squeezed them in his own—the gnarled knuckles and disfigured thumb starkly brown against her paper-pale skin. Still he hadn’t looked at her, but he’d lifted them, pressed his lips to them, and she had known then that that was as much of an apology as she was likely to get.

Damn him. Fire and heat. Ice and iron. She shouldn’t allow him to win her over as easily as that, but there was something utterly magnetic about this man. She needed to play much more defensively—protect herself as much as she could. Because every time she thought she’d figured this—them—out he shifted the goal posts again.

She could have been on a helicopter to Punta right now. He had offered to send her. Not to take her, of course—there was the subtle difference. And she had declined. She’d still have plenty of time to catch up with Esme when she got there. Her buying trip to the Pampas was not for days yet. She would make it to Punta tomorrow, the party was tomorrow night—it would be no time at all until this thing burned out between them. No time until she was off doing her own thing again.

If she kept her head it should all work out fine.

There had been more calls, more decisions. She’d sat wrapped in her own thoughts, no room for soft squeezes or stolen kisses. Had closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, finally opening them as they’d arrived at this heart-stopping ranch.

‘It’s fine,’ she said now, stepping out of the car, and feeling every one of her senses come alive with this place. ‘You go and find Juanchi and I’ll have a wander.’

For the first time since Dante had left Rocco seemed to look at her properly. He finally tucked his phone away in the pocket of his jeans, flipped his hair back from his eyes and scowled.

‘Problem?’ she said, with as bored an expression as she could muster. Diplomacy wasn’t her biggest skill, and she knew if she really spoke her mind it might not be the best move. Not yet anyway.

‘I’ve been neglecting you.’ He looked at her over the roof of the car. ‘So much to deal with—my apologies.’

Frankie shrugged. ‘You’re a busy guy,’ she said. ‘I really don’t want to be in the way.’

He was looking around, as if Juanchi was going to spring out from behind a bush. He looked back. Looked totally distracted.

‘I’ll catch you up,’ she said, walking off, waving her hand.

‘Where are you going to go?’

‘I’m a big girl,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘I’m sure I’ll find something to occupy myself.’

‘Wait by the pool. Round the back. I won’t be too long.’

She answered that with another wave and kept walking.




CHAPTER SEVEN (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)


FRANKIE STEPPED TOWARDS the house. Up close it was imposing, presidential. The drive swept before it in a deferential arc. Pillars loomed up, supporting the domed roof of the entrance and the terrace that wrapped itself like a luxury belt all around it.

She could imagine Rocco roaring up in a sports car, braking hard and jumping out, striding up to the doors, owning the whole scene. In fact, she didn’t need to imagine it—she’d seen it all before, in that television report of Rocco. This was where he had been photographed with one of his blondes. Carmel Somebody … the one who’d been reported to be ‘very close’ to him.

She walked towards the door, noted the long, low steps, the waxed furniture and exotic climbers. Frankie stopped. She didn’t particularly want to go wandering about in his house—she didn’t particularly want to get wrapped up in any more of his life. Not when she was only passing through. Was it really going to help her to have another page in her Hurricane scrapbook? She already had a million different mental images of Rocco: making love, showering, sipping coffee at the breakfast table. She had hoarded more than enough to keep her going for another ten years. What she really needed to do was start erasing them—one by one. Otherwise …? Otherwise history was going to repeat itself.

Rocco wasn’t looking for a life partner. He was looking for a bed partner and some arm candy. And so was she.

She turned on her heel. She’d go to the stables. She’d feel much more at home there.

It was strange how unlike her expectations this part of the estancia was. She’d grown up with so many stories of heartless South American animal husbandry. Horses whipped and starved and punished. But Mark had been vehement in his defence of Rocco. He had confirmed the rumours that had rolled through their own stables—of the Hurricane in the early days, sleeping with his horses rather than in his own home, spending more time and money on them than he did anything else. He’d been notoriously close to his animals, and notoriously distant with people.

It didn’t look as if much had changed.

She picked her way along the side of the house, past the high-maintenance gardens and round to the even more highly maintained stables.

They were immaculate. Nothing out of place. All around grooms—some young, some old, Argentines and Europeans, men and girls—seemed lazily purposeful. Here and there horses were being walked back and forth to the ring, or beret-capped gauchos were arriving back from the fields with five or six ponies in lightly held reins. No one seemed to notice that she was there, or if they did they left her well alone.

Rocco was nowhere to be seen.

She walked past high fences, their white-painted wood starkly perfect against the spread of grass behind. The sun’s heat was losing its hold on the day, but some horses and dogs still sought shade under the bushes and trees that lined various edges of the fields.

Rounding the corner of a low stable block, she saw him. Off in the distance, deep in conversation with an old, bent man. Juanchi, she supposed.

Even from here he was striking, breathtaking. His stride was so intense, yet it held the effortless grace of a sportsman. Every part of him was in harmony, undercut with power. Everything he did with his body was an art. Kissing, dancing, riding, making love. Being so close to him for these few hours she had learned his ways, his unashamed confidence, control and drive. He was everything she had spent the past ten years expecting him to be. Everything her broken teenage heart had built him up to be. More was the pity.

She stood back, watched, willed herself not to care. So he was Rocco Hermida? She was Frankie Ryan. He didn’t have the monopoly on everything. She could kiss, she could ride and, now that she’d spent the past fourteen hours with him, she could claim to be quite an accomplished lover, too.

She supposed …

She didn’t have much to compare him to—a few disappointing fumbles at university parties, a dreary relationship with a co-worker when she had first arrived in Madrid. But that was because she hadn’t known her own body back then. It wasn’t because Rocco and only Rocco could light her up with a single touch. Other men could do that—she just hadn’t learned to let go yet. Now she would. She was sure.

But even watching him standing on the threshold of his immaculately appointed barn, a structure more at home in a plaza than a field, she couldn’t deny he was captivating. He listened to the old man, gave him his full attention, nodded, then pulled the bolt closed on the barn and moved off with him. She watched them walk back out from the shadows cast by the building’s sides into bright sunlight.

Respect. That was what he was showing. He respected this old man.

That intrigued her. Of all the qualities she’d seen in him—leadership, confidence, passion, determination, even brotherly affection to Dante—respect hadn’t been visible. It showed something about him now, though. It showed that he was even deeper and harder to read than she’d thought.

They turned another corner and vanished from view. Her eye was drawn back to the barn.

Wouldn’t it be fabulous if one of Ipanema’s ponies was inside? No high-powered polo match to recuperate from, just waiting for a little handful of polo nuts and a hug. Wouldn’t it feel fabulous to sit on one of Ipanema’s ponies? Wouldn’t that be worth a phone call back home?

She started across the yard, but the low groan of a helicopter coming in to land made her look to her left. And there, off in the distance, she saw them. All shiny chestnut coats and forelock-to-muzzle white stars. Her face burst into a smile that she could feel reach her ears—she would know them anywhere. Like a homing device, she made her way forward.

They were playing in the field with four other classic caramel Argentinian ponies. For a moment she wondered what it would be like to be able to see them, be with them every day. Hadn’t that been her dream job once? What had happened to that girl? So desperate to get away from the choking darkness of depression and the oppressive judgement of her father, she’d moved away from everything else she held dear, too. She barely had any time with her mother or her brother Mark. She was in regular contact with Danny, thousands of miles away in Dubai, but that was probably because they’d recognised in each other the same desperate need to escape.

Two of the ponies noticed her leaning on the fence and began to trot over. She looked about. Maybe the grooms and gauchos were all crowded together inside somewhere, drinking maté, because the whole place seemed to have become deserted.

Would it be too awful to help herself to a saddle? To tack up one of the ponies? To climb on its back and trot a little? What would be the harm in that? It wasn’t as if Rocco would even know. It wasn’t as if he particularly cared what she was doing. Then or now.

He’d never made the slightest effort to find out anything about her after that night. It was all very easy to say now that he felt terrible, but really—how much effort would it have taken to ask after her while he was negotiating the sale of Ipanema? She’d never blamed him for her getting sent to the convent—she held herself personally responsible for that … had made herself personally responsible for everything! And maybe it was that—the tendency to be so hard on herself—that had made her slide so quickly into depression.

Well, not anymore. She would never go back there.

She spotted the tack room and sneaked inside.

Five minutes later she was up and over the wide, white-slatted fence. Five minutes after that she was hoisting herself lightly onto a pony. In a heartbeat she had covered the entire length of the field—just in a walk, then a trot. Then, with a look around her, to make sure there was still nobody caring, she tapped her heels into the sides of the adorable little pony and cantered to the farthest side.

