The Argentinian's Virgin Conquest

by Bella Frances

  When his own prize came up—the holiday in Dubai and tickets to the race day his team would be riding in—the air was electric. Of course it helped that he was there, and flirting with every one of those women, some of whom he was pretty sure he might have flirted with before. Maybe he’d even done more than flirt, but tonight, for sure, he only had eyes for Lady Lucinda Bond —‘Princess’ to him.

  He saw her pass along the back of the salon, deckside. She looked as if she was back in the game—her shoulders were down and her chin was high. Her face was side-lit, but only flashes of those proud features appeared through the rows of women who waved their paddles at him. He knew he should leave well alone, but he was going to track her down as soon as the last item was sold—if only to give her the chance to apologise and to thank him.

  He was feeling pretty good, to be fair. It wasn’t every day you got the chance to help raise two and a half million US dollars for charity. She should be stoked. So her glamorous mother hadn’t turned up? No bad thing as far as Dante could see. She came across as a bit self-obsessed anyway.

  He exited the salon to a round of applause and several slaps on the back and kisses on the cheek. That was all he was offering.

  Night on deck was thick and black, but the trail of the moon across the water that separated the Marengo from the Sea Devil was a silvery carpet of light topped with a veil of blinking stars. Even he couldn’t help but be struck by the prettiness of the scene, by the twinkling and bobbing of buoys and lights and the fairytale island of Petit Pierre in the background.

  He rounded the deck, staring in at the other rooms that held the usual party suspects. Drink was flowing and chat was getting easier. On he moved, pausing at a tiny sweep of steps that led to a dance floor and a pulsating beat where bodies moved in time to the music. He scanned it. A few people waved him over. Friends. Raoul, for one. He’d join them shortly—as soon as he’d tracked down Her Ladyship.

  They looked to be having a great time—there were some new faces, new bodies, and Raoul looked as if he was already predating on them. Normally that alone would have been enough to spur him on—the competition, the hunt. He glanced back, held up his hand—five minutes. Raoul grinned.

  Someone in front of him turned. A blonde, about five seven, slim and sure, her long hair in a knot on top of her head.

  Dante froze.

  It couldn’t be.

  A familiar sickening chill seeped through his body. It had been so long since he had felt that—so long. The cast of that jawline, the angle of that cheekbone...

  But of course it couldn’t be. There were no such things as ghosts.

  Still, he was rooted to the spot. A body bumped his, someone else spoke, yet another person touched his arm. He jerked it away angrily as he stared at the profile, waiting for her to turn, waiting for his eyes to tell him what his rational brain knew were the facts. The dead didn’t come back to life. And Celine di Rosso was well and truly dead. Hadn’t she made sure he would be the one to find her, after all?

  Raoul was frowning. Tipping his chin up in question. The conversation stopped. The woman turned herself right around. Right around to face Dante.

  The face of a stranger. The same angle of the jaw, hollow of those cheekbones, the same long neck and knot of blonde hair—but at least twenty years younger than Celine. Even thinking those words was like succumbing to the sickness again.

  He blinked and the woman smiled. Raoul waved him over. And then he felt pressure on his arm again.

  ‘Señor Hermida?’

  He turned and there she was. Lady Lucie. He came to as if he’d been out cold—as if she were standing there with smelling salts instead of a rigid arm held out in front for some kind of ceremonial handshake.

  Her outline formed in the haze of long-ago horror that had descended all around him. He felt his smile slide back into place—more easily than he would ever have imagined, having just seen that doppelgänger. He could see her features. He scanned her. She looked questioningly at him and he knew he must look as if he’d been bludgeoned, or worse.

  She was tight-mouthed, but she looked a damn sight better than when he’d last spoken to her. She hadn’t been pretending, that was for sure—that had been a panic attack if ever he’d seen one. And, hell, he’d seen more than a few. What on earth her own demons were was anyone’s guess, but he knew better than anyone that all was rarely as it seemed.

