The Argentinian's Virgin Conquest

by Bella Frances

  He was glad now that he’d handled the whole thing himself. He’d despise himself even more if anyone knew—especially someone like Marco, who’d been pretty much a constant for the last fifteen years and had been through his own tough times...way tougher than Dante’s.

  He’d be a bit more than bemused when he learned that Dante had finally arrived, with a woman in tow, and hadn’t contacted him. He bent to pick up a lone tennis ball from the ash and lobbed it over the net, aiming for the fencepost beyond. Bullseye! He might have lost some of his mind, but at least he hadn’t lost his vision.

  This just never happened. East Hampton boys ran together and played together. They played tennis and surfed and rode and chased girls. It was what they always did. And Dante liked being one of the boys very much.

  But here he was, in his very private home, with his soon to be very public mistress. And when he’d landed not only had he turned his phone to silent, he’d tossed it into a drawer and pretty much checked out of society for two days.

  Two days left. Call him competitive, but he was determined to melt every last drop of his ice maiden before they hit Fifth Avenue and the next gruelling part of his schedule. A man with more sense would have walked away as soon as he’d recognised that uneasy, queasy feeling in his gut—a feeling he’d last felt fifteen years ago, just before life had hit the buffers—but the thought of walking away from Lucie Bond was like a hungry man walking away from an all-day diner. Why would he?

  He was barely thirty. He had years before he had to get all down and dirty with analysts and accountants. Who wanted that kind of life? He loved to play polo. He loved his women. He had so much more fun to have before he needed to have daily massages to get the knots out of his neck—didn’t he?

  His decision to get involved in the polo club’s real estate drama had been inevitable. He had felt the change in the wind, had tasted the sobering flavours of real business brewing in some corporate cauldron that he was being drawn closer and closer to. But that didn’t mean he had to hang up his dancing shoes completely. Not yet, anyway.

  He’d nearly completed his daily circuit—one of his little habits when he was here. Just checking it was all still there, with nothing that needed his immediate attention. He had staff—of course he did. But no one knew these grounds as he did. His parents had long since moved on and bought a much smaller property over on Bridgehampton, but this old place was in his blood.

  Which made it all the more interesting that he had permitted himself to share it with Lucie.

  He skirted the formal topiary garden that his mother had had planted. He couldn’t recall her ever spending any time in it when it had been finished, but that was pretty much the way with Eleanor. ‘Next’ was her mantra. She had her projects, and occasionally they involved the family, but more often than not they didn’t.

  He wasn’t sore about it—he’d long since accepted that having a high-achieving mother wasn’t the same as having a stay-at-home mother. And her life was her choice, nobody else’s. Good for her—he was proud of her. And he’d be clapping harder than anyone when she walked up and took that award on Saturday night.

  He walked up the side of the lap pool and around the side of the east wing as the late-afternoon sun beat down through a couple of cheerful clouds. A few more minutes and he’d be clear of the shelter of the trees and would be able to hear the ever-satisfying sound of breakers crashing. And find Lucie.

  He’d left her sitting on a lounger under a huge umbrella with a cup of tea and a phone. She was going to call her mother and start to put down some long-overdue boundaries.

  He cornered the house and stepped down onto the wide pebbled path, still screened by a high flank of hedging—and there she was.

  He stopped.

  It was just like the moment when he’d first seen her.

  She was standing on the edge of the terrace that wrapped around the house. The loungers, parasols, tables and chairs in all shapes and forms were behind her. Her head was high and her chin was proud. She stood staring out over the bay like a queen surveying her fleet. The wind whipped at her hair and she lifted a hand to hold it back from her face.

  And in that moment he was struck—just as he’d been that first time. She was regal. In every sense of the word. She commanded respect and it gnawed at a part of him to think that others might not treat her well. And worst of all herself.

  She had a depth and quality that he’d rarely come across. But she was so hung up on what people thought and couldn’t see that it didn’t matter a damn. Well, everyone had their crosses to bear—she’d figure herself out in time.

  ‘Hey, Lucie!’ He started his ambling again. There was no rush. They had days yet. It was the Hamptons...they were on a holiday—life was cool.

  She turned slowly and, one hand held up to her eyes, shielding her gaze from the sun, let a smile spread across her face.

  ‘Hey,’ he said again as he restarted on his path towards her. ‘How’s it going? Did you get through to her? I mean, did you get your message through to her?’

  She looked away and her smile faded as if someone had sucked the warmth from summer—just at the mention of her mother, that stupid, selfish woman. But she gathered herself—it was almost palpable. She looked strained, and then her smile was back in place.

  For a heartbeat he hoped it was he who’d put it there. But, no, there was no mileage in those kinds of thoughts. He never allowed himself dumb daydreams like that. Because that was all it would be—one short, sugary dream, ending in decay.

  Celine di Rosso had shown him the pain of love—and loss. And he would happily leave that to one side, thank you very much. He wasn’t going to say it would never happen. It might in another couple of decades. Maybe. If he needed a wife to partner him at tedious dinner parties or on turgid cruises. Someone to tell him to trim his eyebrows or cut back on the beers.

  You’re not my type.

