Rocco 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. Francesca 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 held 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.’

Unable to sit still without reading, BELLA FRANCES first found romantic fiction at the age of twelve, in between deadly dull knitting patterns and recipes in the pages of her grandmother’s magazines. An obsession was born! But it wasn’t until one long, hot summer, after completing her first degree in English literature, that she fell upon the legends that are Mills & Boon® books. She has occasionally lifted her head out of them since to do a range of jobs, including barmaid, financial adviser and teacher, as well as to practise (but never perfect) the art of motherhood to two (almost grown-up) cherubs. Bella lives a very energetic life in the UK, but tries desperately to travel for pleasure at least once a month—strictly in the interests of research!

Catch up with her on her website at bellafrances.co.uk

The Playboy
of Argentina
Bella Frances

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my mother, with all my love.

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IN THE LAZY warmth of a summer afternoon, Rocco ‘Hurricane’ Hermida stepped out of his helicopter onto the utterly perfect turf of the Buenos Aires Campo Argentino de Polo. From her vantage point in the crowd Frankie Ryan felt the air around her ripple with the flutter of a thousand eyelashes. If awe was a sound it was the reverent silence of grown men turning to stare at their own demigod. No doubt the polo ponies were stamping and snuffling and shaking their shaved manes adoringly, too. Yet all she could feel were the unbidden tremors of hurt and humiliation and—damn him to hell—shame.

With every step he took across the springy grass his fabulous outline sharpened. A little taller, definitely more muscular. Could his hair be longer? It had seemed so shockingly defiant all those years ago. Now it just trademarked him as none other than Argentina’s own—her finest, proudest export.

Wind whipped at silk skirts and hands flew to hair and hats. The crowd swelled and leaned closer. For a second her view was obscured, but then there he was again. Clearer and nearer. Ruggedly, shockingly beautiful. And still making her heart pound in her ears—after all these years.

He turned, cast his profile; it was caught on camera and screened all around. The scar through his eyebrow and the break in his nose—still there. A hand landed on his shoulder, and then there at his side was his brother Dante, as blond as Rocco was dark—twin princes of Darkness and Light.

It really was breathtaking. Just as they said in the media. Only even more potent in the flesh. The dazzling smiles of their happy conspiracy, the excitement of the match, the thrill of the crowd. How intoxicating.

How sickening.

How on earth was she going to get through the next four hours? The party afterwards, the gushing hero-worship? All over the man who had looked her in the eye, kissed her full on the mouth and broken her soft, trusting heart.

Easy. It would be no problem at all. How hard could it be to watch a little polo, sip a little Pimm’s and keep well out of trouble?

Tipping too large sunglasses onto her too small nose, she took a seat on the high-rise bleachers and crossed her jiggling legs. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here today. She could so easily have made this stopover in Buenos Aires and not taken in a polo match. It wasn’t as if she was obsessed with the game itself. Not anymore.

Sure, she’d grown up more in a stable than in a home. And yes, once upon a time becoming a polo player had been her sixteen-year-old heart’s desire. But she’d been naive back then. Naive enough to think her father had been kidding when he said the best thing she could hope to become was a rich man’s secretary, or better still a rich man’s wife. And even more naive to throw herself into the arms of the most dashing man she’d ever seen and almost beg him to take her to bed.

Almost beg? That wasn’t strictly accurate, either.

At least in the ten years since then she’d got well past palpitations and hand-wringing.

She spread out her pale Celtic skinny fingers, frowned them steady. Looked at the single silver ring with Ipanema carved in swirling writing—a gift for her fourteenth birthday, worn ever since. She rubbed at it. She still missed that pony. And she still hated the man who had stolen her away.

But at least Ipanema’s line was alive and well. She was the dam of two of the ponies on Rocco Hermida’s string. His favourites, as he made no secret of telling the world’s press. And rumoured to be being used in his groundbreaking genetics programme. And about to carry him onto the field and to victory at this charity polo match. Well, that was what everyone here thought anyway. To the home crowd there was not a shred of doubt that Argentina’s darling was going to triumph over the Palm Beach team. Totally. Unquestionably. And, with his brother at his side, the crowd would be guaranteed eight chukkas of the most mouthwatering display of virile man candy in the whole of South America.

But Frankie Ryan wasn’t drooling or licking her lips. Oh, no.

She was rolling her eyes and shaking her head. As much at herself for her stupid reaction—thankfully she now had that under total control—as at the flirty polo groupies all around her.