  ‘Princess?’ he replied, watching her eyes drifting to the smile that he knew warmed even the hardest of hearts.

  She flashed her eyes right up into his and scowled. ‘I know you’re doing that simply to annoy me, but for the last time may I ask that when you use a title you use the correct one?’

  He bowed, Walter Raleigh–style. ‘Yes. Whatever Your Ladyship says.’

  He would have sworn she almost stamped her feet underneath the satin shimmer of the dress that skimmed down her body and even now had his hands twisting out of the bunched fists and flexing with the unspent touch of her. She had spirit. In spades. And it was back in abundance.

  ‘What I said was thank you,’ she delivered in clipped, sharp tones, and she tilted her nose up, as if he had come to the main entrance when he really should be using the servants’ door.

  ‘Thank you?’

  She looked flustered now. But she was back to acting the princess and he’d be damned if he was going to let her wriggle away that easily.

  ‘Yes, thank you. For...you know...stepping up...’

  Dante took a step back, let his smile do the work, let his eyes trail all over her the way he wanted to trail his hands. The glorious spill of her breasts, scooped and positioned for a man just to release into his hands, to tease with his mouth. The shoulders curved gently, the hips swelled from that tiny waist. She was a feast, a banquet, an image of woman he had rarely, if ever, seen before.

  But she was trying to pull rank with him, and he for one was not going to play ball in that particular game of ego.

  ‘So, yes. Thank you. It...er...seems to have been a success.’

  He watched a fan of colour seep all over her creamy chest and this time he didn’t move his eyes. She was too tempting, on so many different levels. And, yes, maybe seeing that image of Celine had aroused his passion, raised his ire, but he was going to make her apologise over and over again—and thank him in ways she’d never even dreamed of.

  ‘Lots of happy people back there, Princess, yes.’

  She scowled.

  ‘And it was for them that I did it. I hate to see people getting short-changed when their expectations have been raised. You know, in a way it was a bit of a rescue situation... I saw someone in trouble and I dropped everything—and I mean everything—put my foot to the floor, put myself out there. I mean, what do I know about auctions?’

  He lanced her with a stare and watched as her eyes widened like saucers. Then he gave her a little wink and a smile. She was thinking. She knew exactly what he meant and she was reliving those moments. The pretty pink bloom shifted further from her glorious cleavage to the column of her neck.

  ‘Is that where the jellyfish got you?’ he asked, nodding to the scattering of the rash all over her beautiful chest.

  She looked down, then up. Opened her mouth. Looked even more embarrassed. He could let her off the hook now, but she really had been incredibly rude. And he really was incredibly angry.

  ‘I...I...’

  He leaned in to her space, and her eyes widened even further as she leaned back. Then he placed a finger on her lips.

  ‘Shh, Princess. It’s okay. Apology accepted. I was happy to help out.’

  He lifted his finger from the moist, soft pillow of her lips before he gave in to the temptation to slide it right inside and have her suck it. He tilted her chin up instead and leaned forward—just a tiny inch, just close enough to scent the luxury and the class that oozed from her pores. He lingered there, savouring in equal measure her surprise and her femininity. Letting her get caught up in the moment of think
ing that he just might kiss her.

  His hand slid out, all by itself, and lightly skimmed her waist. And just like that he felt her melt—felt all those thorns wilt and fall like petals to his feet. He nodded to her, telling her with a wink that he knew she was moments away from giving in completely.

  And then he stepped back. ‘Really, I was happy to help—it was no problem at all.’

  He slipped her a smile and let his hand slide off the side of her hip. She was hot. For him. Oh, yes.

  He walked away.

  ‘Wait! I mean...’ She was literally pulling on his sleeve now.

  He stopped. Raoul was watching closely, raising a shot glass with the others in his little circle of new blood, and downing it to a chorus of cheers.

  Dante waited, then turned as slowly as he could, savouring every last moment.

