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

Her flat-heeled sandals moved swiftly over the grass, her stride long in her cotton sundress. Molina Lario was getting less and less attractive by the moment. More of that? No, thanks. Esme would understand. She knew her feelings for the arrogant Rocco ran to pathological disgust—she just didn’t know why.

No one did.

The one thing she could thank him for, she supposed, was igniting that fire for her to get the hell out of County Meath. When she’d watched him swing his rucksack over his shoulder and walk away from her, down the singletrack farm lane, through the dawn light and rain dust, she’d realised he was heading back into a world wide open with choices and chances. She didn’t need to be tied to County Meath, to Ireland, to the narrow options of which her dad thought her capable.

She’d taken a cold hard look at herself. Skinny, flat chested, unattractive and unkempt. Her dressing table cluttered with riding trophies instead of make-up. And when she’d stopped wailing and sobbing into her pillow she’d plotted her escape.

And now here she was—out in the world.

And here she would stay—proving them all wrong.

Head down, she reached the gates.

Just as a figure in black stepped alongside her. Large, male, reeking of strength.

‘Señor Hermida asks that you join him.’

A rush … a thrill thrummed through her. For a moment she felt the excitement of flattery. Tempted.

But, no. That way disaster lay. She was headed in a whole different direction.

She didn’t even break her step.

‘Not today. Or any other day, thanks.’

She eyed the gate like a target board, upped her pace. Lost him.

Almost at the gate, she felt his presence again.

‘Miss Ryan, Señor Hermida will collect you later for the party. 10:00 p.m. At your hotel.’

She spun on her heel, ready to fire a vicious volley of words right back. But he was walking away, obscured by the hundreds of people crossing in front of her. As obscured as her own feelings at seeing the Hurricane.

So sure he’d mean nothing to her, she’d turned up as if it was all in a day’s work to bump into him. But skulking about in the crowds, sneaking among the horses when she could so easily have done things properly …? She should have asked Mark to set it up. That was what someone who truly wasn’t fazed would have done—brushed off what had happened between them and joined him for a drink and a chat for old times’ sake …

Instead of spontaneously combusting when he’d come up behind her.

He was dangerous. The last thing she needed.

Her career was her life. Not ponies. Or polo. Or dark, intense men who lit up her body and squeezed at her heart.

She emerged onto the pavement like a hostage set free. He didn’t know her hotel. And he didn’t know her. Collect her later? Arrogant fool. One overbearing father and two extremely alpha brothers did not make Frankie Ryan anyone’s pushover.

She would be swaddled in Do Not Disturbs and deep, deep sleep. He could just cross her off his list and move to the next name. There were bound to be hundreds.

CHAPTER TWO (#u6f935061-d622-5215-bb73-62179d8958f2)

‘So MANY GIRLS, so little time,’ Dante mouthed, and winked at him over the heads of the two dancers from Rio who had just wound themselves around him.

Well, that was him taken care of for the evening—or the next couple of hours at least.

Rocco had just peeled a sweet little blonde from hm. Normally his preferences did run to sweet little blondes, but tonight … He strode to the wide windows that ran the length of the Art Hotel penthouse—Dante’s go-to joint for post-match partying. Tonight he was well off his game.

He braced his hands on the glass and stared out across Palermo to the outskirts, where he knew her hotel was. One phone call and he’d found out everything he needed to know. One phone call that had confirmed she was in town long enough for him to scratch the itch that had started all those years ago.

The blonde put her arms around his waist again. He was losing patience with her, but she would be well looked after—by someone else.

He looked round at his team members and friends. All getting into the party spirit one way or another. For Rocco the party wouldn’t start until he had Frankie Ryan in his arms. Then and only then would he get rid of this tension that had built almost to a frenzy since he’d seen her sneaking into the transporter.

He checked his watch.

Too early, but he had a feeling she wasn’t going to be waiting on the steps of her hotel wearing an expectant look and a corsage. No, something told him that she was going to be a little less easy to convince than the nowsulking blonde, who’d finally realised he wasn’t just playing hard to get.

He called his driver. He couldn’t wait anymore.

‘Dante—I will catch you up.’

His brother, busy, lifted an arm in acknowledgement. He hadn’t told him he’d seen her at the match. Wasn’t in the mood for questions. Why? Because he barely understood himself why this slip of a girl, now a woman, had occupied so much of his head for so long.

The last time Dante had raised the subject with him, after a particularly broody day in Dublin when he’d failed to make contact with her, it hadn’t gone well. He’d called her Rocco’s ‘Irish obsession’. It was probably the only time they’d failed to agree on anything. He’d admit it now, though. He was definitely obsessing about her now.

He checked his phone, his money and, for the first time in a long time, his appearance. He knew how he looked. He wasn’t coy or stupid. Normally it was irrelevant. There were far, far more important things in this world—like loyalty, like honour. Like family …

And if he was honest, that penthouse full of beautiful women back there …? None of them interested him more than the skinny, hazel-eyed Irish kid he’d met ten years earlier. A little bit of closure on that particular puzzle would be good—it had been a long time coming.

He swung into the back of the sedan. An hour earlier than he’d suggested and the city was limbering itself up for the night ahead. The party at Molina Lario would be good, for starters. But he was feeling post-match wired and just this side of in control. He spread his arms across the back of the seat, watched the sights of his town slip past. A bit of Barcelona here … a look of Paris there. The spill of people on wide streets, corners alive with café culture. Vibrant, creative and free.

But he was no romantic fool. Yes, he loved it. Loved it that he had run its streets and slept in its parks. Loved it that he had survived. Was grateful that he had survived when so many others had fallen or, perhaps worse, were living the legacy of those years in prisons or still on the streets. He would never, ever forget or take that for granted.

But all he had—his wealth, his businesses, his health, his adoptive family—all of that he would trade right now for one more day with Lodo. One more chance to shield him and protect him and cherish him—better than he’d managed last time …

The car cruised to a stop. They were here. He hadn’t been in this part of town for years. Villa Crespo was outside Palermo and on the up, but he would have preferred that she’d stayed closer to the centre, where the worst that could happen was pickpocketing. He got out. Looked around. It seemed quiet enough. The hotel was traditional—a single frontage villa. Ochres and oranges. Cute, he supposed. He went inside.

The concierge was startled to see him, and he jumped up from his TV screen, gave him the details he needed. Her room, first floor; her visitors, none; and her movements, she’d been in her room since her return earlier.

He ignored the old cage elevator and took the stairs three at a time. If she felt about him the way he thought she did they could stay in her room. No problem. Or they could hang out for a while and then go on to another party, or back to Dante’s pad, or even to the estancia. It had been a long time since he’d taken a woman back there. But he felt even now that one night with Frankie Ryan might not be enough. An undisturbed weekend? That might just about slake this thirst for her.

He stood outside her door.

Dark polished wood. Brass number five.

He knocked. Twice. Rapid. Impatient.

Nothing.

She should be getting ready, at the very least.

He knocked again.