The Playboy of Argentina(6)

But the hats and the heels, the sponsorship deals and the general buzz  about anything related to the ponies or the players she could still, if  she was honest, pass on.

Tonight, though, entering the grand Molina Lario Hotel-a French-style  mansion house renowned for its exclusive, excessive entertainments-she  lapped up the atmosphere and soaked up the vibe. People there exuded  something purposeful, joyful and wholly sensual-and it seemed to chime  with the city itself. There was passion in the air and there was  anticipation all around. She could smell it. She could taste it. Would  it be possible, just for a night, that she could actually live it?

She skipped up the carpeted stairs. Cameras flashed ahead, but none  flashed at her. She was a nobody. And that suited her perfectly. She  glanced at the anything-goes glamour. This was South America meets  Europe. It was relaxed, but it was sexy. It was just how she felt. And  for once she felt that she'd actually nailed the look.

She wandered through to a lounge that exuded a quiet buzz. Clutches of  people were laughing, sipping and looking around. Glasses of Malbec.  Bottles of beer. Canapés of steak; morsels of cured meat. Waitstaff in  long white aprons and fabulous smiles.

No sign of Esme, but she was in no rush. She wandered back through to  the main reception area. An alluring orb of Lalique glass gifted light  to the huge oak table below, heaving under the weight of champagne. Its  impressive spread drew her closer. Long-stemmed flutes in columns and  rows fizzed and popped with tiny clouds of bubbles-perfect. That would  be her tipple of choice tonight.

Marketing screens were strategically but discreetly placed all around,  and here and there the people who made headlines were positioned in  poses, eyes on the cameras and smiles for the crowd. The double-H logo  of Hermanos Hermida caught her eye and flipped her stomach. So she was  immune to him? She was going to pass on him? Really?

Yes, really.

She wasn't naive enough to think that when she saw him her heart  wouldn't leap and her blood wouldn't flame. But she was smart enough to  know that these were physical reactions. They would pass. And she was  not going to be held in thrall by her passion for a playboy. Not with  the world looking on. Not with so much to lose and so little to gain.

She sipped at her drink and rubbed at her silver ring. A roar of  laughter and energy flooded the hallway. A crowd approached along the  red carpet. And there he was.

Tall and dark, the flop of hair his instant brand. Blue shirt, dark  trousers and a body that her fingers clawed at themselves to touch. Air  and energy thrummed around him. Simmering, menacing, mesmerising. Faces  turned awestruck and adoring.

Frankie turned away, clutched at the table and steadied herself.

She'd half expected that he would come for her. Chilled when he didn't,  she looked back. He and his brother were surrounded by lights, laughter,  a myriad of love. He looked at her-just for a moment. Long enough to  let her know that he had seen her and had dismissed her.

Was that it? Had she had her moment in the sun? Had he already moved on?                       
       
           



       

Of course.

She was ridiculous to think otherwise.

Suddenly her 'New Frankie' plan seemed preposterous. She put down the  flute, saw the huge smudge of lip gloss on its edge and rubbed at it  almost apologetically. Esme must be here somewhere. She would find her  and camp out with the Palm Beach crew. That had been her plan all along,  and she owed it to Esme and to herself to follow through. It was either  that or go back to the hotel. And, really-was she going to give in that  easily?

Still aware of the Hermida circus to her left, she turned her back and  fumbled in her bag, found her phone. Thank God for distraction. And a  text from Esme.

Hurry up! Tango Bar-Hugo waiting. ;-)

There were lots of Hugos in the world of polo, but only one on the Palm  Beach team. He was nice, she supposed-a tall, square-jawed picture of  health and handsomeness. And he played well-really well. But the thought  of small talk with such a big guy held very little appeal.

She clicked off her phone and dropped it back in her bag. Still, if she  was going to make a go of the evening, she'd better fill it with  something other than the mouthwatering sight of Rocco.

Her eyes slipped away of their own accord, to see if she was even on his  radar, but he was now in front of the screens, his arms round some  girls, gaze straight ahead. The understated scowl of a smile just added  to his allure and made her recoil like a sulky cat. So she was that  disposable?