In the distance she could see seas of green and yellow grass. Brown paths cut through them here and there, and running east to west the blue trail of a stream. Gunmetal clouds had rolled across the sky. And that was it. She was alone, she was as free as a bird and she was loving every last moment.

The pony was a dream—the lightest squeeze with her thighs and it picked up speed, the lightest tug with the reins and it turned or stopped. Most of their horses before Ipanema had been show jumpers rather than polo ponies. Ipanema’s grandmother had been a champion show jumper, her mother had carried royalty at Olympia and then Ipanema herself had been spotted as a potential polo pony. When her father had taken her to County Meath she had just won best playing pony at the Gold Cup at Cowdray.

Frankie had been put on horses since she could walk. At age four she’d been able to balance on one leg on the sleepiest pony as it circled the yard—until she’d got yelled at to get down. At age ten Danny had dared her to try fences as high as the ones she had seen at the show trials. Of course she had fallen, tried to hide her broken arm for fear of her father’s wrath and then been taken by her long-suffering mother to get it put in plaster. Yes, she’d pushed every boundary growing up—and she was going to push another one now.

Nobody was around. She walked the little pony out of one field and into another. A long clear path lay ahead. She squeezed lightly and started to gallop. On through the pampas, with the seas of green on either side of her as high as the pony’s withers. Dust blew up around her, clouding her path, but she trusted the pony and gave her her head.

It all came back—those daily rides with Ipanema, and before her all her other favourites from the yard.

Feeling the warm air whip past her cheeks, the excited thump of her heart and the sensation that she was leaving all her worries behind her, she realised that there was no release like this. No wonder the first thing she’d done after school was to race home, tear off her school uniform and fly to the stables. She’d never known how badly she missed it until now.

The countryside didn’t change—just more and more of the same. At one point she was alongside the stream, but then five minutes later it was nowhere to be seen. The huge grey clouds had rolled closer and were underlit with gold from the sinking sun. Sunsets seemed to arrive so much faster here than in Ireland. She’d check the time, but her watch was still stuffed in her case with her earrings … and her hurt at his actions over that photograph.

Who could it have been? Who could have caused such a shut-down? She let the images flit through her mind: the cherubic cheeks, the shock of blond hair. Apart from the scowling mouth there wasn’t much of a family resemblance … but then there was no family resemblance between her and Mark. More between her and Danny …

Anyway, she was thousands of miles away from any of them, and every strike of the pony’s hooves was taking her farther away from Rocco, too. She needed the space. This was definitely a much better option than hanging around by the pool, waiting for his godlike presence, for him to condescend to speak to her. She needed to get her world back into perspective. She needed to make sure her defences were completely and utterly intact.

She slowed down, picked up the stream again, nosed the pony forward to have a drink. Smoothing her hand down the pony’s soft, strong neck, she made a mental note to check out some stables in Madrid. Maybe she should go even further than that. Maybe she should re-evaluate her whole life plan. Did she really want to work her way through the ranks of Evaña? Or did she want to go back to her first love: horses? How could she break back into that world? Move back to Ireland? Go work for Mark?

A noise sounded above her, off in the distance. The pony’s ears pricked up.

No, she didn’t want to keep running. But she didn’t want to go back, either. She had put so much into her career already, and had so much more to prove. To the company and to herself. She knew she’d chosen a deliberately hard path, but the payback from every small success was worth a thousand times more than any easy life back in Ireland. Only a few more days and she would get her next big break—or not. It was all to play for—and she was damned sure she was going to give it her all.

She tugged the reins ever so slightly. Time to get going again. Another gallop around and then she’d head back. She was pretty sure she could find her way. If those thunderous-looking clouds hadn’t rolled in so quickly she’d have a glimpse of the sun to give her her bearings.

The pony picked up her heels and they started to canter. The noise above her continued to grow. She twisted her head—a helicopter. They were so common here. Like a four-door saloon, everyone seemed to have one. It seemed to circle above her, and then flew away.

She was thirsty—should have taken a drink at the stream herself. She looked around, trying to see where it was. It should be on her right, and if she could find it she could follow its path most of the way back.

A slight sense of unease gripped her. Grasses swayed in the breeze in every direction. The wind was picking up. More low clouds swollen with summer rain had now rolled right overhead, darkening the day and filling the air with warning. There was not a landmark to gift her any sense of where she was or where she should go.

The pony seemed quite content to trot on, but she was beginning to worry that it would trot on forever. Her legs were beginning to chafe on the saddle and a huge wave of tiredness washed over her.

Suddenly, as fat raindrops landed on her legs, her bare arms and then all about her, she thought she saw movement off to her left. She turned the pony round, sure she knew now which way to go.

The rain exploded in sheets of grey. She could barely see a foot in front of her. Her lashes dripped; rain ran down her face. She slid in the saddle and dipped her chin down to try and deflect what she could. She looked around, trying to make sense of her surroundings, but couldn’t see anything except wave after wave of summer storm.

She tried to look for shelter—anything, even a tree—but there was nothing except the oceans of grass and rain. Rain didn’t fall like this in Ireland. This was vicious, relentless, unforgiving.

Suddenly the pony was frisky. Movement again—and a figure appeared, riding right at her. She pressed her thighs, willed the pony on, but the pony was too excited. And in a heartbeat Frankie realised why.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

Rocco. Like a freight train through the night he rode right at her. She tried to move away, but he pulled on his reins and spun to a stop at her side. The wildness, the rage on his face stole her breath. She pushed her soaked hair out of her eyes and bit back the shock and the swollen lump in her throat.

‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

He jumped down and grabbed her reins.

‘Get down.’

‘Don’t speak to me like that!’ she yelled back. ‘You’re not my damn father.’

The rain was still lashing in sheets around them. She could barely see the planes of his tanned face but his eyes flashed fire through the silvery air.

‘For the first time I realise what it must have been like to be your damn father!’

He circled her waist with his arm and heaved her off the horse. Landing against his side, she shoved him away.

‘Get your hands off me. Stop treating me like a child.’

Her throat was sore from swallowed emotion, but she would not give him a hint of it.

He moved to reach for her, but then stopped. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw was rigid, his mouth a grim slash. But his voice when he spoke was quietly, menacingly calm.

‘You caused me to send out a helicopter when a storm was coming in. You caused panic at the estancia. You stole a horse and—’

‘I did not steal—’

He held his hand up to silence her and she was so taken aback she stopped.

‘You stole—’ he emphasised the word again ‘—a twenty-thousand-dollar horse. A horse that is part of our genetics programme. Without a thought about anyone but yourself you took off into the country. And that’s not behaving like a child?’

She heard his words, saw his fury and felt such a wave of shame.

‘I didn’t mean any harm.’

He stared at her.

‘Look at you.’ He reached across, roughly cupped the back of her soaked head, wiped his thumb hard across her cheek. ‘Soaked to the skin … Lost …’

She dug her teeth into her lip. She would not cry. Would not.

‘I wasn’t lost. If the storm hadn’t come in I would have been fine.’

She could feel the ache between her legs from hours in the saddle, her skin was beginning to chill, and despite herself her teeth began to chatter.

He regarded her with such contempt—as if she was the most infuriating thing he’d ever had to deal with. Then he reached back to his own saddle to a blanket that lay beneath. He yanked it free and held it out.

‘Here. You need to get rid of those clothes—for what they’re worth.’

She looked at him.

‘What? And then you’ll wrap me up and make me ride home side-saddle in a blanket? This isn’t some damned John Wayne film! I’m not your weak little woman!’

She grabbed the reins out of his hands and tried to climb back on the horse. Immediately she felt his arms around her, spinning her to face him.

‘Weak little woman? You’re as far from that as it’s possible to be. God knows, you might want to try it some time.’

He stared down at her, his fingers gripping her shoulders. She looked into those eyes, at that mouth. She felt the tug of desire and desperately, desperately wished that she didn’t. She knew that she wanted to slide her arms around his strong neck, wrap herself up in his hard, warm body. How could this physical draw be so strong? So irresistible? But she wouldn’t give in—no way, not this time.

She turned her cheek. He tugged at her chin.

‘Look at me,’ he ordered.

She tensed, but slid her eyes back.

‘Look at you? Now? Because it suits you?’ She shoved at him. ‘But from the moment I woke up at your town house, and then in the car, the last thing you wanted me to do was look at you. Or at your damned photo!’

‘I was busy. I have to take care of so many things,’ he growled out.

‘You’re not the only one with a life. With a past.’

He looked away, as if expecting the horses to agree that this was the most exasperating nonsense he’d ever had to endure.

‘Frankie—I don’t do this with women. I don’t explain myself … I don’t fight.’

‘No? Well, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you should try explaining yourself once in a while!’

