So she was in a mood-prickly, like a neglected pony, one who'd expected to be ridden at a match but had been swapped for another. Sulky and jagged. Playing hard to get. Okay. He could deal with that.
He lifted her laptop onto the couch and scooped his hands under her arms, lifted her up. Her reluctant hands slid around his neck.
'So what happened? How was your day? Did it go as well as you hoped?'
Her eyes rolled and her mouth tightened into a grim little slash.
'Not quite. Walking into an AGM of the Carmel Fan Club wasn't quite what I had in mind.'
He frowned. 'What does that mean?'
This time she pulled herself totally out of his arms, slid back down onto the couch, lifted up her laptop again-as if it was some kind of guard dog and he should back right off.
'Just what I said. There was quite a welcoming committee-seemed as though the traders had got the whole company out in force to see how I measured up. I had to wait in the reception area-and guess what were all over the coffee table? Celebrity magazines dedicated to your airhead ex. It was heartfelt-it really was.'
'I'm sure it was coincidental,' he said, thinking how unlike her this spiteful tone was.
'Are you? Were you there?'
He looked at her. Weighed up the benefit of engaging in this. Decided against it.
He turned round, shook his head and went off to the dining room. The wine decanters were set as he'd left them. Each vintage the perfect temperature, opened to breathe for the optimum length of time. He lifted the 2006. It was mooted to be even plummier than the 2003, and he held it to what remained of the light. These were his wines now. And there would be better and better to come.
How long had he harboured a desire to be that Argentinian? The one whose heritage went so far back. The one who had fought and risen above hardship. One who didn't have to worry about a place to sleep, a mouth to feed. A reputation to uphold. How remarkable that with effort you could buy that kind of stability. And he had. Centuries of tradition, and he now held it in his hand. How proud would his mamá and papá be now? How proud Lodo?
He swallowed his self-indulgent reflections, selected two etched antique-crystal glasses and made his way back to Frankie. She would enjoy these. She would appreciate the effort and pride that had gone into them.
The room was darkening with each passing moment. He reached for the control pad and flicked a switch. Lamps in corners began to glow softly. He turned. The sheen on Frankie's dipped head gleamed. She looked right. There on that couch, in this room. Slowly, reverently, he poured, the full, fabulous scents wafting up as the liquid sloshed. He paced to her, handed her a glass.
'Try this.'
She made a face as though it was an old tin cup of stagnant water. Reluctantly held out her hand. Why did she not know what this represented for him? She was normally so attuned to him …
He watched as she swirled the dark red liquid round the bulbous bottomed glass as if it was a science lesson.
He did the same, but sank his nose in for a proper smell.
'What do you think of this vintage? This is the 2006 Malbec. The season went on until April that year. The aromas are immense-so balanced, no?'
Frankie stilled her eyes, cast her mouth into a tight little moue. 'Yes, it's amazing.'
Suddenly he felt a spark of anger.
'No, what's amazing is your churlish attitude.'
She did a double-take.
'What? What did you say?'
He sighed. How to phrase this without turning it into the drama she was clearly spoiling for?
'Frankie, the existence of Carmel de Souza in this world has nothing to do with you. I saw how you let her presence affect you at the party, but surely you're smarter than to let a photograph of her affect you at your work?'
Her back was against the huge armrest of the couch. Her legs were curled up, knees bent. He watched her from the corner of his eye as he stared straight ahead, twirling the gorgeous liquor round and round, examining the patina on the glass as it sank back down before being swirled up again.
'It's only because of that damn party that I'm feeling like this,' she said, cold steel jarring every word. 'If I hadn't been paraded about in front of all those cameras nobody would've even known who I was.'
She thrust her legs out, bare. She was wearing a T-shirt and shorts-not one of his shirts, he noticed. She gripped her laptop, held it steady on her lap.
'I went down there today as a professional and came back as nothing other than the Hurricane's current sex pet. And not a very impressive one at that.'
He raised his eyebrow-the only sign that he'd registered her statement. She needed to calm the hell down.
He swirled the wine one more time before drawing long on the scent and then finally tasting.
'I bought this vineyard today. I've always been a fan of their wines.'
She fumed. Obviously.
'Great.'
'Meaning … ?'
'Meaning that it's all in a day's work for you to go shopping for a vineyard. Did anyone pile in to look at you and judge you? Make you feel as if you'd won last place in the celebrity-girlfriend competition? And that you were an idiot for getting your photo all over the front pages of some trashy magazine?'
'No, because the only person who judges me is me. I choose who I sleep with, and it's of no interest to me what anyone thinks of that.'
She reared up. The laptop slid to the couch. Her wine sloshed up the sides of the glass. She glanced at it and reached to put it on the side table, missed its edge in the gloom of the room. The glass wobbled and he lunged for it, caught it in his hand and righted it.
She opened her mouth, clamped it shut, then opened it again.
'That's all I am to you. Isn't it?'
Halfway to his mouth, he stalled the progress of his own glass. So there it was. The gauntlet thrown down. All hope of a mature, considered conversation was gone-Frankie's self-deprecating emotional show had just rolled into town.
'Isn't it?' She stepped down from the couch, the shrill tone in her voice a sword being drawn from its sheath.
He lowered the glass.
'We are currently lovers, if that's what you mean.'
She stood within the circle of his personal space. If he reached for her she would fit his body perfectly. He would curl her into him and lay his chin on her head. She would press her head to his chest and then plant tiny kisses on his neck. She would clamber up him like a cat and he would hold her, carry her, make love to her and know that he had never before and never would again find a girl like her.
But standing here right now, less than eighteen inches apart, it was like being on either side of a crevice. One wrong move and the whole thing would disappear down into a chasm. Gone.
'We are "currently lovers"?' she repeated, the low tone of her voice unmistakable.
He would not give her more. Would not.
He looked at her, at the damp, dusky lashes closed over the huge hazel eyes that had gazed into his, at the small soft lips that had given him every type of pleasure imaginable, at the silken swish of hair that had lain across his body night after night. At the selfless, giving, generous, loving girl that she was …
She loved him. He knew it then. As she stood there right in front of him. An iron hand squeezed his heart and a steel glaze crept all over his skin. She loved him and he could not love her back.
Not in the way she deserved.
'We can stay as lovers … like this … ' His voice was strained, as though the decade-old tannins in the wine had welded it shut. The glass now dangled at the end of his arm, preventing him from holding her. He should hold her. He should comfort her. Every second that ticked by deepened the chasm. But still he held the glass in his hand, cupped the delicate weighted ball of crystal.
'Like what?'
One foot hovered over the edge.
He straightened his shoulders. Drew in a breath.
'Frankie … ' he began, and he saw by the glimmer of hope that had flashed in her eyes and then slid down her face that she already knew what was coming next. If only he could save her, not pull her with him into the chasm …
'Frankie, we're great together … '
She closed her eyes. Clamped them shut as if trying to block him out.
'But … ?' she breathed. 'We're great together but … ?' Every syllable rang with the dreadful, sonorous clang of defeat. 'What are you telling me? What glib, half-baked reason are you going to trot out?'
'Angel, please,' he said, feeling the earth now leaving him, knowing that they were both falling.
She opened her eyes, looked at his arm, his shoulder, at a spot on the wall. In the distance he could hear the rumble of threatened thunder. A summer storm passing overhead. The land would be refreshed by morning, the air clearer and lighter. But he could already feel the aching black pain that would live in his heart as he rode the land, knowing she wouldn't be there for him to come back to.