The fact that Rocco Hermida was here, playing, was completely irrelevant. It really was.

He probably didn’t even remember her …

Which was actually the most galling thing of all. While she had burned with shame and then fury on learning that he’d bought Ipanema, and had then been sent off to the convent, he had appeared in her life like a meteor, blazed a trail and as quickly blazed off. He’d never been back in touch. He’d taken her pride and then her joy. But she had learned a lesson. Letting anyone get under her skin like that was never going to happen again.

She had a perfectly legitimate reason for being here that had nothing to do with Rocco Hermida. She might look like a tourist today, but she was full of business. Landing a job as product development manager at Evaña Cosmetics, after slogging her guts out as an overgrown intern and then an underpaid assistant just so she could sock it to her old man was a dream come true!

She could think of worse things than travelling to the Dominican Republic and then Argentina in search of the perfect aloe vera plantation. And she could think of much worse things than an overnighter in Buenos Aires to lap up the polo followed by a weekend at her friend Esme’s place in Punta del Este to lap up the sun and the sea.

Bliss.

She got another drink—why not? As long as she was fresh enough to start on her presentation tomorrow she could have a little downtime today. It might even do her good to relax before she went out on her last trips. She still had plenty of time to put it all together into a report before the long flight home and her moment in the boardroom spotlight.

It was such a big deal. She’d spent so long convincing the directors to take this leap of faith, to look farther than their own backyard for organic ingredients, to have a unique selling point that was truly unique. So while she could play the tourist here today, the last thing she’d do was jeopardise it by getting all caught up in Rocco damn Hermida.

She began to thread and weave through the contrasting mix of casual porteños and glamorous internationals. On the other side of the giant field, spread out like bunting, she spotted the exclusive white hospitality tents. Esme would be in one of them, playing hostess, smiling and chatting and posing for pictures. As the Palm Beach captain’s wife, she was part of the package. Frankie could imagine nothing worse.

An announcement rang like a call to prayer, and another headshot loomed on the giant screens. There he was again. The default scowl back in position, the dark hair swept back and landing in that flop across his golden brow. He was in the team colours, scarlet and black, white breeches and boots. As the camera panned out, she instinctively looked at his thighs. Under the breeches they were hard, strong and covered in the perfect dusting of hair. She knew. She remembered. She’d kissed them.

For a moment she felt dazed, lost in a mist of girlish memories. Her first crush, her first kiss, her first broken heart. All thanks to that man. She drew her eyes off the screen again, scowled at it. Muttered words under her breath that her mother would be shocked to hear, let them slide into the wind with the commentator’s jabbering biography—a ‘what’s not to love?’ on the Hurricane—and the brassy notes of a gaudy marching band.

The first chukka was about to start. The air around her sparkled with eager anticipation. She could take her place—she could watch this—and if he turned her stomach with his arrogance she could cheer on Palm Beach. Even if two of his ponies were from Ipanema, the Rocco Hermida on those screens was just an imprint of a figment of a teenage girl’s infatuation. She owed him nothing.

If only it was that simple.

He was electric.

Each chukka was more dramatic and stunning than the one before.

He galloped like the wind and turned on a sixpence. His scowl was caught on camera, a picture of composed concentration, and when he scored—which he did, ten times—a flash of white teeth was his momentary gift to the crowd.

And of course there was Dante, too. Like a symphony, they flew up and down the field. Damn, damn, damn, but it was utterly, magnetically mesmerising.

They won. Of course. And as fluttering blue-and-white flags transformed the stadium and the crowd hollered its love she scooted her way out. Head down, her face a picture of ‘seen it all before, can take it or leave it, nothing that special’, she made her way round to the ponies—the real reason she was here.

The grooms were hosing down the last of them when she slipped through the fence, and watery arcs of rainbows and silvery droplets filled the air. She sneaked around, watched the action. She loved this. She missed it. Until this moment she hadn’t realised how much.

Everyone was busy, the chat was lively and the whole place was buzzing at the fabulous result. Of course the Palm Beach team were no pushovers, and Esme would be satisfied, but the day belonged to Rocco Hermida. And Dante. As expected.

