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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.
