The Playboy of Argentina(18)

He knew she'd rather be curled up in his lap on the couch, watching TV  and making love, than stuck in the media glare with all these gilt-edged  sycophants.

Carmel had loved the spotlight. And had stupidly thought she could use  her media chums to manipulate him, dropping hints that they were  'getting serious'. Hearing that had sobered him up pronto. Finalmento.

And of course Carmel was here tonight-she'd never miss it. All flowing  golden hair and shimmering curves in a red sequined dress. Holding court  in the middle of the vast foyer. She caught sight of them entering,  covered her shock well. But he knew that the extravagant tilt of her  head, the slight hitch in her rich syrupy laugh and the twisting pose to  showcase her fabulous figure were all for him.

Dante had warned him that Operation: Frankie Who? was well underway.  Everyone was desperate to know about the girl who had caused the  Hurricane to bail out of the post-match celebrations and go off radar.  The fact that she was more shot glass than hourglass, and had never made  a social appearance before that anyone could remember, was as baffling  as it was irritating for them.

Baffling for him, too, if he was honest. He'd felt physical attraction  before. But this was crazy-like a wild pony. Ten years breaking it in,  and still it wasn't tamed.

'Look how much of a sensation you're making,' he whispered into her ear, lingering a moment, knowing just how to heat her up.

'The only sensation I've got is horror,' she shot back. 'They're like  vampires, waiting for blood. Get your garlic ready. And stay close with  your pitchfork.'

'Relax  … ' He smiled and steered her through with a few nods, a few  handshakes, but it was clear for all to see that he was lingering with  no one but Frankie. He'd need to work hard to ease these particular  knots from her shoulders-especially since she was so damn independent in  every other aspect of her life.

'Let's get a drink.'

He liked this club-this home away from home. It was old, but not stuffy.  The rules were as relaxed as you could hope for, and the people easy.

He and Dante had spent so much of their time here, back in the day. Made  fools of themselves, learned to charm, in Dante's case, or in his case,  fight a way out of trouble. All in the relative safety of this club  that had seen generations of polo-playing Hermidas. Generations who now  posed with other serious-eyed teammates or proud glossy ponies, looking  down at them from their brass frames in the oak-panelled club rooms.  Full-blood Hermidas. He never forgot that he was there by invitation  only. But he was grateful now-accepting. Indebted.

He led her through the gold-draped dining room, past the billiard room  and out to the terrace. Dark, warm air flowed between open French doors  and mingled with chatter and laughter and lights. On the lawn the  marquee throbbed with a low baseline-incongruously, invitingly.

'Do you want to dance?' he asked, handing her a glass of champagne.

'No. Thanks.' She sipped it, looked around.

'You want some food?' He indicated the abundant buffet.

'Not hungry. Who's the girl in the red dress?' she shot out.

He looked down at Frankie's upturned curious face. So she'd noticed. Predictably, Carmel was on form.

'An ex-girlfriend. Carmel de Souza. She likes the limelight-and you're  in it.' He sensed some kind of predatory emotion in Frankie, but for  once in his life it didn't make him recoil. 'She once had plans that  involved me, but I suspect she has all those bases covered by now. She's  never single. Ever.'

'That's no surprise-looking as she does.'

'Relax. Looking as she does is a full-time occupation. And I mean full-time.'

'Really?' Frankie sounded slightly snippy. 'Doesn't she have a proper job? Something with a bit more  …  substance?'

He shrugged. What did she do? Shop? Party? Self-promote? She was her own industry.

'She looks good. She snares rich men.'                       
       
           



       

'So she's a man hunter? Is that it?'

'More of a husband hunter, to be honest. And with me that was never going to happen. It became a bit of an issue between us.'

She gave a derisory little sniff and he cocked a curious brow. Her eyes,  turned up to him, were full of clarity, deserving truth.

'Is that something you'd struggle with?' It was as well to know. It had been a deal-breaker before. More than once.

'It's not something I've ever given much thought to.'

He felt his phone vibrate.

'Is that you stating your position, Rocco?'

