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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.
