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

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

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

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.