She knew she sounded shrewish and shrill. She knew her voice was wobbling with unspilled tears. She knew if she stood another second in his company she would submit to whatever he wanted—just so she could feel that soothing sense of completeness he gave her.

But where would that leave her?

‘I’ll follow you back to the ranch,’ she said to the wind. ‘And then I’ll make my own way to Punta. Okay? Then you’ll not need to look at me, or fight with me, or damn well come and “rescue” me.’

She tried to stuff her wet tennis shoe into the stirrup, tried to hoist herself up. Once, twice, three times she tried, but exhaustion wound through her, heavy and dark as treacle. She laid her arms on the saddle and hung her head, dug deep and tried again.

Then Rocco’s arms. Rocco’s shoulder.

He pulled her back, and she used the last of her energy to spread her fingers against him and push.

‘Frankie, querida, stop fighting me.’

He scooped her against his body, his shirt wet but warm. He walked her three paces, holding her close, whispering and soothing. She had nothing left to battle him with, and as he pinned her arms at her side in his embrace she let all her fight go like a dying breath.

‘I can’t let you go back like this.’ He clutched her in one arm and flicked out the blanket with the other. ‘I can’t stand watching you fighting against me so hard when there’s no reason.’

‘But there’s every reason,’ she whispered. If she didn’t put up a fight now, God only knew where she would end up.

He cupped her face by the jaw and stared down, the angry black flash of his eyes softening as the raindrops suddenly lessened, then stopped, leaving a cooling freshness all around. Light settled.

‘There’s nothing to be gained. Not when this is what we should be doing.’

He gently brought his mouth down to hers.

Heaven.

Warm presses, soft, then more demanding. She answered him, echoed everything he did—how could she not? His tongue slid into her mouth; his hand slid under her T-shirt. He cupped her damp flesh and shoved her bra to the side. She burned for him. She clutched at him, at every part of him.

This hunger was insatiable. Terrifying. Thundering through her like the summer storm.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom.

‘Do I need to carry one everywhere I go now?’ he breathed into her. ‘What I have to put up with to get what I want …’

And just like that the soft, easy current she was slipping into so easily turned into a dangerous riptide.

She pulled back. ‘What?’ she whispered. ‘What did you just say? What you have to put up with? You don’t have to put up with me. Nobody’s forcing you!’

He grabbed her roughly. Shook her shoulders.

‘Why do you misinterpret everything I say or do? You and I … We are incredible together. And we don’t have much time left. If you want to waste it fighting—that’s your choice.’

He shook her again, and she felt her world wavering right there. He was right. They had only hours left. Hours she had dreamed of her whole adult life. But she wasn’t going to mould herself into the image of the women he was used to. She was who she was.

‘Apologise for how you treated me when I held up that photo.’ She saw him physically bristle. ‘I don’t need to know who it is, but I didn’t deserve that.’

He eyed her steadily. His eyes held the power and the vastness of the rolling skies above them, but she didn’t look away.

‘It is … he is … someone very close. Someone who is no longer here.’

She swallowed.

His eyes slid away, then back.

‘I see,’ she said. It had been all she needed, but hearing the words, she knew she had prised open a box that was kept very, very tightly shut. ‘Thank you. I didn’t mean to pry.’

She dipped her eyes, but felt his fingers gentle on her chin.

‘And I did not mean to hurt you.’

Tenderly he touched his lips to her brow, pulled her against him and tucked her under his head.

The horses stood together, heads twisting, eyes wide. The grasses settled into a silken green wave, the sky cleared of clouds and then darkened and the warm summer day slid slowly into sleep.

They stood together, silent, breathing, thinking, kissing. And Frankie knew that, no matter what happened next, the rest of her life would be marked by this day.




CHAPTER EIGHT (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)


ROCCO STARED AT the phone in his hand as if it was an unexploded bomb. Finally the PI he’d had on his books for the past ten years had uncovered something concrete.

So long. It felt as if he’d been waiting his whole life to hear it. And, no—it wasn’t even confirmed—but, hell, it was as close as it had ever been. He’d pursued this last lead tirelessly, feeling in his gut that he was closing in. And to discover that Martinez—Lodo’s killer—might have been living for the past ten years in Buenos Aires would be a twist of fate almost too bittersweet to bear.

He’d admit it to no one but Dante, but this news shook him to his core.

He fastened cufflinks and tugged cuffs. Glanced into the mirror and confirmed that his restless mood was reflected all over his face. The shadow from his imperfect nose was cast down his cheek and his scar throbbed—a reminder of every punch he’d ever slung in the boxing ring and on the streets. Every blow, every ounce of rage directed at Chris Martinez for what he had done. And at himself for what he hadn’t.

It was the timing of this that was wrong—in the middle of the Vaca Muerta shale gas deal, which was worth billions and his biggest venture yet. That and the delicious distraction of Frankie. But it was too important to let a moment pass.

This was the closing in on a twenty-year chase—one that had started with him running for his life, dragging Lodo along behind him, as the shout had gone up that the gang were back and wanted revenge. And Lodo—trusting, loyal Lodo—had been right there behind him as they’d leaped up from their cardboard box beds and hurled themselves into the pre-dawn streets.

Why he had let him go, let his fingers slip, was the question he could never answer. It was the deathly crow that lived in his chest, flapping its wings against his ribs at the slightest memory of Lodo—a shock of blond curls, the curve of a child’s cheek, the taste of choripan, the sight of graffiti, the swirl of Milonga music. Every part of BA held a memory, and it was why he would never, ever leave.

Even when that piece of slime Martinez was locked up or dead. Even then. Lodo was still there in those streets. The streets were all he had to remember him by, and nothing would drag him away. At least he understood that now—now that the counsellor’s words had sunk in, twenty years after hearing them.

How could someone who was as blessed as he’d turned out to be have fought against it so hard?

He’d been ‘saved’ by Señor and Señora Hermida as part of their personal quest to ‘give back’ to BA after they had just managed to escape the big crash that had caused so much devastation to others. Been dragged to their estancia, sent to an elite school with Dante, given every last chance that he would never have had when he’d wound up abandoned, orphaned and nearly killed.

The years of his hating the privilege had taken their toll on his madre and padre—that was how he referred to his and Dante’s parents. They deserved that at least, after tirelessly forgiving him time after time. Bringing him back every time he ran away, channelling his energies into pursuits like boxing and polo that had eventually turned out to be life-saving. They had understood that he couldn’t just accept the endless stream of money that could so easily have been his—not that they’d allowed him to squander it. He’d had to work for every peso.

But he’d preferred a much harder path. Starting with only the blood in his veins and the sharp senses he’d been born with. Self-sacrifice, almost self-flagellation, had been way better than any golden-boy opportunities. He had self-funded every step of the way. For him there had been no other way.

And he had done well. Very well. He had everything he could ever want.

Apart from his own family. He would never have that. It was a fruit too sweet. There would be no wife, no child. No one to fill Lodo’s place.

But he was a man. He needed a woman. Of course he did. And one who accepted the limitations of her role.

The scent of Frankie wound through from the dressing room. This whole situation had unravelled in a way he had not predicted. He’d thought a passion this hot was just after a ten-year build-up and would be over well within the time he’d allotted. That it was as much about finally sampling forbidden fruit as any genuine full-blown attraction. But he’d been wrong. He was nowhere near sated.

How long it would last was something he was not prepared to commit to—but he was not going to let her out of his sight. Not while she excited him and incited him so much. Pure sex, of course. But sex the likes of which he had never known. And, since all his relationships were effectively based on sex, the currency of this one was totally valid.

Longer term? No. Her expectations would be sky-high. She’d want an equal footing in everything. She’d fight him every step of the way if she felt something wasn’t fair. And he had no time for that. He had no time to be looking after a woman like that. That level of responsibility was to be avoided at all costs. Hadn’t he proved that? Wasn’t his trail of devastation big enough? No. She’d exhaust him. Cause him sleepless nights—in every sense.

That whole episode with her taking the pony and disappearing was evidence enough. His jaw clenched at the rage he’d felt when he’d found her gone. What a fool he’d been. Wandering around the garden first, calling her name, imagining that she’d be lying there waiting—warm and welcoming. Then when he’d realised she wasn’t there or anywhere in the house, that sick feeling of panic had begun to build.

He’d felt it countless times with Dante when they were younger—as teenagers out roaming around the city, or later when they’d both go out and Dante would disappear for days, getting lost in some girl. Forcing himself past the terror of losing him had been years in the achieving, but he’d schooled himself. He’d learned. Dante was in total control of Dante. Lodo—well, that had been a different matter.

And today he’d been feeling it all over again. Bizarre. He’d been dwelling a lot on Lodo these past few days. Dredging up all the pain again. He had to get hold of himself, though—put the plaster back over his Achilles’ heel. And damn fast.