As soon as she had taken a little peep at the two ponies she wanted to see she’d head off, have a soak in the tiny enamel bath in her hotel’s en-suite bathroom. She would use some of the marketing gifts from the last plantation: a little essential oil to help her relax, and a little herbal tea to help her sleep. She’d been on the go for twenty-four hours. Even if she did make the party tonight, which Esme seemed so determined she would, sleep was going to have to feature somewhere.

No one was paying her any attention. She didn’t blame them. Small and slight and unremarkable, she tended to pass under most people’s radar. Unlike the polo scene groupies, who were just like the ponies—all perfect teeth, lean bodies and long legs. Treated as a boy until she’d realised herself that being a girl was a lot more fun, she’d run with her brothers, ridden the horses and wandered wild and free all over the farm. Until the day that she had flown out of the stables to hunt for her brothers and run straight into Rocco Hermida.

She would never forget that moment.

Rounding the corner, she’d seen him, blazing like sunshine after thunder in the shadows of the muddy lane. He’d stood and stared. She’d slammed to a stop and gawped at him. She had never seen anything more brilliant, more handsome, more menacing. He’d looked her over, taken his time. Then he’d turned back to Mark and Danny and wandered away, rattling off questions in his heavily accented English, turning her life on its head, oblivious.

Now he was responsible for this world-class string of ponies, his world-class genetics programme and a whole host of other businesses. But polo was his passion. Everyone knew that. And the giant horse transporter with ‘Hermanos Hermida’ on it, parked at the rear of the campo and drawing her closer, was an emblem of how much care he put into his ponies.

It was immaculate. A haven. Ponies were hosed down, dried off and resting in their stalls. Gleaming and proud. She walked amongst them, breathing in their satisfied air. Where were her girls? She was so keen to see the mix of thoroughbred and Argentinian pony, trained to world-class perfection. She knew she’d recognise Ipanema’s progeny—the ponies he’d kept on the string were her living image. She felt sure she would feel some kind of connection with them.

‘Que estas haciendo aqui?’

Right behind her. Frankie started at the quiet growl. Her stomach twisted. Her whole body froze.

‘Did you hear me? I said, what are you doing?’

Words stuck, she willed herself calm. ‘Just looking,’ she finally managed.

‘Turn round.’

She would not—could not.

‘I said, turn round.’

If she’d been in the heart of an electric storm she couldn’t have felt more charged. The voice she hadn’t heard for years was as familiar as if he had just growled those unforgettable words, ‘You are too young—get out of here!’

A pony turned its head and stared at her with a huge brown eye. Her heart thunder-pulsed in her chest. Her legs felt weak. But from somewhere she found a spark of strength. He might be the most imposing man she had ever known, but she was her own woman now—not a little girl. And she wouldn’t let herself down again.

She turned. She faced him. She tilted up her chin.

He stared, took a pace towards her. Her heel twitched back despite herself.

‘I knew it was you.’

She forced her eyes to his even as the low growl in his voice twisted around her.

He was still in his playing clothes, his face flushed with effort and sweat, his hair mussed and tousled. Alive and vital and male. She could hardly find the strength to stand facing him, eyeing him, but she was determined to hold her own in the face of all that man.

‘I came to see Ipanema’s mares.’

Her words were stifled and flat in the perfectly climate-controlled air. Another pony stamped and turned its head.

‘You came to see me.’

Her eyes widened in shock and she spluttered a laugh. ‘Are you joking?’

He stepped back from her, tilted his head as if she was a specimen at some livestock market and he might, just might, be tempted.

He raised an eyebrow. Shook his head—the slightest movement. ‘No.’

He was appalling, arrogant—outrageous in his ego.

‘Look, think what you like—and I’m sorry I didn’t ask permission to come to a charity match—but, really? Come to see you? When I was sixteen I had more than my fill of you.’

A rush of something dangerous, wicked and wondrous flashed over his eyes and he closed the gap between them in a single step. His fingers landed on her shoulder, strong, warm and instantly inflaming. He didn’t pull her towards him. He didn’t need to. She felt as if she was flush against him, and her body sang with delight.

‘You didn’t get your fill—not at all.’ He curled his lip for a moment. ‘But you wanted to.’

The coal-black eyes were trained right on her and she knew if she opened her mouth it would be to whimper. She clamped it shut. She would stare him out and then get the hell away from him.

But his hand moved from her shoulder, spread its warming brand up her neck.

‘Frankie … Little Frankie.’

He cupped the back of her head, held her. Just there.

She jerked away.

‘What?’