Tango music drifted up the stairs, meaning that she was going to have to  walk past the impromptu photo-shoot to get to it. She could do that.  Sure she could.

Trying to paint 'not bothered' all over her face, she tilted up her chin  and began her stalk past. A photographer stepped back to get a better  shot and she had to swerve swiftly to avoid him. Her ankle twisted in  her shoe and she swallowed a yelp of pain.

Big biceps reached out, steadied her. She looked up, startled, into the  face of Dante Hermida. Like a sunbeam of happiness he sorted her  stumble, flooded her path with smiles.

'Hey-are you okay?'

His touch was disarming, warming, lingering just that second more than necessary.

Solid-like a brother's.

'Fine. Thanks.'

'Are you sure? You seemed in a bit of a rush, there.'

Frankie opened her mouth to speak, but a figure immediately loomed up, put an arm across Dante's shoulder, steering him round.

'I'll take over here.'

Rocco. Like an unexploded bomb.

His brother didn't lose a beat.

'You reckon?'

Rocco didn't even reply, just exuded danger.

Frankie stared from the bemused smile of Dante to the intense frown of  his brother. Like a wall of testosterone. One of them was hard to cope  with, but two was ridiculous.

Looking past them was not an option. Rocco's eyes demanded hers. Her  heart thundered in her ears. Resolve began to crack and crumble.

She spoke up into the rock-like face. 'Thanks-that's kind of you, but I'm going to meet my friends.'

Dante laughed, thumped Rocco on the back.

'You win some  … '

Rocco continued to stare. One second more and she would cave in  completely. She had to go. She dragged her eyes back and, head down, she  bolted. Distance was her only hope. Because there was something he did  to her that nobody else could do.

He entranced her. Absorbed her. All she could see were those eyes. She could still feel the touch of his lips. Longed for them.

It was frightening just how much.

She rattled down the sweep of stairs, glanced back-couldn't not. He was  staring down. In the sea of people his eyes were trained on hers.

She kept going. Another close encounter? Another lucky escape? Why did  it feel as if the hunt was on-that it was only a matter of time?

The Tango Bar was dark and the caress of the music was mesmerising.  Simple piano melodies and the undercurrents of slow-burning passion  thrummed through the room. She scanned the shadowy space for Esme and  within moments had tracked down her party. Another bunch of  golden-skinned, smiling sunbeams, not even dusky in the gloom.

Esme was in her element, surrounded by handsome men like cabana boys,  and their attention was forced on Frankie as Esme spotted her.  Introductions flew past in a good-natured blur and ended with her being  set up with Hugo.

Which should work-if she managed to stop her three-sixty swivels,  checking who was coming and going from the bar. If she could settle with  her champagne and enjoy the company-because it was fun! Everyone was  having a good time. Her, too. Damn right she was!

Anyway, Esme wasn't great with no, so she would stay-as long as she  didn't pull a muscle forcing this smile-and then slink off back to her  adorable little bed. She'd get up for brunch and then catch some sights  or work on her presentation before she joined Esme to take the short  trip to Punta.                       
       
           



       

Rocco who? He'd be so far in the past by then that she might even need  to be prompted to remember him. And that was good. It was. What was bad  was this unhealthy obsession that had gripped her in the past few hours.  It was like being sixteen all over again.

But she was twenty-six. In Argentina. On a business-with-pleasure trip.  She was accomplished, confident  …  ish and worldly. She caught herself  starting another head twist and forced a redirect onto the dance floor.  Surely this next round of dancing with these outrageously sensual  dancers would focus her on something other than Rocco Hermida.

She sat on the edge of her small wooden seat, watching Buenos Aires at  its best. This passion was what she'd felt all evening. This was why  this city was alive as no other. Lingering looks, perfect posture,  movements laced with stark innuendo. The trail of the male dancers'  hands over their partners and the mirrored responses. Truly, she was  spellbound.