Hours later he was sitting alongside her in the helicopter—watching the raw excitement on her face as the came in to land on the perfect patchwork quilt that made up Punta del Este. The sea, the beach, the clusters of yachts, the million-dollar homes—all were laid out like a beautiful chequered cloth.

He loved this place. Loved that Frankie was here, sharing it with him.

He showed her round his house and the gardens he’d designed himself. Watched her natural interest and joy at the little hidden corners, the sunken nooks, the bridge that spanned the inner courtyard swimming pool—it was a pleasure to see unguarded happiness. He wasn’t usually in the business of comparisons, but—again—her lack of artifice, her unedited honesty, was so striking up against some of the other women he’d dated. Refreshing as rain on parched earth. It fed something in him—something he hadn’t even known he was hungry for.

And then, of course, there was the passion. As soon as they’d got indoors and he’d got a message that there was further news about Martinez, he’d taken her—fast and hard. Maybe too hard. But she’d responded; she’d given it right back. She was just what he needed right now. No mind games, no manipulation. Just there, answering his body with her own. The perfect partner while he worked through this news.

Now he paced to the bathroom door. Opened it. Saw her. Wanted her all over again.

She kept her gaze straight ahead, frowned into the mirror as she smoothed her hair with her fingers and clipped in the emerald earrings he’d had delivered. He would give them to her to keep when she finally left. He would give them to her to remember him by.

The memories he had left her with the first time …

His hands curled into fists as he thought of how badly she had been treated. He had been so oblivious. He was angry, and still coming to terms with seeing a side of her she managed to keep well hidden.

To the world she was wilful, too stubborn. But to him she was just a highly strung filly. As highly strung as Ipanema had been when she’d arrived from Ireland. Missing her farm, her spoiled life. All she’d needed was a bit of careful management and a strong hand. She’d respected that. Needed that.

Just like her mistress.

And now he found himself easily, instinctively handling her.

He didn’t need to wonder too deeply about why. They were both meeting each other’s needs. It was that simple. There was no deeper, darker agenda. It was what it was. And it was good—for now.

‘Perfecto.’

He said it aloud.

She smiled a self-effacing little half smile. ‘Thank you. But I’m not going to lie … The thought of being all over the press as your date is giving me hives.’

He walked to her, wrapped his arms round her as she stood staring into the mirror. He in black, she in white. Her lips were a stain of poppy red, her hair a patent shimmer. In spiked heels, she was just tall enough to tuck her head under his chin completely. He nestled her against him, enjoying the fine-boned feel of her.

‘You’ll be sensational.’

‘I’d rather be a nonentity. Walls need flowers—that’s where I prefer to plant myself. And the thought of the media and all those people staring at the photographs of me …’

She shuddered and he held her back from him, stared at her. ‘All those people?’

‘Well, people who know me. Okay,’ she said, pulling away, ‘my family. They’ll judge. And not in a good way.’

‘It’s only a party, Frankie. I’m sure they have them in Ireland.’

‘Sure they do—but I like to keep my invites on the down-low. It’s easier that way.’

‘I reckon we can pull off a party without it hitting the headlines.’ He hooked his thumb under her chin, tipped it up gently. ‘Don’t you?’

She rolled her eyes, quirked her lips into a smile. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Good. So we’ll just go for a little while. I may have to return to BA early tomorrow anyway. I have some business that can’t be postponed.’

He regarded her carefully, feeling strangely sure that if he opened up to her she would hold his confidence. But, no. That was not an option. Never an option.

‘I head out the day after … so that all works out, then.’

Her voice was strained. He understood instantly.

‘No, Frankie. I am not saying goodbye. Not tomorrow or the day after.’

He held her within his outline, stared at them in the mirror.

‘I’d like you to stay on in Buenos Aires—with me. Until … until we put out this fire between us.’

‘Rocco—’ she started.

He watched her steady herself, watched strain splinter across her face.

‘I’m only in South America for a few more days and then I’m flying back to Europe.’

‘So stay longer. We have to continue this thing that we’ve started. It would be crazy not to. What do you say? Think about it.’

He didn’t want to think about it. He just knew it felt right.

He turned her in his arms. She opened her mouth, as always needing to have her say, but some things needed no discussion. This was one of them.

Careful not to smear her lipstick, he kissed her lightly. But he slid his tongue into her mouth—just as a little reminder that the slightest touch was all it took.

The party was exactly as he’d expected it would be. The elegant country club was bedecked with all sorts of champagne-themed nonsense, and golden fairy lights around the jacarandas that lined the driveway made the blue-flowered trees look like sticks of giant glittery candyfloss. A gold marquee squatted on the lawn at the front of the old colonial-style house that had now become the clubhouse. Grace and glitz cautiously circled each other before the electrifying dance that would come later.

He watched as Frankie warily eyed the obligatory press corps as their car curved round the driveway. He had to smile at how contradictory she could be. So confident, so combative—but also so anxious about being his date.

He smiled, squeezed the hand he’d held throughout the car ride even though his mind had drifted to the next stage of the Martinez investigation—a task he’d entrusted to Dante: one final check on the identity of the man they suspected of being Chris Martinez. He scanned his phone for about the thousandth time in the past hour. Still nothing. He slid it away, held her close, tucked under his shoulder, feeling her presence soften his frayed edges.

Shadows of other times flitted through his mind, startling him. Fleeting moments when the salve of another body had shored up the pain. One happy dark morning, before her breakdown, when he had crawled into the warmth of his mamá’s bed after his papá had left on the soulless search for work. Feeling her love as she’d closed her arms around him. And then, mere months later, he had been collapsing into the arms of the nuns at the hospital. Hiding in their long black skirts. Racked with the agony of guilt when he’d seen Lodo laid out in the mortuary.

Strange that the touch of a lover had brought of these feelings back. It never had before. The news about Martinez had affected him very deeply, it seemed.

‘Here we go, then.’

He smiled. It was unusual for him to have a date who preferred to stay in the background. Refreshingly unusual. He tried to soothe the tension in the brittle grip of her fingers and the jagged cut of her shoulder under his arm as he steered her past the openly intrigued crowd. Fields of happy, curious faces turned towards them like flowers—as if they were the sun, giving light and warmth. To him, Frankie felt colder by the second.

He knew she’d rather be curled up in his lap on the couch, watching TV and making love, than stuck in the media glare with all these gilt-edged sycophants.

Carmel had loved the spotlight. And had stupidly thought she could use her media chums to manipulate him, dropping hints that they were ‘getting serious’. Hearing that had sobered him up pronto. Finalmento.

And of course Carmel was here tonight—she’d never miss it. All flowing golden hair and shimmering curves in a red sequined dress. Holding court in the middle of the vast foyer. She caught sight of them entering, covered her shock well. But he knew that the extravagant tilt of her head, the slight hitch in her rich syrupy laugh and the twisting pose to showcase her fabulous figure were all for him.

Dante had warned him that Operation: Frankie Who? was well underway. Everyone was desperate to know about the girl who had caused the Hurricane to bail out of the post-match celebrations and go off radar. The fact that she was more shot glass than hourglass, and had never made a social appearance before that anyone could remember, was as baffling as it was irritating for them.

Baffling for him, too, if he was honest. He’d felt physical attraction before. But this was crazy—like a wild pony. Ten years breaking it in, and still it wasn’t tamed.

‘Look how much of a sensation you’re making,’ he whispered into her ear, lingering a moment, knowing just how to heat her up.

‘The only sensation I’ve got is horror,’ she shot back. ‘They’re like vampires, waiting for blood. Get your garlic ready. And stay close with your pitchfork.’

‘Relax …’ He smiled and steered her through with a few nods, a few handshakes, but it was clear for all to see that he was lingering with no one but Frankie. He’d need to work hard to ease these particular knots from her shoulders—especially since she was so damn independent in every other aspect of her life.

‘Let’s get a drink.’

He liked this club—this home away from home. It was old, but not stuffy. The rules were as relaxed as you could hope for, and the people easy.

He and Dante had spent so much of their time here, back in the day. Made fools of themselves, learned to charm, in Dante’s case, or in his case, fight a way out of trouble. All in the relative safety of this club that had seen generations of polo-playing Hermidas. Generations who now posed with other serious-eyed teammates or proud glossy ponies, looking down at them from their brass frames in the oak-panelled club rooms. Full-blood Hermidas. He never forgot that he was there by invitation only. But he was grateful now—accepting. Indebted.

He led her through the gold-draped dining room, past the billiard room and out to the terrace. Dark, warm air flowed between open French doors and mingled with chatter and laughter and lights. On the lawn the marquee throbbed with a low baseline—incongruously, invitingly.