If she could have spat out the word with venom she would have, but she was lucky to get it out at all, the way he was simply staring at her.

‘All grown-up.’

He took another step. She saw the logo of his team in red silk thread: two balls, two sticks, two letters H. She saw the firm wall of muscle under his shirt—hard, wide pecs, the shadow of light chest hair framed in the V. She saw the caramel skin and the wide muscular neck, the heavy pepper of stubble and the rich wine lips. She saw his broken nose, his intensely dark eyes, his questioning brows. And she scented him. Pure man.

That hand was placed on her head—and it felt as if he was the high priest and this was some kind of healing ritual.

One she did not need to receive.

‘Yes, all grown-up. And leaving.’ She pulled away. ‘Let me past. I want to go.’

But he held her. Loosely. His eyes finally dropped to absorb every other possible detail. She could feel his appraisal of her sooty eyes too big for her face; her nose too thin; her mouth too small; her chin too pointed. But instead of stepping back he seemed to swell into the last remaining inch of space and he shook his head.

‘In a moment. Where are you staying?’

She wavered—rushed a scenario through her mind of him at her cute little hotel, in her tiny room. Filling up all the space. The picture was almost too hot to hold in her head.

‘That doesn’t matter. I’m only here for a day or so.’

He was in no hurry to move. She looked away, around, at the empty glass she somehow still clutched in her hand. Anywhere but at him.

‘I think you should stay a little longer. Catch up.’

There was nothing but him—his body and his energy. Ten years ago she had dreamed of this moment. She had wept and pined and fantasised. And now she would rather die than give him the satisfaction.

‘Catch up with what? I’ve no wish to go over old ground with you.’

‘You think we covered ground? Back then? In that tiny little bed in your farmhouse?’

His words slipped out silken and dark.

‘You have no idea, querida, how far I would have liked to have gone with you.’

He caught a handful of her bobbed hair and tugged. She flinched—not in pain, but in traitorous delight.

‘How far I would go with you now …’

He smoothed a look of hunger all over her face. And her whole body throbbed.

‘You’ve got no chance,’ she hissed.

A smile—just a flash. Then his mouth pursed in rebuttal. A shake of his head.

It was enough. She put her hands on him and shoved. Utterly solid—she hadn’t a hope. He growled a laugh, but he moved. Stepped to the side.

His tone changed. ‘Your horses are resting. They played well. In the stalls at the top. Take your time.’

She pushed past him, desperate to escape from this man, but two steps away she stopped.

She swallowed. ‘Thank you.’

‘The pleasure is mine, Frankie.’ He whispered it, threatened it. ‘And I aim to repeat it.’

He left her there. She didn’t so much hear him go as feel a dip in the charge in the air. The ponies looked round at her—sympathising, no doubt, with how hard it was to share breathing space with someone who needed his own solar system.

She found her mares. Saw their Irish names—Roisin and Orla—and their white stars, but most of all their infamously wonderful natures, marking them out as Ipanema’s. She could never criticise what he had done with them—the effort and love he poured into all of his stock was legendary. And she was proud that Ipanema’s bloodlines were here, in one of the best strings in the world. If only Ipanema was still here, too …

Her brother Mark would be delighted. His own expertise was phenomenal in the field of equine genetics and this line had put their stud farm on the map. She knew he kept in touch with Rocco, sharing professional knowledge from time to time, while her father had fumed silently every time his name was mentioned. His suspicions had never been proved, but he’d never let her forget that he had them. Oh, no. And he’d punished her by sending her off to the convent to learn to ‘behave’.

But she’d been away from Ireland five years now. Away from that life and forging her own. Madrid was her home; Evaña was her world. Her father had passed the business to Mark and all her contact with beautiful creatures like these was sadly limited to the infrequent trips she made to see him.

She kissed their polished necks and they whickered their appreciation, soothing her heated blood before she went back out into the day.

Sometimes animals were a lot easier to deal with than people. Actually, animals had always been easier than people. They had their moods and their own personalities, of course, but they never judged, never made her feel like the slightly gawky, awkward tomboy that everyone else did. Especially Ipanema. Being given her as a foal to bring on had changed her life completely.

She’d loved that pony, and Ipanema had loved her right back, and when she’d been sold to Rocco her heart had taken its first battering.

She stepped out into the warm afternoon. The thrill and roar of the crowd had died down, but the celebrations were only just beginning. There was to be a party at the Molina Lario Hotel later, hosted by the champagne sponsors. Esme had told her to join her there.

