The Playboy of Argentina(7)

When the first round of tunes had passed a dancer approached her, and  she rose as if in a trance to join him on the floor. Esme whooped behind  her and she suddenly wondered how she'd got to the edge of the floor,  in the light grasp of this man, when she was pretty likely to make a  fool of herself.

Those dreaded Saturday-morning dance lessons might turn out to be useful  after all. Six months of her life, dragged there by her mother, who'd  been worried she would turn into a boy completely.

There had been no way Frankie would signed up for the local  Irish-dancing classes, for fear any of her classmates would see her. But  she had reluctantly agreed to a block of ballroom lessons, which  everyone had found strange at the time. Strange-but no one had  complained. And she might have kept it up-it had been quite fun-but her  Saturday mornings had been precious. They'd been for ponies and  stick-and-ball practice. So, age fourteen, she'd put her foot down and  refused to return. Stubborn, she supposed. At least that what everyone  had said she was.

And proud.

So she kept her head up now and moved in the way he directed, basic  steps coming back to her moment by moment. She'd been so charged since  she'd arrived in this city she felt as if she must be oozing passion,  and this dance was just what she needed to get some of it out. She  stepped as he stepped and turned when he threw her, spilled herself back  into his arms.

Right back. Right in front of Rocco.

There, at another small table at the side of the floor, he was sitting.  Watching. One arm over the back of the chair, strong legs splayed open.  Face in a scowl of such intensity. He stared right into her eyes. She  felt her legs almost buckle. But she was scooped up and she finished the  dance. Clearly a novice, but she hadn't disgraced herself. Except for  that moment.

The music stopped. A kiss of her hand and she was escorted back to her  seat. Everyone whooped at her bravado, high-fived her first-timer  success, and she sat flushed and alive and breathless.

And then he was up. On his feet. Walking onto the floor. Walking around a  female dancer. Stirring up the crowd. As the melody started, the place  buzzed and bubbled expectantly.

'He dances as he plays,' she heard Hugo say. 'And he used to box.  Lightning reflexes-fearless and utterly controlled. What a guy.'

He was everyone's hero.

His partner-blond hair slick and tied at the nape of her neck, short red  low-cut dress, nude high heels-dipped her eyes and her head and  answered his sensual commands. Wound her body slowly with his, stepped  in quicksilver paces and flicked lightning-fast kicks. Rubbed her hands  all over him. And he stood there. Directing her. Absorbing her. Tall,  straight, thoroughbred man. They were electrifying.

Frankie's heart pulsed. It was too much. Too much to bear. She shoved  herself up from the table and pushed her way out through the crowd.  Hating her stupid, ridiculous reaction to watching this man! He was just  a man! So why had she given him this power over her?

She raged as she made her way upstairs and along a dimly lit porticoed  hallway to the ladies' room. A five-minute break and she'd go back to  Esme, tell her she was done for the night, and then head off to her bed.  It was still only 2:00 a.m., and they'd all be out for hours, but she'd  had enough. She would work on her presentation tomorrow, meet up with  Esme and then head for Punta. Then her last trip out to the Pampas and  then back to Madrid. She couldn't wait.

She brushed her hair, reapplied lip gloss and scowled at herself. Enough  was enough. She was back in the game. Time to take control properly.  Today could be chalked up to a bad trip down memory lane, but it ended  here. Now.

She pushed the doors open to go and let Hugo down gently and bid Esme good-night.                       
       
           



       

But one step out into the quiet corridor and her arm was tugged, her  hand clasped and off she was dragged. Rocco took four strides and turned  into a dark alcove. He hauled her round and threw her down onto a hard  velvet love seat as if he was still choreographing a dance. She fell  down and her head fell back.

'Is this what you want, Frankie? You tease me, stand me up-then flaunt  yourself all around this party-dancing like an orgasm is waiting to  explode from your body! And you think I'll just stand back and watch?'

