Postcards From Buenos Aires: The Playboy of Argentina / Kept at the Argentine's Command / One Night, Twin Consequences

‘I did not steal—’

He held his hand up to silence her and she was so taken aback she stopped.

‘You stole—’ he emphasised the word again ‘—a twenty-thousand-dollar horse. A horse that is part of our genetics programme. Without a thought about anyone but yourself you took off into the country. And that’s not behaving like a child?’

She heard his words, saw his fury and felt such a wave of shame.

‘I didn’t mean any harm.’

He stared at her.

‘Look at you.’ He reached across, roughly cupped the back of her soaked head, wiped his thumb hard across her cheek. ‘Soaked to the skin … Lost …’

She dug her teeth into her lip. She would not cry. Would not.

‘I wasn’t lost. If the storm hadn’t come in I would have been fine.’

She could feel the ache between her legs from hours in the saddle, her skin was beginning to chill, and despite herself her teeth began to chatter.

He regarded her with such contempt—as if she was the most infuriating thing he’d ever had to deal with. Then he reached back to his own saddle to a blanket that lay beneath. He yanked it free and held it out.

‘Here. You need to get rid of those clothes—for what they’re worth.’

She looked at him.

‘What? And then you’ll wrap me up and make me ride home side-saddle in a blanket? This isn’t some damned John Wayne film! I’m not your weak little woman!’

She grabbed the reins out of his hands and tried to climb back on the horse. Immediately she felt his arms around her, spinning her to face him.

‘Weak little woman? You’re as far from that as it’s possible to be. God knows, you might want to try it some time.’

He stared down at her, his fingers gripping her shoulders. She looked into those eyes, at that mouth. She felt the tug of desire and desperately, desperately wished that she didn’t. She knew that she wanted to slide her arms around his strong neck, wrap herself up in his hard, warm body. How could this physical draw be so strong? So irresistible? But she wouldn’t give in—no way, not this time.

She turned her cheek. He tugged at her chin.

‘Look at me,’ he ordered.

She tensed, but slid her eyes back.

‘Look at you? Now? Because it suits you?’ She shoved at him. ‘But from the moment I woke up at your town house, and then in the car, the last thing you wanted me to do was look at you. Or at your damned photo!’

‘I was busy. I have to take care of so many things,’ he growled out.

‘You’re not the only one with a life. With a past.’

He looked away, as if expecting the horses to agree that this was the most exasperating nonsense he’d ever had to endure.

‘Frankie—I don’t do this with women. I don’t explain myself … I don’t fight.’

‘No? Well, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you should try explaining yourself once in a while!’

She knew she sounded shrewish and shrill. She knew her voice was wobbling with unspilled tears. She knew if she stood another second in his company she would submit to whatever he wanted—just so she could feel that soothing sense of completeness he gave her.

But where would that leave her?

‘I’ll follow you back to the ranch,’ she said to the wind. ‘And then I’ll make my own way to Punta. Okay? Then you’ll not need to look at me, or fight with me, or damn well come and “rescue” me.’

She tried to stuff her wet tennis shoe into the stirrup, tried to hoist herself up. Once, twice, three times she tried, but exhaustion wound through her, heavy and dark as treacle. She laid her arms on the saddle and hung her head, dug deep and tried again.

Then Rocco’s arms. Rocco’s shoulder.

He pulled her back, and she used the last of her energy to spread her fingers against him and push.

‘Frankie, querida, stop fighting me.’

He scooped her against his body, his shirt wet but warm. He walked her three paces, holding her close, whispering and soothing. She had nothing left to battle him with, and as he pinned her arms at her side in his embrace she let all her fight go like a dying breath.

‘I can’t let you go back like this.’ He clutched her in one arm and flicked out the blanket with the other. ‘I can’t stand watching you fighting against me so hard when there’s no reason.’

‘But there’s every reason,’ she whispered. If she didn’t put up a fight now, God only knew where she would end up.

He cupped her face by the jaw and stared down, the angry black flash of his eyes softening as the raindrops suddenly lessened, then stopped, leaving a cooling freshness all around. Light settled.

‘There’s nothing to be gained. Not when this is what we should be doing.’

He gently brought his mouth down to hers.

Heaven.

Warm presses, soft, then more demanding. She answered him, echoed everything he did—how could she not? His tongue slid into her mouth; his hand slid under her T-shirt. He cupped her damp flesh and shoved her bra to the side. She burned for him. She clutched at him, at every part of him.

This hunger was insatiable. Terrifying. Thundering through her like the summer storm.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom.

‘Do I need to carry one everywhere I go now?’ he breathed into her. ‘What I have to put up with to get what I want …’

And just like that the soft, easy current she was slipping into so easily turned into a dangerous riptide.

She pulled back. ‘What?’ she whispered. ‘What did you just say? What you have to put up with? You don’t have to put up with me. Nobody’s forcing you!’

He grabbed her roughly. Shook her shoulders.

‘Why do you misinterpret everything I say or do? You and I … We are incredible together. And we don’t have much time left. If you want to waste it fighting—that’s your choice.’

He shook her again, and she felt her world wavering right there. He was right. They had only hours left. Hours she had dreamed of her whole adult life. But she wasn’t going to mould herself into the image of the women he was used to. She was who she was.

‘Apologise for how you treated me when I held up that photo.’ She saw him physically bristle. ‘I don’t need to know who it is, but I didn’t deserve that.’