It’s only the most talked-about event in the charity polo circuit after Dubai and Deauville! You need to let your hair down—there’s more to life than work!

But Rocco would most likely be there. And her reserves were running low. Maybe she’d call it a day, lap up the night safe in bed and swerve the whole unfolding drama attached to seeing him again.

She pushed her glasses back up her nose and wound her way round to the flotilla of white hospitality tents, her legs more obedient, less shaky now. But she should have known better than to think she was home free. At the edge of the field and up on the screens were four tall men in red, black and white, four in blue and yellow. All were standing on the podium, and every eye was drawn to them. Even hers.

Round about them were all the beautiful people. She hung back, watched.

A cheer … The cup being passed over, held up. Dante beaming his easy, confident golden smile. Rocco curling his lip. The crowd adoring.

They stepped down and into the flow of people—mostly girls, she noticed. Well, they were nothing but obliging! Letting themselves get all wrapped up in them, posing together in a spray of champagne, moving to another little group. Another pose, a squeeze, kisses on cheeks.

She’d seen it all before, of course—most recently in the pages of various magazines and in online news. But watching it like this she felt a flame of anger burst inside her. Anger at herself for still being there! Still gawping. She was a respected businesswoman now. Not a stupid, infatuated little girl!

She turned and began a fast path out. She’d get a cab, get away, get her head straight.

Her flat-heeled sandals moved swiftly over the grass, her stride long in her cotton sundress. Molina Lario was getting less and less attractive by the moment. More of that? No, thanks. Esme would understand. She knew her feelings for the arrogant Rocco ran to pathological disgust—she just didn’t know why.

No one did.

The one thing she could thank him for, she supposed, was igniting that fire for her to get the hell out of County Meath. When she’d watched him swing his rucksack over his shoulder and walk away from her, down the singletrack farm lane, through the dawn light and rain dust, she’d realised he was heading back into a world wide open with choices and chances. She didn’t need to be tied to County Meath, to Ireland, to the narrow options of which her dad thought her capable.

She’d taken a cold hard look at herself. Skinny, flat chested, unattractive and unkempt. Her dressing table cluttered with riding trophies instead of make-up. And when she’d stopped wailing and sobbing into her pillow she’d plotted her escape.

And now here she was—out in the world.

And here she would stay—proving them all wrong.

Head down, she reached the gates.

Just as a figure in black stepped alongside her. Large, male, reeking of strength.

‘Señor Hermida asks that you join him.’

A rush … a thrill thrummed through her. For a moment she felt the excitement of flattery. Tempted.

But, no. That way disaster lay. She was headed in a whole different direction.

She didn’t even break her step.

‘Not today. Or any other day, thanks.’

She eyed the gate like a target board, upped her pace. Lost him.

Almost at the gate, she felt his presence again.

‘Miss Ryan, Señor Hermida will collect you later for the party. 10:00 p.m. At your hotel.’

She spun on her heel, ready to fire a vicious volley of words right back. But he was walking away, obscured by the hundreds of people crossing in front of her. As obscured as her own feelings at seeing the Hurricane.

So sure he’d mean nothing to her, she’d turned up as if it was all in a day’s work to bump into him. But skulking about in the crowds, sneaking among the horses when she could so easily have done things properly …? She should have asked Mark to set it up. That was what someone who truly wasn’t fazed would have done—brushed off what had happened between them and joined him for a drink and a chat for old times’ sake …

Instead of spontaneously combusting when he’d come up behind her.

He was dangerous. The last thing she needed.

Her career was her life. Not ponies. Or polo. Or dark, intense men who lit up her body and squeezed at her heart.

She emerged onto the pavement like a hostage set free. He didn’t know her hotel. And he didn’t know her. Collect her later? Arrogant fool. One overbearing father and two extremely alpha brothers did not make Frankie Ryan anyone’s pushover.

She would be swaddled in Do Not Disturbs and deep, deep sleep. He could just cross her off his list and move to the next name. There were bound to be hundreds.

CHAPTER TWO

‘So MANY GIRLS, so little time,’ Dante mouthed, and winked at him over the heads of the two dancers from Rio who had just wound themselves around him.

Well, that was him taken care of for the evening—or the next couple of hours at least.

