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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.