‘Do you want to dance?’ he asked, handing her a glass of champagne.

‘No. Thanks.’ She sipped it, looked around.

‘You want some food?’ He indicated the abundant buffet.

‘Not hungry. Who’s the girl in the red dress?’ she shot out.

He looked down at Frankie’s upturned curious face. So she’d noticed. Predictably, Carmel was on form.

‘An ex-girlfriend. Carmel de Souza. She likes the limelight—and you’re in it.’ He sensed some kind of predatory emotion in Frankie, but for once in his life it didn’t make him recoil. ‘She once had plans that involved me, but I suspect she has all those bases covered by now. She’s never single. Ever.’

‘That’s no surprise—looking as she does.’

‘Relax. Looking as she does is a full-time occupation. And I mean full-time.’

‘Really?’ Frankie sounded slightly snippy. ‘Doesn’t she have a proper job? Something with a bit more … substance?’

He shrugged. What did she do? Shop? Party? Self-promote? She was her own industry.

‘She looks good. She snares rich men.’

‘So she’s a man hunter? Is that it?’

‘More of a husband hunter, to be honest. And with me that was never going to happen. It became a bit of an issue between us.’

She gave a derisory little sniff and he cocked a curious brow. Her eyes, turned up to him, were full of clarity, deserving truth.

‘Is that something you’d struggle with?’ It was as well to know. It had been a deal-breaker before. More than once.

‘It’s not something I’ve ever given much thought to.’

He felt his phone vibrate.

‘Is that you stating your position, Rocco?’

She’d framed the question carefully, but it would have to wait. He whipped his phone out, saw the screen ablaze with messages and one missed call. Dante.

Dammit.

‘What’s wrong? Is everything okay?’

‘Nothing. Just a call I need to return. Give me a moment.’

He stepped away from her on the terrace, which was glazed with more firefly golden lights. Tried to press Redial. The call wouldn’t connect. He pressed again. And again.

He strode along the terrace, checking the phone for a signal. Chatter from the house and music from the marquee clouded the air. Still no connection.

He paced away from the clubhouse, took a flight of stone steps down towards the tennis courts. Nothing.

There was a couple necking in the shadows—he took a path to their left. A gravel walkway narrowed by high hedges studded with flowers, their petals closed in sleep. The trail of party voices was now dimmed, the lights less frequent. Only occasional glimpses of moonlight and his frustratingly inept phone gifted him any real visibility.

He tried one more time.

The phone lit up as a message came through.

Dead end. Sorry. Be with you shortly.

A peal of laughter sounded above the strains of dance music. A breath of wind rose and fell. Around him leafy bushes puffed out like lungs, then sank back. He stood staring at the message.

It couldn’t be. He had been so sure. So sure. Had felt it so strongly.

He had thrown everything at this. Years of patience. Every favour called in. How much longer was it going to take? How could thugs like Martinez hide their tracks so well? He’d known even as a child that the Martinez brothers were in deep with Mexican drug lords. Why hadn’t the police ever caught up with them? Surely not every cop was bent? But they’d evaded everyone, and every effort he had put in had hit a dead end.

But they were out there somewhere. And they were not invincible. He was not frightened of them. Not anymore.

He would find him—Chris—the one who had fired the shot.

His day would come.

He stood. Drew in a deep, deep breath. Squared his shoulders. Slipped the phone away again. Looked back at the clubhouse, the party.

Frankie. For a fleeting moment a knot loosened inside him. Like a drop of black molasses slipping from a spoon. Peace. Another strange, unbidden thought.

He banished it. He was getting sentimental—that was all. He needed to get his head clear, keep his focus.

He started back up the path. Dante couldn’t be too much longer. He listened for a helicopter, but the wind was rising and the party was beginning to throb as parties did.

He got to the terrace, caught sight of the spill of people all staring inside, through the French doors. Strode inside.

He might have known.

There she was. Carmel and her circus. And pinned in the middle, like a church candle in a blaze of fireworks, was Frankie.

Carmel was working her red dress as only she could. Fabulous breasts up and out, tiny waist twisted, hair tumbling like a waterfall of silk. She would have dwarfed Frankie anyway, but right now she looked just as she had in the bathroom mirror—a pale ghost of who she really was.

She made his heart melt.

‘I’m sorry to take so long.’ He reached out for her.

‘Rocco—darling.’

At the sound of his voice Carmel swirled, pouted her glossy best, offered him her cheek. He had no time for her games. But she was quick.

‘I was looking after your date. You left her all alone, baby! Were you looking for me?’ she added, stage-whisper loud.

Over Carmel’s shoulder he caught a glimpse of Frankie’s inky eyes trained straight at him.

‘Did you get your call made?’

He nodded.

Carmel manoeuvred her way between them. She turned her back on Frankie, rubbed her breasts against him.

‘Rocco, baby … Have you missed me?’

She pouted and preened.

A camera flash went off.

She never missed a moment.

He opened his mouth to put her in her place, but Frankie suddenly rounded those sequined hips and stood at his other side, shoulders back and determined little chin tilted.

‘Miss you? How could anyone miss you?’

Cool, understated, but strong. Rocco’s eyes drank her in.

Carmel did an uncharacteristic double-take. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Subtlety, honey. Try looking it up.’

Rocco smiled and raised an eyebrow at Carmel. He’d never seen anyone take her on before—never mind trump her.

Frankie slid her arm around his waist, swivelled back to Carmel. ‘And, for the record, my date has all he needs right here.’

Carmel put her hands on her abundant hips and stuck her head forward, looking for all the world like a turkey in a burlesque show. She started gabbling in Spanish, clearly thinking Frankie wouldn’t understand, and she was totally unprepared for the volley that was fired right back at her. Even he was surprised at the colour of the words Frankie was using.

‘Come. Enough,’ he said, putting his arm around her and dragging her outside as she continued to sling one shocking insult after another.

Her feet shuffled to keep up as he quickened his pace, and then he spun her right round, framing them in the French windows.

‘Stop, now. Enough! Where did you even learn those words?’

He held her possessively, and when she still poured forward mouthfuls of cheek he had no other option. He gripped her jaw and angled her mouth just where he wanted it. Heard the swell of gasps and gossip, saw the flashes of cameras as he lowered his head and kissed her quiet.

She gripped onto his arms, wavered on her tiptoes, until he felt the anger and fight ooze out of her. Fury died in her mouth to be replaced by the soothing heat that only they could build.

He pulled back and smiled at her. ‘Finished?’

As her eyes fluttered open there was a lull in the music and he heard the noise of a helicopter’s rotors in the distance. He looked up. Dante? He trained his eyes on the lights from its belly as it loomed closer.

What had he found out? Surely they were closer? Surely someone knew something about Martinez? He desperately wanted to know the details—still couldn’t believe it was completely a dead end—but that would have to wait until they were alone. Right now he owed it to Frankie to soothe her tension and get her well away from Carmel and the rest of this circus.

He led her down through air thick with pulsing music and events that were yet to happen.

‘Is there anyone you won’t take on, hermosa?’

He smiled softly at her. She was still tense and tight-lipped, rigid shoulders still not relaxed under his arm.

She shrugged. ‘She deserved it.’

He couldn’t disagree with that.

‘I mean—is it a party in her honour? Because that’s how she was acting!’

He ran his hand up to her neck, rubbed softly, his fingers bumping against the heavy earrings that even in the gloom caught scattering light.

Suddenly she swung round. ‘Are you mad at me?’

He frowned. ‘Why would I be mad?’

She swung away. ‘I don’t know—for running my mouth off? But I can’t take those kind of women. Acting as if they’ve got a mandate on life just because they’re every man’s fantasy.’

‘You believe that? Even if I tell you that some of those curves feel like leather balloons and they’re no more real than the those fake emeralds you’ve got hanging from your ears.’

She fired her hands up to touch them and framed her own face in shock. ‘Are you serious? I thought these were legit! I’ve been terrified all night that I’d lose one.’

He laughed out loud. Put his hands on her shoulders, pulled her in and hugged her.

‘I love that about you,’ he said. ‘Of course they’re real. Totally genuine. Just like you.’

She mock punched his chest and he held her close. There was so much about her that he loved. Even apart from the way she felt in his arms and in his bed. He loved her total lack of artifice—seeing her next to Carmel had been such a startling contrast, suddenly making him see her own Achilles’ heel, making him feel so protective of her.

Maybe there was more than sex between them.

Maybe they should talk it through—cards on the table.

Or maybe that would just get her thinking in ways that wouldn’t be all that helpful. And he had so much of his own thinking to do now.

He lifted his head to the helicopter that was now thundering closer, recognised it as Dante’s. Its lights lit up the lawn, the tennis courts and finally the helipad itself.