Rocco had just peeled a sweet little blonde from hm. Normally his preferences did run to sweet little blondes, but tonight … He strode to the wide windows that ran the length of the Art Hotel penthouse—Dante’s go-to joint for post-match partying. Tonight he was well off his game.

He braced his hands on the glass and stared out across Palermo to the outskirts, where he knew her hotel was. One phone call and he’d found out everything he needed to know. One phone call that had confirmed she was in town long enough for him to scratch the itch that had started all those years ago.

The blonde put her arms around his waist again. He was losing patience with her, but she would be well looked after—by someone else.

He looked round at his team members and friends. All getting into the party spirit one way or another. For Rocco the party wouldn’t start until he had Frankie Ryan in his arms. Then and only then would he get rid of this tension that had built almost to a frenzy since he’d seen her sneaking into the transporter.

He checked his watch.

Too early, but he had a feeling she wasn’t going to be waiting on the steps of her hotel wearing an expectant look and a corsage. No, something told him that she was going to be a little less easy to convince than the nowsulking blonde, who’d finally realised he wasn’t just playing hard to get.

He called his driver. He couldn’t wait anymore.

‘Dante—I will catch you up.’

His brother, busy, lifted an arm in acknowledgement. He hadn’t told him he’d seen her at the match. Wasn’t in the mood for questions. Why? Because he barely understood himself why this slip of a girl, now a woman, had occupied so much of his head for so long.

The last time Dante had raised the subject with him, after a particularly broody day in Dublin when he’d failed to make contact with her, it hadn’t gone well. He’d called her Rocco’s ‘Irish obsession’. It was probably the only time they’d failed to agree on anything. He’d admit it now, though. He was definitely obsessing about her now.

He checked his phone, his money and, for the first time in a long time, his appearance. He knew how he looked. He wasn’t coy or stupid. Normally it was irrelevant. There were far, far more important things in this world—like loyalty, like honour. Like family …

And if he was honest, that penthouse full of beautiful women back there …? None of them interested him more than the skinny, hazel-eyed Irish kid he’d met ten years earlier. A little bit of closure on that particular puzzle would be good—it had been a long time coming.

He swung into the back of the sedan. An hour earlier than he’d suggested and the city was limbering itself up for the night ahead. The party at Molina Lario would be good, for starters. But he was feeling post-match wired and just this side of in control. He spread his arms across the back of the seat, watched the sights of his town slip past. A bit of Barcelona here … a look of Paris there. The spill of people on wide streets, corners alive with café culture. Vibrant, creative and free.

But he was no romantic fool. Yes, he loved it. Loved it that he had run its streets and slept in its parks. Loved it that he had survived. Was grateful that he had survived when so many others had fallen or, perhaps worse, were living the legacy of those years in prisons or still on the streets. He would never, ever forget or take that for granted.

But all he had—his wealth, his businesses, his health, his adoptive family—all of that he would trade right now for one more day with Lodo. One more chance to shield him and protect him and cherish him—better than he’d managed last time …

The car cruised to a stop. They were here. He hadn’t been in this part of town for years. Villa Crespo was outside Palermo and on the up, but he would have preferred that she’d stayed closer to the centre, where the worst that could happen was pickpocketing. He got out. Looked around. It seemed quiet enough. The hotel was traditional—a single frontage villa. Ochres and oranges. Cute, he supposed. He went inside.

The concierge was startled to see him, and he jumped up from his TV screen, gave him the details he needed. Her room, first floor; her visitors, none; and her movements, she’d been in her room since her return earlier.

He ignored the old cage elevator and took the stairs three at a time. If she felt about him the way he thought she did they could stay in her room. No problem. Or they could hang out for a while and then go on to another party, or back to Dante’s pad, or even to the estancia. It had been a long time since he’d taken a woman back there. But he felt even now that one night with Frankie Ryan might not be enough. An undisturbed weekend? That might just about slake this thirst for her.

He stood outside her door.

Dark polished wood. Brass number five.

He knocked. Twice. Rapid. Impatient.

Nothing.

She should be getting ready, at the very least.

He knocked again.

Still nothing.

He’d opened his mouth to growl out her name when the door swung open.

And there she was.

Bleary eyed, hair mussed and messy, one bony white shoulder exposed by the slipped sleeve of her pale blue nightdress, her face screwed up against the light from the hall.

He’d never seen anything more adorable in his life.

‘Frankie.’

He stepped forward, the urge to grab hold of her immense.

But she put a hand to her head, set her features to a scowl and opened her mouth in an incredulous O.

