The Playboy of Argentina(4)

And if he was honest, that penthouse full of beautiful women back there   … ? None of them interested him more than the skinny, hazel-eyed Irish  kid he'd met ten years earlier. A little bit of closure on that  particular puzzle would be good-it had been a long time coming.

He swung into the back of the sedan. An hour earlier than he'd suggested  and the city was limbering itself up for the night ahead. The party at  Molina Lario would be good, for starters. But he was feeling post-match  wired and just this side of in control. He spread his arms across the  back of the seat, watched the sights of his town slip past. A bit of  Barcelona here  …  a look of Paris there. The spill of people on wide  streets, corners alive with café culture. Vibrant, creative and free.

But he was no romantic fool. Yes, he loved it. Loved it that he had run  its streets and slept in its parks. Loved it that he had survived. Was  grateful that he had survived when so many others had fallen or, perhaps  worse, were living the legacy of those years in prisons or still on the  streets. He would never, ever forget or take that for granted.

But all he had-his wealth, his businesses, his health, his adoptive  family-all of that he would trade right now for one more day with Lodo.  One more chance to shield him and protect him and cherish him-better  than he'd managed last time  …

The car cruised to a stop. They were here. He hadn't been in this part  of town for years. Villa Crespo was outside Palermo and on the up, but  he would have preferred that she'd stayed closer to the centre, where  the worst that could happen was pickpocketing. He got out. Looked  around. It seemed quiet enough. The hotel was traditional-a single  frontage villa. Ochres and oranges. Cute, he supposed. He went inside.                       
       
           



       

The concierge was startled to see him, and he jumped up from his TV  screen, gave him the details he needed. Her room, first floor; her  visitors, none; and her movements, she'd been in her room since her  return earlier.

He ignored the old cage elevator and took the stairs three at a time. If  she felt about him the way he thought she did they could stay in her  room. No problem. Or they could hang out for a while and then go on to  another party, or back to Dante's pad, or even to the estancia. It had  been a long time since he'd taken a woman back there. But he felt even  now that one night with Frankie Ryan might not be enough. An undisturbed  weekend? That might just about slake this thirst for her.

He stood outside her door.

Dark polished wood. Brass number five.

He knocked. Twice. Rapid. Impatient.

Nothing.

She should be getting ready, at the very least.

He knocked again.

Still nothing.

He'd opened his mouth to growl out her name when the door swung open.

And there she was.

Bleary eyed, hair mussed and messy, one bony white shoulder exposed by  the slipped sleeve of her pale blue nightdress, her face screwed up  against the light from the hall.

He'd never seen anything more adorable in his life.

'Frankie.'

He stepped forward, the urge to grab hold of her immense.

But she put a hand to her head, set her features to a scowl and opened her mouth in an incredulous O.

'What-what are you doing here?'

He still couldn't believe how sleepily, deliciously gorgeous she looked.  His eyes roamed all over her-the eye-mask now awry, the milky pale skin  and the utter lack of anything under that thin jersey nightdress. It  clung to her fine bones and tiny curves. As beguiling as he remembered,  though maybe her breasts were rounder, fuller  …

'What are you-? Why are you-? I told your guy I wasn't coming.'

He dragged his eyes back to her face. Heard a noise at the end of the  corridor. The concierge was peeping, making an 'everything all right?'  face, wielding a pass key. Rocco nodded, put up his hand to keep him  back.

'Let me in, Frankie.'

She seemed almost to choke out her answer. 'No!'

'Okay, I'll wait here-get dressed.'

'I'm. Not. Coming.'

He was slightly amused. Slightly. The irony of the situation was not lost on him.

'We've been here before, querida, only last time it was you on the other side of the door. Remember?'

And there it was-that wildness he had seen all those years ago. That  almost wantonness she'd exuded that he'd found exhilarating,  intoxicating. She leaned out into the corridor, to check who was there,  then looked right up at him. He drew his eyes away from the gaping lines  of her nightdress, followed her gaze.