‘Here comes Dante.’

They stood on the terrace, watched as he jumped out under the copter’s whirring blades in a black tux, white shirt and black tie, blond hair slicked back. His moviestar looks were striking. He jogged up, hand raised in greeting, but as he climbed the steps and got closer Rocco saw the usual million-dollar smile was slightly subdued.

Dante glanced to Frankie in acknowledgement and in question.

Rocco shook his head—a warning to say nothing.

Dante nodded. ‘Hey! How’s the party?’ He was an expert, slipping right into charm mode. ‘May I say how beautiful you look?’

He took Frankie’s hands, scanned her, kissed her cheek. Rocco tried not to care.

‘Well said. There’s a whole crowd of women in there, waiting for you to say that to them. Starting with Carmel. We’ve got more important things to do.’

Dante looked mildly amused.

‘Of course you have. Life just keeps getting in the way, doesn’t it?’

‘Take it easy in there, handsome.’

‘I’ll call you. Later.’

They grabbed hands, slapped backs. Then Rocco watched him go. Straight back, easy stride, head high, holding knowledge he burned to know.

Three girls—tiny dresses, long legs—threw up their arms and ran to him. Dante slid them all under his shoulder, not missing a step. Rocco slid his own arms around Frankie, pulled her flush against him. Stood there. Just held her.

Once more the lure of music and dancing and hardcore partying held no interest. He couldn’t wait to get himself and his toxic thoughts away—to lose himself in this woman. To mindlessly make love to her until he didn’t feel any pain, until he had cleared a path to what he had to do next.

‘You want to stay much longer?’

He nodded to the valets and cars crawling slowly by, dropping, parking, leaving.

‘I think Dante’s got it covered.’

He nodded, tucked her in close again, slid his hand up through the soft skein of her hair.

One thing and one thing only was clear to him now. He was going to tell her that she’d better arrange a leave of absence for a while, because he needed her here. He wanted her in his bed and in his life. He wanted to wake up beside her and come home to her for longer than just this weekend.

And, just like Martinez being held to account, it was non-negotiable.




CHAPTER NINE (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)


NIGHT’S DARK CLOAK lay heavy all around. Frankie woke with a start, for a moment lost, with no dawn-edged window, no lamplit carpet to guide her vision.

She was in a huge space, lightless. Black. Warm. Safe.

Rocco’s room. Rocco’s home.

She flung out her hand. No Rocco.

He liked total darkness when he slept. Blackout blinds, no lamps. Just bodies—naked, entwined—and loving, and snatches of deep, dreamless sleep.

Then daybreak.

But it was still so dark, so vividly velvety black. And his empty space was cold. She clutched her arms around her body and shivered.

Rocco had been more intense than ever in his lovemaking tonight.

Almost as soon as they had got home he had poured them both large measures of whiskey. His he had thrown down his neck in a single gulp, the stinging heat of the liquor appearing to make no impact on him. He’d seemed to waver over pouring another, glancing sideways at the bottle before putting his glass down carefully. Then he’d cast off his dinner jacket and tie and in two slow strides had hauled her against him.

He had devoured her. It was the only way she could describe it. It had seemed there wasn’t enough of her for him. They’d kissed so fiercely her lip had been cut and he’d tasted her blood. It was only then that he’d stopped his wildness. He’d heaved himself back from her, arms locked and rigid, gripping her and staring at her with shocked concern that he’d hurt her. But she’d felt nothing. Nothing but bereft when he’d pulled himself away.

She’d grabbed his head and pulled him back, and then they’d formed that heaving, writhing mass of fire and passion and pleasure. Hot, slick heaven. No wonder she was shivering now.

She licked her bruised lip and wondered where he was … what time it was.

Her hands groped over the clutter on the table beside her, grabbing for her phone. Her fingers bumped against the glass of water Rocco had placed there for her, trailed over the emerald earrings she’d carefully removed earlier and finally closed around her smartphone.

Instantly it lit the room. 4:00 a.m.

The screen showed two missed calls.

Mark.

Her heart froze. What was wrong? He rarely phoned. He knew she was here. Had something happened to her mother? Her brother? Her father …?

She sat up straight and frowned as her eyes focused, trying to work out the time in Dublin. 10:00 p.m.? She opened her messages and clicked on the link that he’d posted. It took her straight to a news item.

Her brother Danny. In Dubai. A photograph of him walking with a beautiful redhead. So what?

She squinted at the text. Married?

The message from Mark was curt. Did she know anything about it? Their mother was in a state of shock.

No wonder! Danny did exactly as he pleased. Without asking anyone’s permission. And the last person, the very last person he would confide in was Mark.

Frankie hated the estrangement between them. It had lasted so long. What a waste—what a terrible waste that they’d never got past their bitter feud. She thought of Rocco and Dante and the inseparable bond between them—her brothers should be like that. They really should.

She stared at the space where Rocco should be lying. Stared at the untouched glass of water on the table beside it, at his watch beside that, and beside that …

The tiny battered leather-framed photograph of the golden haired cherub. It was gone.

She stared at the space where it should be—where he’d carefully placed it earlier. She’d hardly even dared to look in his direction when he’d sat on the edge of the bed, pulled it from his pocket and set it upright. Almost ritualistic, almost reverential. She’d felt the air seize up, as if some sacred event was happening.

Of course since then she’d run her mind over all sorts of possibilities. It definitely wasn’t Dante. He’d been six years old to Rocco’s eight when Rocco had been adopted. The child in the photograph was barely two or three. She wasn’t given to flights of fancy, but she’d hazard that the child was a blood relative. Maybe they’d been separated through adoption? Maybe that was way off the mark, but there was something that ate at him from the inside—something that caused those growling black silences, that haunted glazed look, his overt aggression.

He’d been like that tonight. She’d sensed it. Sensed it in the way he’d lain in bed, holding her after they’d both lost and found themselves in one another.

After he’d poured himself into her she’d felt an instinctive need to hold him, cradle him. But he’d pulled away, closed down. Lain on his back, staring unseeing at the black blanket of air. Lost.

She knew she should encourage him to talk, the way he had encouraged her. She also knew getting past the hellhound that guarded his innermost thoughts would be a Herculean task. But it was the least a friend could do. The least a lover would do.

And that was the dilemma that she was going to have to face. What was she to him? What was he to her? And even if she worked that out, what future was there for two people who lived thousands of miles apart? He might say he wanted her to stay on, but even if she stayed a few extra days—assuming she could negotiate that with her boss—what was going to happen at the end? How horrible if he suddenly tired of her and she felt she’d overstayed her welcome, like the last guest at a party.

Distance was be the one thing that would give her clarity. Of course she wanted to stay on—he was addictive, this life was heavenly—but it was all part of the ten-year fuse that had been lit when they’d first met. And she didn’t want to be blown to pieces once it finally exploded. She’d have to have this conversation with him. And before too much longer.

Her phone vibrated in her hand. Another message from Mark … another photograph. This time there was no mistake. Bride and groom. She dragged on the photo to enlarge it. The girl was beautiful, but with Danny that was nothing new. Whoever she was, and whatever she had, she’d hooked him. Danny looked … awestruck.

Wow. She had to show this to Rocco. Had to share her news.

She swung her legs out of bed, reached for a shirt and set off to find him along the cool, tiled hallway. At the far end she could see the eerie green glow from the courtyard pool. On the other side, the TV room was lit up, the flickering glare of the television screen sending lights and shadows dancing.

She took the long way—through the house rather than across the little bridge. The glass walls reflected light and made it hard to see anything.

But what she did see wounded her more than any torn lip.

He was sitting on a low couch, facing the screen. The light licked at the naked muscled planes of his body. One arm rested on the armrest of the couch, a whiskey tumbler full of liquor caught in his hand, and the other held something small, square—it had to be the photograph. He was staring at it, unsmiling, as a sitcom she recognised played out on the screen.

Parallel to the room, across the courtyard, separated from him by the illuminated water, the bridge and all that glass, she watched him. He didn’t move. Not a single muscle flickered with life. He sat as if cast in marble.

Finally he lifted the glass to his lips and sank a gulp of whiskey.

She didn’t need any close-up to see that he was upset. Her heart ached for him.

Through the glass rooms she went until she came alongside the doorway. She stood still.

‘Rocco,’ she said softly.

He knew she was there. She felt his sigh seep out into the room. He blinked and dipped his head in acknowledgement, then finally lifted his arm in a gesture she knew was an invitation to join him.

She moved, needing no further encouragement, and slid onto the couch, under his arm. He closed it round her and she laid her head on his chest.