She'd framed the question carefully, but it would have to wait. He  whipped his phone out, saw the screen ablaze with messages and one  missed call. Dante.

Dammit.

'What's wrong? Is everything okay?'

'Nothing. Just a call I need to return. Give me a moment.'

He stepped away from her on the terrace, which was glazed with more  firefly golden lights. Tried to press Redial. The call wouldn't connect.  He pressed again. And again.

He strode along the terrace, checking the phone for a signal. Chatter  from the house and music from the marquee clouded the air. Still no  connection.

He paced away from the clubhouse, took a flight of stone steps down towards the tennis courts. Nothing.

There was a couple necking in the shadows-he took a path to their left. A  gravel walkway narrowed by high hedges studded with flowers, their  petals closed in sleep. The trail of party voices was now dimmed, the  lights less frequent. Only occasional glimpses of moonlight and his  frustratingly inept phone gifted him any real visibility.

He tried one more time.

The phone lit up as a message came through.

Dead end. Sorry. Be with you shortly.

A peal of laughter sounded above the strains of dance music. A breath of  wind rose and fell. Around him leafy bushes puffed out like lungs, then  sank back. He stood staring at the message.

It couldn't be. He had been so sure. So sure. Had felt it so strongly.

He had thrown everything at this. Years of patience. Every favour called  in. How much longer was it going to take? How could thugs like Martinez  hide their tracks so well? He'd known even as a child that the Martinez  brothers were in deep with Mexican drug lords. Why hadn't the police  ever caught up with them? Surely not every cop was bent? But they'd  evaded everyone, and every effort he had put in had hit a dead end.

But they were out there somewhere. And they were not invincible. He was not frightened of them. Not anymore.

He would find him-Chris-the one who had fired the shot.

His day would come.

He stood. Drew in a deep, deep breath. Squared his shoulders. Slipped  the phone away again. Looked back at the clubhouse, the party.

Frankie. For a fleeting moment a knot loosened inside him. Like a drop  of black molasses slipping from a spoon. Peace. Another strange,  unbidden thought.

He banished it. He was getting sentimental-that was all. He needed to get his head clear, keep his focus.

He started back up the path. Dante couldn't be too much longer. He  listened for a helicopter, but the wind was rising and the party was  beginning to throb as parties did.

He got to the terrace, caught sight of the spill of people all staring inside, through the French doors. Strode inside.

He might have known.

There she was. Carmel and her circus. And pinned in the middle, like a church candle in a blaze of fireworks, was Frankie.

Carmel was working her red dress as only she could. Fabulous breasts up  and out, tiny waist twisted, hair tumbling like a waterfall of silk. She  would have dwarfed Frankie anyway, but right now she looked just as she  had in the bathroom mirror-a pale ghost of who she really was.

She made his heart melt.

'I'm sorry to take so long.' He reached out for her.

'Rocco-darling.'

At the sound of his voice Carmel swirled, pouted her glossy best,  offered him her cheek. He had no time for her games. But she was quick.

'I was looking after your date. You left her all alone, baby! Were you looking for me?' she added, stage-whisper loud.

Over Carmel's shoulder he caught a glimpse of Frankie's inky eyes trained straight at him.

'Did you get your call made?'

He nodded.

Carmel manoeuvred her way between them. She turned her back on Frankie, rubbed her breasts against him.

'Rocco, baby  …  Have you missed me?'

She pouted and preened.

A camera flash went off.

She never missed a moment.

He opened his mouth to put her in her place, but Frankie suddenly  rounded those sequined hips and stood at his other side, shoulders back  and determined little chin tilted.

'Miss you? How could anyone miss you?'                       
       
           



       

Cool, understated, but strong. Rocco's eyes drank her in.

Carmel did an uncharacteristic double-take. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Subtlety, honey. Try looking it up.'

Rocco smiled and raised an eyebrow at Carmel. He'd never seen anyone take her on before-never mind trump her.

Frankie slid her arm around his waist, swivelled back to Carmel. 'And, for the record, my date has all he needs right here.'