'I can't believe you're actually standing here!'

'It would be better if I came in. As I recall, that was your preference last time.'

'I was sixteen! I made a mistake!' She blazed out her answer.

Then she gripped her arms round herself. All that happened was that the  neckline of her nightdress splayed open even more, letting him see right  to the tip of one small high breast. He reached forward, gently lifted  the fabric and tugged it back into position, ignoring her futile  attempts to swat his arm away.

'Why don't we discuss that inside?'

His hand hovered, then retracted. He badly wanted to touch her, but he  was nothing if not a reader of women and he sensed she was going to need  more than a pep talk to get her on-message.

'You made yourself perfectly plain the last time we met. And I don't  have any wish to spend any more time with you. I told your guy. I  couldn't have been plainer.'

'The last time we met was four hours ago. You were in my horse transporter. You came looking for me.'

She was so wild, standing there in next to nothing. He was getting  harder and harder just looking at her. Memories came of her slipping  into his bed, waking him up with her naive little kisses and her hot  little body. Him literally pushing her out of his bed-like rejecting  heaven.

Her eyes blazed. 'I came looking for our bloodline, not you! You arrogant ar-'

He put his finger on her lips where they framed the word he knew she was about to launch at him. Her eyes widened even more.

'Don't belittle yourself, querida.' He lowered his voice, stepped  closer. 'Go inside, get dressed, and I will take you to the party and  tell you everything you want to know about your ponies.'

But lightning-quick she grabbed for his hand and tried to pull it away.  The sleeve of her nightdress fell lower and the pull of the fabric  strained on her breasts. Her nipples, twin buds, drew his eyes-and, damn  it, the flame of heat coursed straight to his groin.                       
       
           



       

'I call it as I see it, and I see you as an-'

He couldn't hold back. She fired him, inflamed him. He wanted to taste  her so badly. He had to contain her, have her mouth under his.

She lifted her arms to push him and he scooped her wrists together,  pinned them behind her. Then he heaved her against him and crushed her  insolent mouth. Fragile but strong, she strained and stiffened and held  her lips closed. Which just drove him wilder! He could smell her desire.  He could taste her passion. So why was she so intent on keeping him  back?

He gripped her head and stared into her eyes.

Her hands flew to his wrists. She dug in her nails. She flashed and  fumed and forced out her breath through the clenched teeth in her mouth.  But she didn't pull back, and he needed to know. He grabbed her hips  and ground her into his hard, throbbing length, felt her sweet mound and  watched her shocked face.

And he saw. Oh, yes. Oh. Yes. She told him. Her eyes closed. Her head dropped back and she moaned. Dark and deep and long.

That was it. All he needed to know.

He thrust her away, spun her round, slapped her backside.

'Get in there. Get dressed. Meet me outside. You have half an hour.'

He'd had to get back onto the street-get some air. Calm his blood.

So he'd been right all these years when he'd wondered if he was  idolising a memory. If she really had fired him up as fast and hard as  his youthful body had ever experienced.

He really should have been given a medal after that weekend. The utterly  overt way she'd tried to seduce him had been sweet, but he doubted her  family had thought so. And they hadn't known the half of it.

From the first moment when he'd seen her in filthy jodhpurs to her  sidling up beside him at dinner as he'd tried to keep focussed on the  deal he was supposed to be there to cut with her brother, her face  covered in make-up she'd clearly had no notion of how to apply, and  wearing a dress-which had seemed to cause her family some amusement. To  the full-blown assault of her coming into his room.

Kiss me, Rocco.

That look in her eyes  …  the shadow between her open wet lips. He had  wanted to-so badly. She'd blown his mind. But of course he had chased  her away. What kind of guy took advantage of a girl five years younger,  barely aware of her own sexuality, acting as if she'd never even been  kissed? And there was the fact that her family's hospitality to him had  been beyond reproach  …  She was off limits, and then some.