His body was warm. He was always warm. She rubbed her face against him, absorbing him, scenting the faint odour of his soap and his sweat. The powerful fumes from the whiskey.

He lifted the tumbler to his lips and drank. Less than earlier, but still enough for her to hear the harsh gulp in his throat as he swallowed. He put the glass down on the edge of the armrest and sat back, continued to hold her in the silence of the night.

‘I woke up. My phone’s been going off.’

He took another silent sip.

She spoke into his chest. ‘Looks as though Danny got married. In Dubai. Mark sent some pictures that are in the news over there. He says no one had any idea. Mum’s in a state.’

‘He’s a big boy,’ said Rocco.

What could she say to that? He was right. There was no way anyone would have hoodwinked Danny. He was far too smart.

‘I know, but I kind of wish he’d told us.’

‘What difference would it have made? Would you have gone?’

She shrugged her shoulders, incarcerated under his arm.

‘I might.’

The silence bled again. He took another sip.

‘Are you planning on sharing that whiskey?’

‘You want to drink to the happy couple?’

It wasn’t a snarl, but it wasn’t an invitation to celebrate, either. She pushed up from him but he didn’t look at her. His face, trained now on the television screen, was harsh, blank.

She reached out her fingers, gingerly threaded them through his fringe, softly swept it back from his brow.

‘I want you to be happy, Rocco.’

It was barely audible, but it was honest. Shockingly honest. And when he turned his hurt-hazed eyes to hers she began to realise how much she meant it.

‘Come on. Come back to bed,’ she said—as much a plea as an order.

She stood, reached for the tumbler, tried to take it out of his hand. And then her eyes fell on the leather-framed photo that he held in his other hand. He turned it then. Turned it round so that the plump-cheeked infant was staring up at him. He looked at it and his bleak, wintry gaze almost felled her. Then he turned it face down, lifted the glass and tipped his head back to drain the dregs.

‘Come on, Rocco. Please.’

He held his eyes closed as he breathed in, soul deep, then opened them and stared blankly at the screen.

Frankie turned to see the characters’ slapstick antics. They were trying to move a couch up a flight of narrow stairs—a scene she’d seen countless times before and one that always made her laugh. But not this time. Not in the face of all this unnamed pain.

She turned back to see the coal-black eyes trained back on the photograph.

‘If you want to talk or tell me anything …? God, Rocco, I hate to see you like this.’

‘Go back to bed, then.’

She swallowed that. It was hard. It would be hard hearing it from anyone. But from a man of his strength, his intensity, his power—a man who meant as much to her as he did …

‘Not unless you come with me.’

He lifted the empty glass to his lips, sucked air and the few droplets of whiskey that were left. Like a nonchalant cowboy before he went back on the range.

‘As much as you tempt me, I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,’ he said, glancing at the bottle on the bar to one side of the huge television.

She stood right in front of him, deliberately blocking his view of the silently flickering screen and the half bottle of whiskey that was just out of reach.

‘Why not, Rocco? Why not talk or make love or even just hold each other?’

He shook his head slightly, made a face. It was as if all his effort was trained into just … being.

‘Right now I don’t trust myself. I don’t want to hurt you again.’

‘What do you mean, again? You didn’t mean to hurt me—you got carried away. We both got carried away. You’ve got something carving you up. Rocco. Let me …’

‘Just give me space, Frankie.’

She swallowed. He sounded exhausted, but he was brutal. She was brave enough to take him on, though. Him and his dark, desperate mood.

She wedged herself between his open legs, hunkered down, rested her arms on the hard, solid length of his thighs. This beautiful man—every inch of him—deserved her care.

‘I don’t think space is what you need just now.’

She looked up past the black band of his underwear to the golden skin and dark twists of hair, the ripped abs and perfect pecs, the strong male shoulders and neck and the harsh, sensuous slash of his mouth.

She trailed her touch down hard, swollen biceps, followed the path of a proud vein all the way to where his fingers lay around the photograph. Finally she traced her fingertips over his, and held his eyes when they turned to hers.

‘What can be so bad? There’s nothing that isn’t better when it’s shared.’

Slowly, boldly, she closed her fingers around the photograph frame.

‘Can I see?’

His gaze darkened, his mouth slashed more grimly, but she didn’t stop.

Gingerly, she tugged it from his grip. ‘Is he your son?’

She had no idea where that came from. But suddenly the thought of an infant Rocco was overwhelming.

‘You’re opening up something that’s best left shut.’

His voice was a shell—a crater in a minefield of unexploded bombs.

She climbed up closer to him, balanced on his thighs. Lifted the photo frame into her hands completely, laid her head against his chest and scrutinised it.

And he let her.

She felt the fight in him ease slightly as he exhaled a long breath.

She sat there waiting. Waiting …

Finally he spoke.

‘He’s my brother. His name was Lodovico—Lodo. He was three years old when that photo was taken. And he was four years old when he died.’

She held her breath as he said the words.

‘I was his only family. Our papá had disappeared and Mamá had lost her mind. Nobody else wanted to know.’

His voice drilled out quietly, his chest moved rhythmically and the haunted black eyes of his poor baby brother gazed up.

‘I was with him when he died. I didn’t cause his death—I was only a child myself. I am not responsible.’ The words came out in a strange staccato rush. ‘But I feel it,’ he added harshly, and a curl of his agony wound round her own heart.

She swallowed, shifted her weight, slid to his side and under his arm. She held the photo in front of them, so they were both looking at it.

‘I can say those words over and over and they still mean nothing. I’ve said them so many times. Meaningless. Of course I am responsible.’

‘How did he die?’

It seemed baldly awful to say it aloud, but she knew she had hear it. She knew there was worse to come.

‘By gunfire. Shot dead. A bullet aimed at me. Because I was the one running errands for a rival gang. And when the stakes are high, and the police are being paid to look the other way, and mothers have gone mad and fathers can’t take the shame of not being able to provide … life is cheap.’

She sat up. He stared ahead. The credits were rolling on the television screen. His face was stone.

‘But you just said … you were a child, too. How can you be blamed?’

‘How can I not be blamed? If I hadn’t become little more than a petty criminal—if I had found another way for us to live—if I hadn’t got greedy and done more and more daring things … terrible things. If I hadn’t let go of his fingers when he needed me most …’

His eyes crashed shut and his face squeezed into a mask of agony.

Frankie tugged him to her, desperate for his warm, strong touch as the hurt of his words and in his face gnawed at her resolve.

‘What age were you—six? Seven? How could you have prevented any of those things happening?’

She stared up at him but he merely turned away, as if he’d heard it all before.

She placed her hands on his cheeks and positioned herself round to face him, held him steady in her grip. ‘Rocco. You were a child. And you’re still tearing yourself up over this?’

His face was a ridge of rock and anger.

She kissed him. She kissed the jutting cheekbone that he turned to her, the wedge of angry jaw, the harshly held crevice of his lips. She felt her tears slide between them and put her lips where they washed down.

‘Rocco, baby … you were not to blame.’

His eyes were still closed to her but she didn’t care. She couldn’t stand to see her warrior in such pain. With tiny, soft presses she slowly covered his face with her lips, whispering her heart to him.

He kept himself impassive, cold and distant. He didn’t push her away, but she could feel that he wanted to. As with every other time, she let her body guide her, not her head. He needed her. She needed to let him see how much. As instinctively as a flower faced the light, or curled its petals at night, she laid her body around him and soothed him.

And slowly he began to respond to her heat and light. He sighed against her whisper-soft kisses, melted into her cradling arms. He sat back against the couch and she climbed over him, slipped her legs around him to strengthen him, to imbue him with everything she could. The energy and emotion they had shared welled up inside her, and she knew she would gladly gift it all to him to ease his awful pain.

‘Frankie …’ he breathed into her neck as she lay over him.

His arms that had been lying limply at his sides, not quite rejecting her, now closed around her and held her tightly against him. She found herself rocking slightly, in that age-old movement of reassurance and care.

‘You would never do anything to harm an innocent child. Never.’

His arms slid closer around her, holding her body and her head clasped against him. He had so much power and strength and yet he was so vulnerable, lying there in her arms.

‘I would do anything to turn the clock back. I could have done so much more to protect him.’

‘And who was protecting you?’

He sighed against her. ‘I didn’t need protecting. I needed to be reined in. Always have.’

She pulled back and stared at him, cupped her hands around his beautiful, broken face.

‘Rocco, don’t you even see what you’re saying? You were a child, too. And what’s even harder to take is that you were trying to be an adult—to make decisions that your parents should have been making for you.’

He recoiled at that, but she didn’t stop.

‘I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve been through. But I do understand that you’re adding to the pain of losing Lodo by hating yourself so much for something that wasn’t your fault.’