‘What—what are you doing here?’

He still couldn’t believe how sleepily, deliciously gorgeous she looked. His eyes roamed all over her—the eye-mask now awry, the milky pale skin and the utter lack of anything under that thin jersey nightdress. It clung to her fine bones and tiny curves. As beguiling as he remembered, though maybe her breasts were rounder, fuller …

‘What are you—? Why are you—? I told your guy I wasn’t coming.’

He dragged his eyes back to her face. Heard a noise at the end of the corridor. The concierge was peeping, making an ‘everything all right?’ face, wielding a pass key. Rocco nodded, put up his hand to keep him back.

‘Let me in, Frankie.’

She seemed almost to choke out her answer. ‘No!’

‘Okay, I’ll wait here—get dressed.’

‘I’m. Not. Coming.’

He was slightly amused. Slightly. The irony of the situation was not lost on him.

‘We’ve been here before, querida, only last time it was you on the other side of the door. Remember?’

And there it was—that wildness he had seen all those years ago. That almost wantonness she’d exuded that he’d found exhilarating, intoxicating. She leaned out into the corridor, to check who was there, then looked right up at him. He drew his eyes away from the gaping lines of her nightdress, followed her gaze.

‘I can’t believe you’re actually standing here!’

‘It would be better if I came in. As I recall, that was your preference last time.’

‘I was sixteen! I made a mistake!’ She blazed out her answer.

Then she gripped her arms round herself. All that happened was that the neckline of her nightdress splayed open even more, letting him see right to the tip of one small high breast. He reached forward, gently lifted the fabric and tugged it back into position, ignoring her futile attempts to swat his arm away.

‘Why don’t we discuss that inside?’

His hand hovered, then retracted. He badly wanted to touch her, but he was nothing if not a reader of women and he sensed she was going to need more than a pep talk to get her on-message.

‘You made yourself perfectly plain the last time we met. And I don’t have any wish to spend any more time with you. I told your guy. I couldn’t have been plainer.’

‘The last time we met was four hours ago. You were in my horse transporter. You came looking for me.’

She was so wild, standing there in next to nothing. He was getting harder and harder just looking at her. Memories came of her slipping into his bed, waking him up with her naive little kisses and her hot little body. Him literally pushing her out of his bed—like rejecting heaven.

Her eyes blazed. ‘I came looking for our bloodline, not you! You arrogant ar—’

He put his finger on her lips where they framed the word he knew she was about to launch at him. Her eyes widened even more.

‘Don’t belittle yourself, querida.’ He lowered his voice, stepped closer. ‘Go inside, get dressed, and I will take you to the party and tell you everything you want to know about your ponies.’

But lightning-quick she grabbed for his hand and tried to pull it away. The sleeve of her nightdress fell lower and the pull of the fabric strained on her breasts. Her nipples, twin buds, drew his eyes—and, damn it, the flame of heat coursed straight to his groin.

‘I call it as I see it, and I see you as an—’

He couldn’t hold back. She fired him, inflamed him. He wanted to taste her so badly. He had to contain her, have her mouth under his.

She lifted her arms to push him and he scooped her wrists together, pinned them behind her. Then he heaved her against him and crushed her insolent mouth. Fragile but strong, she strained and stiffened and held her lips closed. Which just drove him wilder! He could smell her desire. He could taste her passion. So why was she so intent on keeping him back?

He gripped her head and stared into her eyes.

Her hands flew to his wrists. She dug in her nails. She flashed and fumed and forced out her breath through the clenched teeth in her mouth. But she didn’t pull back, and he needed to know. He grabbed her hips and ground her into his hard, throbbing length, felt her sweet mound and watched her shocked face.

And he saw. Oh, yes. Oh. Yes. She told him. Her eyes closed. Her head dropped back and she moaned. Dark and deep and long.

That was it. All he needed to know.

He thrust her away, spun her round, slapped her backside.

‘Get in there. Get dressed. Meet me outside. You have half an hour.’

He’d had to get back onto the street—get some air. Calm his blood.

So he’d been right all these years when he’d wondered if he was idolising a memory. If she really had fired him up as fast and hard as his youthful body had ever experienced.

He really should have been given a medal after that weekend. The utterly overt way she’d tried to seduce him had been sweet, but he doubted her family had thought so. And they hadn’t known the half of it.

