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

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

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

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.