The Playboy of Argentina

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 (#ulink_b5c1f1a2-d1e5-5134-a9f5-8edd9a17a088)

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.

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.