From the first moment when he’d seen her in filthy jodhpurs to her sidling up beside him at dinner as he’d tried to keep focussed on the deal he was supposed to be there to cut with her brother, her face covered in make-up she’d clearly had no notion of how to apply, and wearing a dress—which had seemed to cause her family some amusement. To the full-blown assault of her coming into his room.

Kiss me, Rocco.

That look in her eyes … the shadow between her open wet lips. He had wanted to—so badly. She’d blown his mind. But of course he had chased her away. What kind of guy took advantage of a girl five years younger, barely aware of her own sexuality, acting as if she’d never even been kissed? And there was the fact that her family’s hospitality to him had been beyond reproach … She was off limits, and then some.

But in the predawn light she’d woken him again. Naked. In his bed. The memory still packed a punch.

He had been disorientated, but harder than he had ever thought possible. Seconds, maybe minutes had passed as they’d found each other, and he’d done things he should never have done. But thank God he had stopped in time—before it had gotten out of hand. She had begged and wailed and made it even harder for him to send her away. So in the end he’d left himself. After one look back at her, wrapped in a sheet, all eyes and white skin. One look that he had never erased from his mind.

He pushed up off the sedan’s door, walked, paced down the street. He had already drawn attention to himself. He should be waiting in the car. A crowd was starting to gather—people who were wondering what the hell the captain of the polo team that had just won the biggest charity match ever seen in Palermo was doing, tonight of all nights, outside a midrange hotel in Villa Crespo.

He checked his watch.

Forty minutes.

And then he knew.

She wasn’t coming.

He stared up at the first-floor windows. Maybe a curtain twitched.

The throng of interested happy people watched and waited. The concierge wrung his hands at the door.

Rocco turned away from the crowd. Got into the car. Nodded to his driver and was driven off through the streets.

What kind of stupid game was she playing? They had unfinished business. A hot physical agenda to work through and close down. It was that simple—that straightforward. Where did all this chasing feature? He was Rocco Hermida. He didn’t chase. Not like this. Not like a stupid adolescent.

If she wanted him the way he knew she wanted him she could damn well quit her coy little act and juvenile games. She could come and get him. And she would.

He smiled grimly at the passing scenery as he made his way back to Recoleta. Yes, she would. He would lay money on it. His Irish obsession? Su obsesion Argentina! Her Argentinian obsession. She was right in it with him. Up to her neck.

Frankie pulled closed the curtain as the sleek black car skirted the corner and vanished. She stepped back into the shabby-chic room and sat down on the edge of the bed. In a short silk shift, her arms and legs bare but slick with oil, she looked as good as it got.

Her hair was washed, conditioned and straightened into a sleek, shiny bob. Her face was clear, the dark circles camouflaged by the miracle concealer her company were just about to launch. She had lined her eyelids with shadow the same blue as her dress and coated her lashes in black. Lip gloss plumped her lips and the lightest hint of bronzer dusted her cheeks. She’d come a long, long way from the pony-mad teenager who’d tried to bag Rocco Hermida.

So why had she not quite been able to follow through?

One look at the television screen showing the pictures the rest of the world would be watching—well, the rest of the polo world—had confirmed it all. Rocco, Dante and their teammates. Pictures of the match, of the cup being presented, of the fans in and outside the stadium. Of the women who’d featured past and present on the arm of the Hurricane. A never-ending cornucopia of beautiful blondes. One after another after another.

The TV programme was admittedly more focussed on his love life than on his sporting prowess, but still Frankie had been utterly transfixed by the flow.

And when the final pictures of the piece had showed the team heading off with a troupe of polo groupies to a luxury penthouse in a luxury barrio this very evening she had sat down and sighed. Really? It was one thing to offer yourself on a plate to a playboy aged sixteen. It was another thing entirely to do it when you were twenty-six. Especially when she had more than a hunch of what would follow.

He’d unleashed something in her that no other man could. He had barely touched her and she had almost screamed with need. He had kissed her and it had been all she could do not do jump into his arms and wrap herself round him. And when he’d put his hands on her hips and ground them together …

The ten years she had waited had flashed and were gone and she was back in his arms, in his bed, with that first white-hot flame of passion. But all she’d gained in the past four hours was the knowledge that he saw her as unfinished business. Was she really going to let herself become that? An arm-candy statistic? Would it be her face that flashed up next? Entering the Molina Lario at his side for the whole world to see? The whole world, including her father …

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.

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