She gripped the sides of the seat and faced him. Her dress had ridden up  and her bare legs skittered out in front of her. She breathed and fumed  through angry teeth and stared up at his furious face, still working  out what had just happened.

'I thought more of you than that. All these years I have respected your memory. I never had you pegged as a little tease.'

She saw her own hand flying out in front of her to slap him. But he  grabbed it and hauled her to her feet. The love seat dug into the backs  of her legs. His body was flush with her front. His fury was too close,  too real.

His hand still circled her forearm and she tugged it free. 'Let go of  me! Let me go. Go and dance with your blonde. I don't want anything to  do with you-I don't want my name associated with you!'

He fumed, dipped his head closer to her. All she could see were glittering black eyes.

'So that's it? You want my body and my bed but you don't want anyone to  know? You're still trying to play the good girl? Even though it's  obvious to anyone here tonight that you are desperate for my touch.'

As he spoke he trailed one featherlight finger over her cheek. She shuddered. Feverish.

He drew his head back an inch and smiled like the devil.

'Desperada,' he whispered.

Then he reached behind her and squeezed her backside, pulling her into furious contact with his pelvis again.

She opened her mouth, but the raging defence she'd intended to spit out  died in her throat. There was no defence. She burned for him. She ached  for him. She had to have him or she would never, ever be complete.

She reached for his face. Grabbed hold of his head in her hands and  pulled it down-pulled down that mouth she had dreamed of and kissed it.

She thought she might drown.

Her fingers threaded and gripped his hair. His cheekbones pressed into  her palms. Hot wet lips pushed against hers. His tongue darted into her  mouth and her legs gave way. He licked and suckled and smoothed his  tongue over hers.

He grabbed her head with one hand and the cheeks of her backside with  the other. He pulled her flush against him. Hard against him. She moaned  his name and he silenced the sound. He breathed her in and she breathed  him. Her hands flew around, grabbing hair and shirt and skin. She  moaned again and again. His mouth was on her throat, kissing and biting,  and then moving back to her lips. She snaked her leg round his waist,  heaved herself up as close as she could.

He walked them two paces, then slammed her against the wall.

'You little wildcat. You crazy little wildcat.'

They were the first words he'd said, his breath in her ear as he held  her against the wall with his body and ran his hands over her, up and  under her dress. He found her panties and tugged them to the side,  slicked fingers across her soaked, swollen flesh. The bullet of pleasure  careered to her core and she bucked. Once, twice.

'Rocco  … ' she cried into his shoulder.

'Here? In this hallway? We wait ten years and it is to be here?'

He barely touched her and she cried out again-almost a scream.

Over his shoulder she saw a figure, but she didn't care.

He must have sensed it, for he immediately slid her to the ground and  sorted out her dress. She stood like a rag doll. He tilted up her chin,  smoothed her hair, looked at her with eyes blazing and glinting and  fierce.

Then he cupped her face and bent down for a kiss. Slower, softer, but  still a kiss that killed her. He tilted his brow to rest it on hers and  held her close in his arms. She felt the heat, the strength, the fire of  this man all around her.

'I want you so badly. I want you like I've never wanted any other woman. Ever.'

He pushed back from her, still holding her head, stayed nose to nose with her.

'You are with me now. The games are over.'

He kissed her again, fiercely branded her mouth with his tongue. Then he  stepped back, ran one hand through his hair and took her hand in the  other.

'Come. We will go to my home.'

She started to move in a passionate trance, her legs and her head swimming and weak.

'Wait-I need to tell Esme. I'm with her.'

'Brett Thompson's wife? I told her already. I told her you were leaving  with me. Told her and Hugo. As if I would let you spend another moment  with him.'                       
       
           



       

She processed that. 'You did what? When did you do that?'

He looked down the hallway, tension and command rolling off him. 'You'd  left your table. I asked where you had gone. They presumed to the  restrooms, so I told them you wouldn't be returning-we had unfinished  business.'