The Playboy of Argentina(5)

But in the predawn light she'd woken him again. Naked. In his bed. The memory still packed a punch.

He had been disorientated, but harder than he had ever thought possible.  Seconds, maybe minutes had passed as they'd found each other, and he'd  done things he should never have done. But thank God he had stopped in  time-before it had gotten out of hand. She had begged and wailed and  made it even harder for him to send her away. So in the end he'd left  himself. After one look back at her, wrapped in a sheet, all eyes and  white skin. One look that he had never erased from his mind.

He pushed up off the sedan's door, walked, paced down the street. He had  already drawn attention to himself. He should be waiting in the car. A  crowd was starting to gather-people who were wondering what the hell the  captain of the polo team that had just won the biggest charity match  ever seen in Palermo was doing, tonight of all nights, outside a  midrange hotel in Villa Crespo.

He checked his watch.

Forty minutes.

And then he knew.

She wasn't coming.

He stared up at the first-floor windows. Maybe a curtain twitched.

The throng of interested happy people watched and waited. The concierge wrung his hands at the door.

Rocco turned away from the crowd. Got into the car. Nodded to his driver and was driven off through the streets.

What kind of stupid game was she playing? They had unfinished business. A  hot physical agenda to work through and close down. It was that  simple-that straightforward. Where did all this chasing feature? He was  Rocco Hermida. He didn't chase. Not like this. Not like a stupid  adolescent.

If she wanted him the way he knew she wanted him she could damn well  quit her coy little act and juvenile games. She could come and get him.  And she would.

He smiled grimly at the passing scenery as he made his way back to  Recoleta. Yes, she would. He would lay money on it. His Irish obsession?  Su obsesion Argentina! Her Argentinian obsession. She was right in it  with him. Up to her neck.

Frankie pulled closed the curtain as the sleek black car skirted the  corner and vanished. She stepped back into the shabby-chic room and sat  down on the edge of the bed. In a short silk shift, her arms and legs  bare but slick with oil, she looked as good as it got.                       
       
           



       

Her hair was washed, conditioned and straightened into a sleek, shiny  bob. Her face was clear, the dark circles camouflaged by the miracle  concealer her company were just about to launch. She had lined her  eyelids with shadow the same blue as her dress and coated her lashes in  black. Lip gloss plumped her lips and the lightest hint of bronzer  dusted her cheeks. She'd come a long, long way from the pony-mad  teenager who'd tried to bag Rocco Hermida.

So why had she not quite been able to follow through?

One look at the television screen showing the pictures the rest of the  world would be watching-well, the rest of the polo world-had confirmed  it all. Rocco, Dante and their teammates. Pictures of the match, of the  cup being presented, of the fans in and outside the stadium. Of the  women who'd featured past and present on the arm of the Hurricane. A  never-ending cornucopia of beautiful blondes. One after another after  another.

The TV programme was admittedly more focussed on his love life than on  his sporting prowess, but still Frankie had been utterly transfixed by  the flow.

And when the final pictures of the piece had showed the team heading off  with a troupe of polo groupies to a luxury penthouse in a luxury barrio  this very evening she had sat down and sighed. Really? It was one thing  to offer yourself on a plate to a playboy aged sixteen. It was another  thing entirely to do it when you were twenty-six. Especially when she  had more than a hunch of what would follow.

He'd unleashed something in her that no other man could. He had barely  touched her and she had almost screamed with need. He had kissed her and  it had been all she could do not do jump into his arms and wrap herself  round him. And when he'd put his hands on her hips and ground them  together  …

The ten years she had waited had flashed and were gone and she was back  in his arms, in his bed, with that first white-hot flame of passion. But  all she'd gained in the past four hours was the knowledge that he saw  her as unfinished business. Was she really going to let herself become  that? An arm-candy statistic? Would it be her face that flashed up next?  Entering the Molina Lario at his side for the whole world to see? The  whole world, including her father  …

She had battled her way out of the black fog of depression, had rebuilt  herself piece by piece, layer by layer, after her father had stripped  her bare of everything she'd ever cared about. Hidden her away and  punished her. The bruise of the slap that had landed across her cheek  had faded so much faster than the bruise that had bloomed across her  heart for all those years.

Was being Rocco's 'Irish squeeze' going to be her legacy? Her mother  would have a fit and her father would roll his 'I told you so' eyes.

She lifted up the remote control and changed the channel to some glitzy,  ritzy soap opera-probably much like Rocco Hermida's life. And what  would her part be? The beautiful heroine? Hardly. More like the kooky  best friend put in as a comedy foil. Because that was the other  thing-she didn't really measure up as his type of leading lady. She was  distinctly lacking on all the fronts he seemed to major in-like big hair  and big breasts. And, though her confidence was never rock bottom now,  it was hardly skyscraper high, either.

A tiny part of her did wonder, even if she arrived at Molina Lario with  Rocco, was sure she would leave with him, too? After all, she'd never  managed to stay the course with any previous man.

She was twenty-six. She was doing well for herself. She didn't need to  create a whole load of heartache. So she'd waited ten years to see if he  was still as hot as she remembered? Answer-yes. What was the next  question? Was there going to be a day after the morning-after?  Answer-no. Conclusion-put all thoughts of Rocco Hermida out of your  head. And don't spend the next ten years in the same state of perpetual  wonder as the past ten.

There were bound to be other men who could light her up like he did. Surely!

Frankie turned the television off altogether and sighed. Her phone  flashed and she leaned across to the bedside table to check it. Esme.

Hey, beautiful. We need you! Come shake off your jet lag and meet the  Palm Beach boys. Told them all about you so you'd better get here soon!  No excuses! X

She stared at the message. She could pretend she hadn't seen it. She  could turn her phone off and read her emails instead. But, knowing Esme,  she'd turn up and drag her out anyway. So should she? Meet the Palm  Beach boys? Maybe that would be just the thing to cure this once and for  all. To go. Confront her demon. Let the dream shatter for good. And  maybe she'd even get herself worked up over some other handsome man who  was just a fraction less arrogant, less dominant, less utterly  overwhelming.                       
       
           



       

The phone lit up again.

The car's on its way. Tango time! X

That was decided, then. She stood up. In her silver sixties slingbacks  she made all of five-five-'the height of nonsense', as her father had  used to say, and not in a good way. But whatever she was, she was big  enough to play in the playgrounds of the porteños and their Palm Beach  buddies.

She could pull this off. Of course she could. If she could lift herself  out of the blackest depression and keep it at bay for all these years  she could damn well paint on a smile, slip in and hang out with her best  friend.

Esme knew more than anyone that parties weren't her thing, but this was a  watershed moment. A mark of her own maturity. She had weighed it all up  and traded a night or an hour with Rocco 'Hurricane' Hermida. She had  so much more to get from life than an empty inbox and a roll in his hay.

She slipped on the Bolivian silver earrings she'd bought at a market in  the Dominican Republic, grabbed her clutch. Incredible that two days  earlier she'd bought these earrings, totally unaware that Rocco Hermida  would hurricane his way back into her life. But there was nothing surer  that in two days' time, regardless of what happened, he would be  hurricaning his way back out of it.

Just remember that, she told her wild side. Remember that and stand well back.





CHAPTER THREE


THE GLAMOUR OF polo had never held any attraction for Frankie. Sure,  she'd learned how to dress, how to style her hair-okay, she'd learned  how to plug in straighteners-and since working at Evaña Cosmetics for  the past four years she'd grudgingly warmed to the wonders of make-up.