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 f
irst 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.
‘How long until you go back to Europe?’
He nodded to the doorman and walked her down the carpeted steps. His car rolled into view. He checked each way and across the street. Nobody. He checked behind them. Clear. He always checked. He was always his own security, but he was hers, too—for now.
‘A week. We go to Punta del Este later today—Esme and Brett and me. Then I have a business trip to the Pampas on Thursday. Flying back on Friday.’
So she was heading to Punta, too?
‘They’ll be going to the Turlington Club party,’ he said, almost to himself. So was he. He never missed it.
But if the world was heading to Punta, he would be heading in the opposite direction. With Frankie.
‘I’ll take you to Punta. Tomorrow.’
Dice rolled. Decision made.
She stopped right there on the pavement, a flare of anger replacing the passion that had flooded her body. ‘I told you my plans. There’s no way I’m changing them.’
‘No? You’ve already changed them. You’re here now. Are you really saying that you’d rather lie on a beach with your friend than climb into bed with me?’
He trailed a thumb across her jaw as her mouth pursed, framed a retort, then slid into a sexy smirk.
She dipped her eyes, then fired him a look. ‘I’ll give you a day of my time. After that I’m back on plan.’
He couldn’t help but smile back. He didn’t normally deal well with independence—women were all about love, not combat. But for the few hours they were going to have together, it wasn’t going to be a deal-breaker. So far it had even added to her allure. So far …
He kept his hand on her jaw.
‘I’ll take your kind offer of a day.’
He stepped a little closer to her, gripped her chin a little more firmly and watched as she dragged a breath in through bared teeth.
‘And since that’s all you’re offering, we’re not going to waste a moment. I’ve got a place round the corner …’
His eyes dropped to her mouth. Wet lips.
‘If you behave yourself I’ll take you to your friends so you’re …”back on plan”. Does that meet with your approval?’
Her narrowed eyes signalled that she knew he was mocking her.
‘It does.’
‘Excellent. Our first compromise. We’ll head straight to my town house, then.’
He held open the car door and waited. She fired him a look that told him he’d only won the first round. Then she slid inside. He scanned the street again and joined her.
The moment he closed the door they slammed together across the leather.
Seconds later and the flames roared around them. A pyre of passion.
But she hauled herself back, splayed her hands on his thighs and looked up, straight into his eyes.
‘Just for the record, I wasn’t playing games. I went to the party because I didn’t want to let Esme down—not to flaunt myself in front of you. If it hadn’t been for her I’d still be tucked up in my bed. So consider yourself lucky.’
Still in combat.
He grabbed her bare arms, his fingers closing round them easily. He stifled a chuckle. Nodded seriously. ‘Oh, I do—I do.’
But suddenly he was struck by just how close they’d come—how far they’d journeyed. How easily they could have lost this opportunity. How hard he needed to pursue her just to scratch this itch.
He added quietly, ‘I think there’s more than luck at work here. It was always going to end this way with us.’
The car moved slowly; the darkness loomed. Her heaving breaths answered him. Her skin looked silvery smooth, each slim arm still braced on his thighs. She was mesmerising.
He grabbed a handful of silky hair and tugged her head back. He wanted to savour every second, to devour her, to linger over every moment like an eight-course, wine-matched gourmet meal—to swallow her whole.
He met her mouth as she reached for his—succulent as watermelon, sweeter than syrup.
He tasted. Lost himself. Scooped her like sauce onto his lap and let her soak against him.
He sat back as she straddled him … as they went up in flames again.
Seconds more and the car turned a corner, then stopped. They were here.
He reached for the door handle, caught the flash of the driver’s eyes in the mirror, held her as he stepped out of the car and strode
to the iron gates.
Still dark, the straight path to the curved, domed entrance was softly illuminated with studs of light. His finest home. His proudest purchase. Every step proof of how far he had come from thieving street child to national hero. Normally he lingered, savoured. But not tonight. Tonight he marched with his treasure. Past the low sweet-scented bushes, the spiky-headed lavender and geometric box hedge. None of that mattered.
He had waited for her. And now she was here. Right here in his city, in his house, in his arms.
The heavy half-glazed door reflected them as they stepped up. She looked tiny, slight, and for a moment he remembered the girl she had been. So full of energy, so bold and uncompromising. She might have grown up, filled out slightly, but under her subtle make-up and silky hair and the well-cut dress, she was still that refreshingly natural, honest creature he’d first laid eyes on in that muddy lane.
And finally he was going to take her in the way he had longed to take her. He could hardly bear any more heat at his groin right now. He was slightly out of control—he could feel it.
His hand was steady as he pressed the keypad, but that was sheer force of will. The door swung open into the high domed entrance. Lamps glowed like sleepy sentries down the hallway. Palms bent their heads in welcome. Portraits calmly considered them. It was as if the whole house was waiting.
He felt her step in beside him.
‘Mother of God, what a place …’ she breathed.
She was turning three-sixty, gazing at the glass, the gilt, the marble, the grand sweep of carpeted stairs. But the normal flush of pride, the pause and then the proud history lesson, didn’t ease from his lips.
‘Upstairs,’ he said.
He caught her as she turned back to him, hoisted her weightless body into his arms and strode to the stairs.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
She didn’t lie back—not Frankie. She grabbed his head, tried to kiss him.
It was the sheer force of the habit of climbing those stairs that got him to the top without missing a step. She was insatiable. He could hardly contain her as she slid her legs round his waist, held on to his head and licked and tongued her way across his face.
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