He was still, his eyes level with her chest, not looking at her. The hair of his fringe had fallen down over his scar. She pushed it back and then gently lowered her head to kiss the reddened mark.

‘I wish you would leave the hate. There’s so much about you to love. Your body is covered in your history—even this crazy little scar. Fighting in the streets when you should have been learning Latin … I love it.’

He didn’t move a muscle. She moved her lips to the flattened break in the bridge of his nose. Kissed it.

‘And this perfect imperfect nose. Getting a polo stick in your face because you wouldn’t give up …’

She curled downward, holding on tightly, not daring to open her eyes, letting her body guide her, remembering all the things he’d told her about his injuries. The bones in his shoulder were all out of alignment from his falls and fights. She lowered her lips and ran them along each bump and ridge.

Finally she placed her lips over his. Soft, firm, warm. The fires they had lit between them were always glowing, ready to flare into life.

‘I love these lips.’ She kissed him so softly. ‘The pleasure they have given me …’

She felt something inside her contract as she spoke. Waves of emotion rolled and more words formed in her throat. She choked them back and used her mouth to show him how she felt. Softly pressing their mouths together, carefully sculpting and moulding and shaping. The familiar blaze was already taking hold, but this time something bigger, higher, sweeter sang out through the fire.

‘Oh, Rocco …’ she said as the waves began to break.

He stood up in one smooth movement. She held on as he began to walk, as he repositioned her, cradled her and carried her forward. She held on to the thick column of his neck and pulled herself close as he walked slowly back to the bedroom.

He opened the door and carried her in, walked right over to the bed and laid her down as if she were a silken cloth. He moved over her and stared down at her. She stared back. Up at his face, still intense—always intense—but softer now.

‘You sweet, sweet girl,’ he said as he slowly unbuttoned the shirt she’d thrown on.

She sat up, threaded her hands through his hair and pulled him down to her. She kissed him. Over and over. That was all. Just kissed him. Feeling those lips that she’d come to cherish for the pleasure they gave. Kissing and holding and adoring him. Nursing him with her body. And her heart.

Those words welled up in her throat again. But she swallowed them down.

He touched her as if she was treasure, moved her carefully on the bed, began to stoke their sexual love with his mouth and his hands. She climbed higher and higher, beginning to lose track of where she ended and he began.

‘Frankie, carina …’

He eased her legs open with his thighs and slid inside her. Huge and thick, he filled her completely, perfectly. Inches from her face she felt his warm breath. She ran her hands over the rough stubble of his jaw, felt the enveloping power of his body around her.

She knew the crescendo was coming, but each honeyed beat of the prelude was immense. So perfectly, precisely slowly he eased himself in and out of her. Rocco … her wounded soldier … her love. The words choked her as she kissed him and he kissed her back, murmuring sounds about how he treasured her until she knew she could hold on no longer.

Never, ever had she known the depths of such feeling for another human as their lovemaking throbbed to its final conclusion and she broke like a concerto of strings all around him and cried out the blissful joy from her heart.

He collapsed onto her, crushing her, winding her in the most perfect way possible. His hair-roughened limbs and stubbled jaw were her satin sheets. Their breath and sweat mingled. Light from the neglected hall doorway seeped into the room and soothed the night’s edges with silvery strokes.

And together they lay, weary, slipping into slumbers and dreams, knowing that they’d crossed some giant divide and there was no longer any way back.




CHAPTER TEN (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)


A WHISKEY HEADACHE was about the last thing Rocco needed as he prowled through the house, drinking water and rewinding the events of the previous night.

What the hell had he been thinking? Did he have a body double? What had gotten into him?

The party. And for the first time he could remember wanting to leave the Turlington Club early. Hell, he’d even had to be persuaded to attend in the first place. It had all looked the same—the crowd had been the same, the sponsors had laid on the usual fantastic spread. The only thing that had been different was his head. And Frankie. And those two things were probably connected.

Carmel … Trying so hard to eclipse Frankie and having it backfire so spectacularly. If anything had made him realise how much of a sham his relationship with her had been it had been seeing her beside Frankie, seeing how much of a contrast they were.

Carmel was all about Carmel. She never gave a damn about anyone else. He’d was only ever been there because he’d given her social credit—not because she’d actually loved him … He should have seen through that right at the start instead of being captivated by her body. A body that left him completely cold now. Now his ‘type’ ran to a whole different set of vitals.

He took another glug of desperately needed water. Dehydrated on top of everything else.

Dante and the news that there was no news. How the hell all this had ended in another blind alley, he still couldn’t figure. As soon as Dante got here he’d go through the whole trail piece by piece.

He rubbed at his jaw, rasped his fingers through the stubble. He really needed to shave—he’d probably removed another layer of Frankie’s skin this morning.

Frankie. Most of all Frankie. Was he losing control? He was still furious with himself for taking her so fast and hard, hurting her in his selfish need to bury his anger. He’d known he was being rough. They did ‘rough’ really well. But he’d pushed the limits, and ‘rough’ definitely didn’t mean drawing blood.

And even after that she’d still come to find him. And he had stupidly told her all about Lodo. He felt like knocking his head off the wall to see if there were still any brains in there. When had he ever, ever opened up to anyone about his brother? It had taken his therapists five years to get him even to say his name, and he had blurted the whole thing out to her in one night!

What kind of crazy was going on with him just now? And how was he going to get back from where they’d ended up last night? Sex that had been tender, beautiful. The best tender and beautiful sex he’d ever had. The only tender and beautiful sex he’d ever had.

Dammit again. What was happening? He knew things had changed now. Not permanently—but she was a woman. She’d have expectations. Women always had expectations. And he’d paved the way for that.

Why was sex such a comfort in his life right now? Couldn’t he just rein in his emotions as he had every other time and use sport? Boxing had sorted him out in his early teens, and polo had been his salvation right up until she’d walked back into his life.

He really had to get some kind of normal back in place. This just wasn’t him. Using a woman to help him sift through all the debris in his head showed a lack of judgement.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her to keep the story about Lodo to himself—he did, of course he did. It was just that keeping things tight had worked so well up to now. The closed ranks of himself and Dante were perfect. There was no judging, no explaining. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about it. Women were always talking about it.

He reached the TV room and saw the whiskey bottle. At least half of it gone. And it hadn’t even served its purpose, because he’d sunk it and still blabbed when she’d come in—when she’d wheedled it out of him.

He shook his head as he lifted the bottle and carried it back to join the others on the bar. It would be a long time before he’d touch it again.

He looked at the couch, saw the photo. Staring at it, he saw an image of them sitting together. She hadn’t wheedled it out of him. She’d been great. She’d done exactly what he would have done if he’d seen her sitting in a mood like that. Exactly what he had done when she’d gotten herself in such a state about the media.

He picked up Lodo’s picture. So he’d told her? He shook his head again. The only thing to do now was make the best of it.

He knew that it was only a matter of time before some nosy investigative journalist or unofficial biographer unearthed it and splashed it all over the media anyway. He’d buried as much as he could of his early life, but there was always someone willing to swap a story for cash. Hadn’t he tried that himself in the hunt for Chris Martinez? He was still trying. It was all he had left.

And as soon as Dante came over, after they’d talked through in detail what he had and hadn’t found, he’d be back on it—like the relentless bloodhound he was.

Although, he thought as he lifted the whiskey tumbler and made his way through to the kitchen, the hunt for the Martinez brothers was something he’d be keeping to himself. The contacts he’d had to establish, the risks he’d taken to scratch the underbelly of the world they existed in, to breathe that stench again—there was no way he wanted to share any of that with Frankie. He barely wanted Dante to be involved. He didn’t want her exposed to it and, crucially, he didn’t want to increase the risk by widening the circle of knowledge.

No, he’d shared more than enough with her already.

He put the glass in the gleaming empty dishwasher, turned to the coffee machine and started it up. There was no point in trying to claw back what had gone. All he could do now was keep a lid on the rest. And, yes, he’d asked her to stay on here—but after the events of last night maybe that wasn’t such a great idea. Not while Dante was due and the chase was still on. Not when he seemed to be in the habit of opening up and blabbing about stuff that no one should have to carry apart from him.

He shook his head again. What was it about her that she had got him to open up like that? He’d never even come close to it before. Totally uncharacteristic behaviour. He had quite knowingly left Lodo’s picture out in the bedroom, even after she’d asked him about it. With every other woman that picture had been tucked away. He did not sow the seeds of pity—he did not want to harvest their emotions. If he had any sense at all he’d shut his mouth and shut down this obsession that seemed less and less like unfinished business and more and more like an unsolvable problem.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/annie-o-neil/postcards-from-buenos-aires-the-playboy-of-argentina-kept-at/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.