At that Dante had reared up, his face a furious mask.
'Just shut up! Stop your self-pity. You're worth every bit of my love and our parents' love. And her love-Frankie's. You're just too damn stubborn and blind to see it.'
They'd ended up standing, facing each other like cage fighters. He'd so badly wanted to swing at him. So badly wanted to hurt him. Because he knew he was right. He'd acted terribly. Selfishly.
In the end Dante had walked away, shaking his head. And in that moment Rocco had made his mind up. His life as he knew it was over. He didn't want to be a playboy polo player anymore. He didn't even want to be a horse breeder. He didn't care about any of that. None of it mattered while he was hurting the people he loved. And he loved Frankie so much-so much it killed him to think what he'd done to her.
From the moment he'd seen her he'd loved her. He'd fought against it all these years, but he had. She sparkled, she shone, and she was as pure as a brilliant-cut diamond. She'd brought energy and passion and love to his life. She'd lit up the dark, solemn corners of his heart. She'd set fire to him that night in her bed-a fire that he'd never been able to put out. All the women he'd bedded since had been just an effort to smother that flame. But none of it had worked.
Seeing her at the Campo had just lent oxygen to the embers that had always been there. And he'd known then he'd had a second chance. He'd pursued her relentlessly, not taking no for an answer. She was his. He wanted her and he would have her. But only on his terms.
Who the hell did he think he was?
Standing in the wreck of his room, he'd thought about what he'd built up and now cared nothing for-his polo, his ponies, his estancia. She'd come farther than him. She might not have the baubles to show for it, the money, but she was honest. She had strength. Integrity. Compassion. And those were the things he'd suddenly realised he lacked.
He had so much to make up for.
The next day he'd gotten up, cleared up the squalor he'd created and started to sort everything out. He'd called in on Dante. Apologised and shared his plans with him: he was going to bow out of polo, get more serious with life, get more involved in his new businesses. And he was going to meet Chris Martinez. He didn't know how yet-but he was.
And after he'd done all that he was going to get Frankie. He was going to lay his heart out for her. And if she didn't want him he would understand. He'd understand, but he wouldn't give up. He would prove to her that he was worthy of her. Somehow.
And now things had panned out just as he'd hoped. Even the tracking down of Martinez. The trail had heated up again and he'd stepped forward himself-no proxy. He'd wanted a face-to-face, and he wouldn't be wearing anyone's mask when it happened.
And now he was here. This was it.
To think it was all about to draw to its conclusion after twenty years on a pavement outside a modest villa, sandwiched between two high-rises in Belgrano. With the only criminals in sight the tourist-fleecing café owners.
For two hours he sat there, his fingers making slow drumrolls on the steering wheel. Two hours and then twenty years of hate would be gone. Twenty years of carrying a stone in his heart. Weighted, heavy, dungeon dark. And now, with one simple sighting, he'd stepped up to the light.
One look at the family that exited the dusty sedan and trooped into the house-a fifty-year-old man, his wife, his daughter and an infant that had to be his grandchild-and he knew he was free. Martinez looked aged, haggard. Weary. And suddenly the thrill of the chase was doused. He was finally hauling the past into the sunshine of this moment.
Chris Martinez hadn't caused the economic crash. He wasn't responsible for them ending up on the streets, for his father vanishing and his mother's breakdown. Rocco had chosen a path close to the dark side, sleeping on cardboard in doorways with Lodo. Stealing and mixing with criminals had only ever been going to end one way.
The Martinez brothers had been little more than children themselves-young men who'd gone deeper and darker than Rocco. But who knew what would have happened if Lodo hadn't died? If the nuns hadn't taken him in? If Senor and Senora Hermida hadn't shone a light in his life?
Lodo was gone. But there was so much to love and live for-so, so much.
His hand hovered over the car's door handle. It was time. He had to tie up this last knot.
He got out of the car and walked across the street. A tiny fence marked off the front yard from the pavement. He swung open the gate and walked four paces to the door. Gomez, the nameplate said. Knocked.
The young woman opened, the dark-eyed baby on her hip. She recognised him immediately and her mouth and eyes widened.
Behind her loomed her father-Chris Martinez, now Chris Gomez. They stared at one another and Rocco saw acknowledgement, acceptance and fear flit across his haggard face.
'I know who you are,' he said.
Rocco nodded. 'Then, you'll know why I've come.'
Martinez didn't flinch, but he stepped out onto the street, pulled the door closed behind him, shielding his home and his family.
Rocco could smell his fear, could see him digging deep for the strength he'd known he would one day need.
'I've changed.'
He stared at his face-looking for what he'd expected to see. Ugly snarling hate … brutality. But it was just a face.
'So have I.'
'I've watched you for years. I've waited for you to come-I knew you would find me.'
Rocco said nothing. There was nothing to say.
'I never meant for it to happen. I was afraid of them-They gave me a gun … ' He dipped his head, shook it. 'I'm sorry,' he said finally, looking up.
Rocco looked into his sunken eyes, at his flabby face, his paunch and, behind the windows, peering out, his family.
'It was for me to forgive you.'
He held that gaze for long, searching seconds. This was the moment he had dreamed of for all these years. And now it was his … just seconds ticking by, two men united by one terrible moment and then separated on their own paths.
'It's done now,' he said, and walked away.
Rocco parked outside the cemetery. The late morning had seeped into noon brightness. The shadows had begun to lengthen. He pulled the tiny battered photograph from its leather frame. Lodo had lived for such a short time. If he'd survived.? Who could say? But he would treasure the moments they'd had together for evermore.
He should mark his time on earth in some way. A charity cup? A sponsorship? A garden? He would work that out. But now it was time to move into the present. He'd done all he could. He had to grasp his future with both hands-and fast.
He looked at his watch, worked out the time in Dublin. He knew she was there. Just as he knew it was only a matter of time now until he followed her.
But there was no way he could have forced himself back into her life until he'd cleared this path.
He could see that now. Finally. After the massive fight he'd had with Dante, which had almost ended in violence for the first time ever-and it was all thanks to Dante that it hadn't. His long-suffering brother had taken the verbal blows, the emotional abuse, and had walked away before he'd had to defend himself against the physical ones, too. A true brother.
He lifted his phone. His trips to Europe would be even more frequent now, so the jet he'd just bought was more a necessity than a luxury. The flight plan was already lodged: he'd be flying to Dublin later that day. But back to La Colorada first, to get everything organised with the horses. Although Dante was captaining HH, he had a ton of stuff of his own going on, too. Not least with this new mystery woman-the duchess he'd been pictured with on a yacht in the Caribbean.
He'd never known Dante so tight-lipped about a woman. And so sensitive. It made a change …
He pulled out into the midday suburban traffic, the urge to plant his foot to the floor immense. Anything to speed up this journey … the sooner to let his eyes light upon her sweet face.
God, he hoped she'd been okay. That last night-staying apart from her-had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. Knowing that they were both in such pain and not being able or equipped to deal with it. She'd refused every offer of help-even a ride to the airport. But he'd insisted on that. As a concession, he hadn't driven the car himself. A concession that he'd rethought so many times. If he'd actually been at the departure gate with her could he really have let her go?
He didn't think so.
He pulled out onto the highway, sped along. Four hours and then he'd be on the jet. The best sixty million dollars he'd ever spent if he could bring her back home with him.