  ‘You mean what, Princess?’

  He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised in a jaunty, light-hearted way that belied every last emotion that coursed through his veins like trails of lit gasoline.

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry for the things I said earlier. I realise now that you were only trying to help. And thanks—thank you for then, and for now. You really...got me out of a hole.’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said, and moved away.

  She moved with him. He felt the hand on his arm.

  ‘Look, let me make it up to you.’

  Perfect, thought Dante, silently high-fiving himself, aware of the scrutiny from Raoul.

  ‘Okay,’ he said slowly. ‘Did you have something in mind?’

  He turned right around now—slowly—moved ever so slightly back into her space, watched the telltale signs spill across her face.

  ‘Would you care to join me for a drink?’

  She turned hopeful green eyes on him and he smiled softly. She was like a moist, plump peach, ripened on a tree and just about to fall into his hands. But sometimes the fruits that looked the sweetest were the ones that tasted toxic. He knew that better than anyone.

  There was something about Lady Lucie that made him pause. He could so easily take her to bed...give her a night she’d never forget. And then what? Another night? There were only a few days before he had to head east. He didn’t want anything lasting with anyone. Even if their chemistry was good—and, yes, there was every indication that it would be—even if they stayed in bed for the next four days it would all end as it always did. With his Hey, it’s been great chat.

  The last thing he wanted was any drama whatsoever. And this one had ‘starring role’ in lights all around her. He needed release, yes—but not with someone as emotional as she. That was one script he didn’t want to read ever again.

  He cupped her shoulder, gave it a soft rub.

  ‘Thanks, Princess. Another time, maybe.’

  He didn’t wait to see how she took that—he just moved on. He was going to split...head into town and sort out his head. Ghosts required exorcism, and he was itching to start.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LUCIE WATCHED HIM lope off with that overtly sexual athleticism she found so fascinating.

  What on earth...? Talk about reading someone wrong. She’d been sure he was interested in her—much more than she was in him. In fact less than twelve hours ago she hadn’t even known his name, far less given him this amount of headspace. She actually shook her head to see if she could clear him out of it. But since the nausea and breathlessness had dissipated as she’d watched him own the auction, she’d found him creeping inside it—images of him and his golden smile and sinful body. He’d wowed the crowd...in fact she was sure he’d done a much better job than her mother could ever have done. And part of her longed for her to know that.

  Right on cue, one of the staff indicated to her across the room. Phone. Lady Vivienne. Lucie felt her shoulders tense again and her fists fill with handfuls of the satin of her dress. But she had no option.

  She made her way across the room, smiling stiffly at those who greeted her.

  ‘Hello, Mother.’

  ‘Lucie, what on earth is going on?’

  ‘How’s Simon? Much recovered? All trouble sorted?’

  ‘You know it’s rude to answer a question with a question. I can only assume you’ve been drinking, Lucie, because I can’t for the life of me think of any other reason why you’d be acting like this.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother. Shall we start again? You were asking what on earth is going on. We’ve just made over two and a half a million dollars for the charity. That’s what’s going on.’

  ‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. This was the ideal opportunity for you to sort out those silly panic attacks and you didn’t even try.’

  Lucie was stunned. ‘You surely don’t mean to tell me that you set me up like this on purpose?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ her mother answered stiffly, ‘but it was a perfect opportunity wasted.’

  ‘Sorry, Mother, but I had to make a decision to prevent five hundred guests being bitterly disappointed. Dante Hermida—the polo player—offered, and I think we—he—actually did a really good job!’

  She wouldn’t rub her mother’s nose in it. Of course not. But she was desperately keen for her to hear just how well they’d done.

  ‘“A really good job”? Let me be clear, Lucinda. First of all I learn that you stood in the middle of that classless great boat like a gibbering jelly, and then—worse—you actually passed the gavel to Dante Hermida, of all people! That utter Lothario? Didn’t I warn you to stay well away from men like that? This very afternoon? And then you substitute him for me and are seen hanging all over him. Have you no shame? I thought I’d brought you up to be better than that. I absolutely forbid you to have any more to do with him—do you hear me? Lucinda?’

