Coming in to land, she'd spotted riders cutting through the head-high grass fields and moving into the rougher countryside that she'd crossed herself a few days earlier. Clouds of dust swirled and settled as they rode through green-and-yellow grassland. Rocco was sure to be with them. She'd left him this morning, after another night of frenzied passion-another night when she'd longed to cry out her heart into the hot dark night, to whisper her love and bask in the emotions that rolled through her when she lay in his arms.
But she hadn't. She'd held back. She'd silently floated in oceans of happiness, but had been ever aware of the crashing waterfall that was right there, just out of sight, a glaring reminder to hold something back-her life raft.
She couldn't criticise Rocco for anything. He was attentive, considerate and caring. He worshipped her body, and he appeared to enjoy her mind, her conversation and her company. But he was as deep and as distant as ever. Every time she'd tried to sneak a look past his barricades he'd somehow made them higher.
And now, with the days ticking by, she was feeling more and more anxious that she'd made a terminal career mistake by asking for more time when the finance department was asking for more cutbacks.
But she'd left this morning determined to bring back some good news, to make the directors see that she really knew what she was doing.
Before that she and Rocco had breakfasted on the north-facing terrace, surrounded by huge potted urns of showy red flowers and under the arches of clambering ivy that softened the house and the wide, spare landscape. Silently, comfortably, they'd munched on freshly made bread, sipping strong coffee and planning their day, so full of promise and excitement.
Rocco had planned a morning of intense demanding phone calls to finally nail the squirming management of Mendoza Vineyard, and then an afternoon of wild riding across his land. He'd promised to wait until she returned so she could join him. That had been the plan. And she had been desperate to saddle up the other mare-Roisin-and see just how much like her mother she was. In fact she had jumped right into his lap with joy at the thought of it, and he had gifted her one of his rare laughs, his face lighting with happiness, his eyes sparkling with pleasure.
Frankie had never felt more alive. Today was going to be her day. She was going in well armed after her visit to the traders in the Dominican Republic. She knew what she wanted, the terms she could afford to offer. The processing plants were nearer at hand, and the botanicals they needed were all available locally, too. The opportunity to make genuinely organic products rather than to follow the market leaders with their petrochemical derivatives was just too good to miss. She could visualise the artwork, smell the creams and lotions, feel the luxury …
So where had it all gone wrong?
Along the wide, straight jacaranda-lined driveway she stumble marched. Sweat and dust and her own gritty determination were smeared all across her face. Her mascara had run about three hours earlier. She'd seen it when she had tried to stare herself calm in the bathrooms of the one-storey cubic office block. When she'd excused herself after an excruciating meeting between the trader who'd gathered all the samples she'd asked for and an audience she hadn't.
Staring into that mirror, her best suit a crumpled mess, her hair blown all over, she had felt again the crippling sense that she was once more a silly little girl playing in a big boys' world.
La Gaya-one of them had openly called her that. Magazines with Carmel de Souza's picture had been clearly laid out on the reception area's coffee table. One of the traders, his arms folded over his chest, had set his face in amused judgement. So this was the Hurricane's lover? Not much to see. Not compared to Carmel.
Either they hadn't known she was fluent in Spanish or they hadn't cared. The terms they'd offered had been unmanageable. The profit margins and her hopes of promotion had slid away like oil through her fingers as she'd contemplated their bottom line. It had been hopeless.
All this time, all this work, and the whole thing was now unravelling out of her control. And she suspected that more than some of the reason for the unreasonable terms was her relationship with Rocco. Who would take her seriously when she was, after all, just another morsel of arm candy?
She'd kept it together for as long as she could-she really had. She knew there was no place for emotion in business. Especially when she was there representing her company. So she'd taken it on the chin until she'd heard 'La Gaya' one last time. Then she'd stood up, snapped her tablet closed, braced her hands on the desk and fired at them with both barrels.
She hadn't come all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to listen to this rubbish. They were in business or they weren't. And the last thing-the very last thing-that a prestigious, established firm like Evaña would do was get into bed with a bunch of half-baked professionals like them!
She reached the lakes that marked the start of the house grounds proper. Willows overhung the water, fronds dripping down, gently scoring the water's surface. Huge puffy clouds bounced their way across the sky. So much nature and not a living soul to be seen. Good. That was just what she needed right now.
She pulled her phone out of her bag as she marched, checking to see if there were any messages. Not trusting herself to call Rocco, she had sent him a text.
I'll pass on the riding. See you later.
No kiss. She'd ignored his call and climbed back into the helicopter, feeling twenty-year-old pain all over again. Fury at not being taken seriously; rage that she wasn't considered equal. Like when she'd been her brothers' shadow, following them about the farm, until her father had caught her and sent her off to the kitchen, roaring at her that she was getting in the way-a liability, a pest.
She flung open the front doors and clicked her way along the parquet. Heels deadened in the rugs, she passed the photos of sullen gauchos, passed the console table now groaning under the weight of Rocco's boxing trophies. She'd found them the day before, in a box in the dressing room, and polished them up happily and set them out proudly as he'd watched, humouring her.
She pushed her way into the bedroom and stood there. And breathed. And stared around.
Rocco's bedroom. Rocco's house.
What was she doing? What on earth was she doing?
Still behaving as if she was six years old-running away from her problems. Hiding out in her bedroom until she stopped crying and then flying back outdoors on a pony or after her brothers, only this time being much more careful not to get caught.
But she wasn't in her own bedroom. She wasn't even in her own country. She was here because she'd contrived to be.
Like dawn breaking over frosty fields, suddenly everything sparkled with clarity. She walked to the bed and sank down.
She really had brought this on herself. The whole nine yards of it. The trip to South America. She'd been doggedly, determinedly desperate to come here. Desperada. He was right. She had done all this for him. Right from dreaming up the new range, so dependent on natural products … She could have gone to India or Africa. But no, she'd found the best plantations in Argentina. And no one had been able to persuade her otherwise.
She'd planned and plotted the whole thing. Including the polo match. How could she have been so blind that she hadn't seen for herself what she was doing? So she was over Rocco Hermida? Hated the man who had broken her heart and stolen her pony? Who was she fooling? She had never gotten over him. And every move she'd made in the past four days had guaranteed she never would.
Blind … ? Stupid … ?
Now she had to add those to the mix.
She was ambitious, yes-but even she hadn't realised how much. And now the whole thing was coming tumbling round her head. She'd veered off her career path and right into the path of the Hurricane. Even though she'd known it would be short-term, even though she'd been able to see the devastation that was bound to be wreaked.
She was all kinds of a fool. If she didn't act fast she was going to blow her future with Evaña. It was time she grew up. It was time she stopped waiting for Rocco. She'd chased her dream all the way here. And her dream was as out of reach as it had ever been.
Because what was Rocco doing? Was he pining in his bedroom, head under the pillow, wailing like a baby? No. Damn right he wasn't. He was out on the pampas, wind in his hair, riding up a storm. He was no closer to her emotionally than he had been that very first night.