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

She spoke into his chest. ‘Looks as though Danny got married. In Dubai. Mark sent some pictures that are in the news over there. He says no one had any idea. Mum’s in a state.’

‘He’s a big boy,’ said Rocco.

What could she say to that? He was right. There was no way anyone would have hoodwinked Danny. He was far too smart.

‘I know, but I kind of wish he’d told us.’

‘What difference would it have made? Would you have gone?’

She shrugged her shoulders, incarcerated under his arm.

‘I might.’

The silence bled again. He took another sip.

‘Are you planning on sharing that whiskey?’

‘You want to drink to the happy couple?’

It wasn’t a snarl, but it wasn’t an invitation to celebrate, either. She pushed up from him but he didn’t look at her. His face, trained now on the television screen, was harsh, blank.

She reached out her fingers, gingerly threaded them through his fringe, softly swept it back from his brow.

‘I want you to be happy, Rocco.’

It was barely audible, but it was honest. Shockingly honest. And when he turned his hurt-hazed eyes to hers she began to realise how much she meant it.

‘Come on. Come back to bed,’ she said—as much a plea as an order.

She stood, reached for the tumbler, tried to take it out of his hand. And then her eyes fell on the leather-framed photo that he held in his other hand. He turned it then. Turned it round so that the plump-cheeked infant was staring up at him. He looked at it and his bleak, wintry gaze almost felled her. Then he turned it face down, lifted the glass and tipped his head back to drain the dregs.

‘Come on, Rocco. Please.’

He held his eyes closed as he breathed in, soul deep, then opened them and stared blankly at the screen.

Frankie turned to see the characters’ slapstick antics. They were trying to move a couch up a flight of narrow stairs—a scene she’d seen countless times before and one that always made her laugh. But not this time. Not in the face of all this unnamed pain.

She turned back to see the coal-black eyes trained back on the photograph.

‘If you want to talk or tell me anything …? God, Rocco, I hate to see you like this.’

‘Go back to bed, then.’

She swallowed that. It was hard. It would be hard hearing it from anyone. But from a man of his strength, his intensity, his power—a man who meant as much to her as he did …

‘Not unless you come with me.’

He lifted the empty glass to his lips, sucked air and the few droplets of whiskey that were left. Like a nonchalant cowboy before he went back on the range.

‘As much as you tempt me, I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,’ he said, glancing at the bottle on the bar to one side of the huge television.

She stood right in front of him, deliberately blocking his view of the silently flickering screen and the half bottle of whiskey that was just out of reach.

‘Why not, Rocco? Why not talk or make love or even just hold each other?’

He shook his head slightly, made a face. It was as if all his effort was trained into just … being.

‘Right now I don’t trust myself. I don’t want to hurt you again.’

‘What do you mean, again? You didn’t mean to hurt me—you got carried away. We both got carried away. You’ve got something carving you up. Rocco. Let me …’

‘Just give me space, Frankie.’

She swallowed. He sounded exhausted, but he was brutal. She was brave enough to take him on, though. Him and his dark, desperate mood.

She wedged herself between his open legs, hunkered down, rested her arms on the hard, solid length of his thighs. This beautiful man—every inch of him—deserved her care.

‘I don’t think space is what you need just now.’

She looked up past the black band of his underwear to the golden skin and dark twists of hair, the ripped abs and perfect pecs, the strong male shoulders and neck and the harsh, sensuous slash of his mouth.

She trailed her touch down hard, swollen biceps, followed the path of a proud vein all the way to where his fingers lay around the photograph. Finally she traced her fingertips over his, and held his eyes when they turned to hers.

‘What can be so bad? There’s nothing that isn’t better when it’s shared.’

Slowly, boldly, she closed her fingers around the photograph frame.

‘Can I see?’

His gaze darkened, his mouth slashed more grimly, but she didn’t stop.

Gingerly, she tugged it from his grip. ‘Is he your son?’

She had no idea where that came from. But suddenly the thought of an infant Rocco was overwhelming.

‘You’re opening up something that’s best left shut.’

His voice was a shell—a crater in a minefield of unexploded bombs.

She climbed up closer to him, balanced on his thighs. Lifted the photo frame into her hands completely, laid her head against his chest and scrutinised it.

And he let her.

She felt the fight in him ease slightly as he exhaled a long breath.

She sat there waiting. Waiting …

Finally he spoke.