  Lucie stared at the patterns she was drawing on the mink velvet carpet with the pointed toe of her shoe. Then she examined her nails. They were flawless—lovely, actually—and she thought she might keep the polish on past tomorrow morning. Perhaps. She pressed her lips together to see if the stickiness from the gloss was still there, but of course the last thing that had been there had been Dante’s finger.

  She dropped her head back and let the phone slide to her neck, where she cradled it in against her skin—anything to drown out the sound of her mother’s unstinting whingeing. Brought her up? If it weren’t so sad it would be funny. The house mistress and the nanny had brought her up. Her mother and father had been far too busy living their own lives to bother with anything as inconvenient as a child.

  A tray of champagne passed by at just the right moment and she snagged a glass. Her second of the night. She was learning to enjoy it—and it slid down easily. More easily than usual, since she knew her mother would disapprove so heartily.

  ‘I have to go, Mother. Thank you so much for calling, but my guests need me.’

  ‘Guests? I hope you don’t mean that polo player? I’m warning you, Lucinda—do you hear me? Stay away...’

  ‘Actually, Mother—that’s exactly who I mean. And this time I’m going to make a proper job of it.’

  She didn’t wait to say goodbye. She stared at the phone heard the whining, appalling voice of her mother—her own mother—still screeching at her. She clicked it off and dropped it in an ice bucket.

  She was too far gone for tears—too wrung out, too exhausted. If she ever had a daughter she would never, ever say or do the hurtful, horrid things her mother did. She would nurture her child, love her and care for her. She would protect her from harm, but make her strong enough to stand up on her own two feet.

  She’d had enough. Totally had enough. All those weeks and months of diet, of exercise, of listening to her mother’s ‘rules’ and her stress about her ‘real’ family. She didn’t give a damn about the success of the night, or the money they raised. She didn’t give a damn about anything other than herself!

  Well, she might think she could lay down the law from three thousand miles away, and tell her who she could see and what she could do, but
there was no way she was going to let herself be dictated to like that. The hypocrisy was outrageous. All these years of listening to her rant about men suddenly crystallised into one clear thought—why? What was so bad about them? Why was her mother so animated when it came to her rules about men?

  For the second time Lucie made her way through rooms full of people laughing and drinking, but this time she held her head up. Rage was her engine, and she knew it. She didn’t glance left or right, just focused on moving swiftly through the crowd. She’d get off the yacht, so that the staff didn’t have to be put on the spot the next time her mother called. Someone had been grilled by her mother before she’d called her. Someone had told her all about her moments with Dante.

  Dante!

  The one man she had been warned to stay away from. And the one man she felt incredibly compelled to seek out right now.

  He was interested in her—she knew he was. All she had to do was act a little less like a blubbering idiot and a little more like the sophisticates he was used to.

  She owed it to herself to try...

  * * *

  The Marengo was moored on the busiest stretch of the harbour, directly opposite the chicest nightclub on the island. Dante stood a moment on the jetty, watching the lines of partygoers queuing along the front. He could feel the ‘good times’ tension in the air—could feel it in his own body. He knew exactly how this evening was going to roll. It was like a drug to him—a few beers, a few laughs, women flirting, he taking his time, then the after-party, then the aftermath of that.

  Pure. Unadulterated. Oblivion.

  He reassured himself every time that everyone else was praying to the same gods in this particular church. That way there was no guilt. No need for confession.

  He couldn’t remember ever caring about the motivations of any romantic partner before, but he was pretty sure that Lady Lucinda didn’t shake what her mama gave her every weekend, like some of the rest of that set. Good-time girls were just that. And he wasn’t fool enough to ignore the fact that for many of them it was all a big act. A big hook with which they landed their catch.