The Playboy of Argentina(26)

She had seen into the depths of his despair, had tried to soothe and  salve. She could see how much hurt he harboured and she could help him  through it-she knew she could. But he would not let her in.

Lodo's picture was there. Rocco's mind was not. Every time she tried he backed right off.

She had gone out on a limb professionally and now, instead of ticking  off her to-do list, she was actually unravelling all her efforts. She  wasn't just putting things on hold, she was deconstructing them. Getting  her face splashed all across the media and then erupting when an  ill-mannered man made some stupid comments. Had she learned nothing? Had  she left the farm, travelled round the world, fought her way to a  position of relative success just to have it all shatter around her?

An inspiration?

A devastation, more like. She had to get her act together and salvage  what was left. Get back on the career path. Limit the damage. Batten  down the hatches and hold tight.

What a day! How long since he'd allowed himself the luxury of taking off  for the afternoon? Riding out around his land, feeling free, feeling  part of a bigger scene, a higher purpose? Feeling that the world was his  and that peace was  …  possible. He'd wanted Frankie there-he'd waited  for her-but there would be other times. Perhaps.

As he'd ridden out through dust clouds and stony streams he'd had time  to think, to curse himself for not being as straight with her as he  should have been. The emails she'd gotten from her boss had crushed her.  Panicked her. Adding to that by laying it out that what they had was at  best a one-week sexual odyssey had seemed too cruel. And the more time  he spent with her, the more he began to wonder if this might actually  work longer term  …  It might-but he had to be absolutely honest with  himself and with her.

He wasn't the marrying type. He wasn't even the commitment type. And she  was. She might not admit it, even to herself, but she was the type of  girl who put down roots, built a nest, cultivated life in a way that he  recognised. If things had been different he might have wanted it, too.  Real depth  …  real values. A real person. She wasn't going to flit about  like an overpainted butterfly, landing on flowers, looking for attention  like all the other women he'd dated.

He paused at that. Had he dated them for that very reason? So there  would be no genuine commitment? Possibly. But Frankie was different. So  was he being fair to her? Because it wasn't going to end any other way.  He'd made that promise to himself years back. Being responsible for  other human beings was not something he did well. Hell, the only reason  he and Dante were so close now was because of the utter devastation he  had caused every time he'd run away.

Two years his junior, Dante had hung on his every word, so when his  efforts to get back to the streets had become wilder and wilder, when  he'd seen just how upset he'd made Dante every time he was dragged back  to his life of luxury-all that emotional blackmail had been banked and  paid out again in brotherly bonding. They'd used Dante as a weapon to  tame him. But that manipulation, that responsibility for someone else  was never going to happen again.                       
       
           



       

So had he given Frankie false hope with his drunken blurting about Lodo?  Sharing his emotional detritus for her to pick over? Who knew? He'd  expected her to be flying high on some emotional magic carpet the next  day, looking for him to jump on and relive it all over again. He'd been  on his guard for pitying looks, stage-managed conversations, trailing  pauses. No way was he going to indulge in any review of that particular  episode.

It was time to face up to having the inevitable conversation that had  eluded them so far. To go on any longer without talking through the  state of play was disingenuous. The last thing he wanted was for her to  build their time together into more than a week of fantastic sex-to set  any emotional store by the fact that they'd each had their confessional  moments  …  in his case a once-in-a-lifetime confessional moment.

But he'd be fooling himself if he didn't admit how much he hoped she'd  share his point of view and keep things ticking along as they were. If  she was cool with a physical relationship-a monogamous physical  relationship-he was right there with her.

He walked from the yard to the house, already thinking about where she  would be. What they'd do as soon as they met. He'd decanted the 2006 and  2003 Malbecs from Mendoza-could almost taste the subtle soft fruits and  the plump warm spices. A couple of steaks, the fabulous wine and then  an evening together in exactly the same way they'd shared every previous  one. Perfect.

The house was empty. Usually the gauchos and grooms inhabited the  kitchen and the rooms on the south wing, but since Frankie had taken up  residence they had made themselves scarce. Another unnecessary line in  the sand, he thought, kicking off his boots, pulling his shirt over his  head and twisting the lid from a bottle of water. People were reading  more into this than they should.

He walked on through the house. Alone.

She'd have been back for a good two hours now. Hot tub? Terrace? Bed?

He drew a sharp breath through his teeth and felt himself tighten as  every sweet little image formed in his mind. This separation, if only  for a few hours, had done them good. He was half crazy with longing for  her. Strange that she hadn't wanted to come out riding. He reckoned  things at work had maybe piled up for her. He had monopolised her time,  and after all she was here on business. Even if that business was a bit  sparse.

He'd done a bit of digging. Just a bit. And he wouldn't be holding his  breath that her efforts were going to pay off. Or any efforts. Evaña was  a company heading in the wrong direction, and Frankie dragging herself  along in the dirt as it stuttered to the end wasn't going to be her  smartest career move.

But that was her business. There would be nothing to be gained by him voicing that opinion.

The bedroom was empty. He seized the chance and had a quick shower,  soaping himself alone for the first time in days. Strange how he'd got  so acclimatised to her being around  …  Strange that he didn't resent it.

In fact as he tossed the damp towel into the laundry bin and pulled on  fresh clothes an irritation that he'd never felt before barked up,  unbidden. Where the hell was she? She should have been there to meet  him.

His calls through the house echoed back unanswered. He checked his phone, checked his messages, but there were none from her.

Five minutes later he found her. Coiled on the ancient leather sofa in  his favourite room-the snug. It was the room that had been his bedroom  when he'd first bought the estancia. His bedroom, living room and  kitchen. He'd existed in there as he had slowly ripped out and rebuilt  the place, brick by brick. He'd made this room habitable first, then a  bathroom. Then the stables.

For a long time the stables had been way more luxurious than the house.  His horses deserved that. They were his everything. He poured his  love-what there was of it-into them. He owed them everything. Without  them he was nothing. He owed them for every envious glance from a polo  player, every roar of adulation from the crowd. For each and every  sponsorship deal that had opened doors and fast-tracked him to his other  business deals.

People didn't understand that. Leaving behind the luxury of the Hermida  estancia had been like fleeing a gilded cage. He'd been thought mad to  walk away. But his parents had understood. And Dante. They had  understood everything, supported him in everything. He'd left that 'safe  house' with one pony-Siren, his eighteenth birthday present. And after  that he'd headed to Europe. Met Frankie in Ireland. Life had taken off.  He would never, ever repay that debt. But he would never stop trying.

Frankie. She had to have heard him coming in but she kept her head  buried in her laptop, brows knitted and a strange swirl of tension all  around her.                       
       
           



       

She still didn't look up.

'Hey  …  I missed you out riding.'

He walked over to her, the dusky evening already softening every  surface, blurring the odds and ends of dark artisan furniture against  the plaster walls.

He leaned over her, kissed the top of her head, lifted her chin with his  finger and met her lips. He could taste slight resistance, but it was  nothing that he couldn't melt in moments.

And he did.

She sighed against his mouth.

'I missed you out riding, too.'

He kissed her, revelling in the 'Hi, honey, I'm home' greeting between them. He could get quite used to this.

'I waited. But there will be other times.'

She pulled herself back, dipped her head, stared at the screen.