  Thank God she felt the same way. He grinned, watching her pick her way down from the terrace to the tree-lined path to join him. Here she came—the woman who’d crushed his ego. But being told he didn’t cut it for her had been the best news he could imagine. It guaranteed him a fantastic week of fun and sex and good company, with none of the usual ‘relationship’ dread. No speech. No guilt gift. Nothing but a mutually agreeable, time-limited private party.

  Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, pausing at the top of the steps and looking at him in that faintly bemused way.

  ‘Hello, Princess,’ he said back.

  And before she could scowl he hopped up the three steps, grabbed her and kissed her. Hard.

  She squealed and laughed. She pushed at him. Pathetically. And then she let herself go, the way she always did, and melted into him on a sigh. Another jagged clump of ice gone.

  ‘So...’ he said, pulling back and watching as her eyes slowly opened. All the little flecks of moss-green were surrounded by a darker ring of olive. There were smoky smudges under her lids, and the full swollen pout of her lips, unadorned with any make-up, tasted like a woman should taste. ‘So you called your mother?’

  She stepped back, and again her head began to dip.

  He hooked her chin. Lifted it up and eyed her carefully. ‘And...? How did it go?’

  She tossed her head, pushed her shoulders back and stuck out her chin. He wondered again how many times she’d practised that particular little time-buying routine. In the face of questions about herself or anyone close to her she shut down, became imperial.

  ‘All fine, yes. Everything is fine at home—well, as fine as it ever is. So,’ she said breezily, ‘did you get in touch with your friend? Are you really going to drag me out of this wonderful lair and into the spotlight?’

  They took the steps to the beach together, flanked by the sun-splashed high white walls of the house and the curve of lawn that had seen more than its fair share of brotherly tussles and fights over the years.

  ‘You’ll bloom in the spotli
ght.’

  ‘I hate the spotlight,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘You saw that—you saw what I’m like.’

  ‘It’ll only be a few friends.’ He laughed. ‘Nothing major. No grand prizes to call. You won’t need to throw yourself overboard. Consider it a dress rehearsal for the awards ceremony.’

  Lucie slowed. ‘I suppose you’re right. I won’t be quite as bad as I was at the auction—big crowds are definitely the worst. But I’m still a Shrinking Violet. I hate being the centre of any attention—whatsoever.’

  ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘I think... But haven’t you had training or counselling or something to get you past this? Surely part of the package of being a member of the aristocracy is getting out there, meeting people?’

  ‘Yes, of course, for some. But I’ve never had to do much of it. My mother normally takes care of that side of things. I hang back. One might even say I’ve been encouraged to—which suits me fine. I’ve tried hypnosis, and I’ve tried therapy, but the only thing that really works for me is deep breathing. And that’s only if I’m in small groups. Public speaking? Forget it. I’ve never got over that.’

  She smiled round at him, fleetingly.

  Dante shot her a glance, a smile, a squeeze.

  ‘You’ll be great tonight—no speeches. In fact you’ll be lucky to get a word in edgeways,’ he said, thinking of the crowd that would be gathering at Betty’s.

  They’d be intrigued that he’d brought anyone at all, and the fact that she was a member of the British aristocracy—however minor—would be an added attraction. But they knew him. They knew better than to read anything into it.

  * * *

  There seemed to be no end of bars and restaurants in East Hampton. Grills, seafood, Italian, fusion. Chic, contemporary, bright, moody. All perfectly hideous, as far as Lucie could tell. With every passing minute in the car her appetite had decreased in direct proportion to their proximity to their destination.

  Dante’s friend—or rather Dante’s best friend—Marco, was hosting a ‘little get-together’ at Betty’s Kitchen—an old, established restaurant in an old, established clapboard house.

  The things she now knew about Betty’s Kitchen!

  Dante had loved to go there as a child. Marco’s cousin was the owner and it was incredibly well-patronised. The waiting list for a table for ‘unknowns’ stretched for months. And apparently the chowder was unmatched in the whole of The Hamptons.

  Lucie was quite sure all of that was true, but she had very little desire to find out for herself. And the thought of a ‘little get-together’ with almost a dozen new faces was something that made even the word ‘chowder’ stick in her throat like an unswallowed mouthful of whale blubber.

  Dante sat beside her, one hand on the wheel, one hand on her thigh. As if at any moment she might leap from the car.

  She looked down at his fingers, searching for some sign of imperfection in this crucifyingly perfect man. Truly, there was nothing. His fingers were long but strong, with flat, smooth nails. His hands were broad, with an appropriate scattering of bronzed hair starting at the outside edge and leading to his wrist. Veins stood out proudly, healthily. His grip was heavy and sure.

  She sighed, thinking of the things he had done, the things he could do with those hands. Soothing her, pleasuring her, but most of all imbuing her with such a sense of calm and peace when he held her own hand in his.

  As they’d walked hand in hand back from the shore to the house earlier, each holding their shoes in their free hand, she’d felt such a strange, such a beautiful feeling.

  Why? She couldn’t say. As beaches went it was lovely. But she’d been on better. As summer days went it was nice. Warm, slightly breezy and fresh. But for some reason the whole thing—the slide of water on her wet feet, their race up from the water’s edge to dry off, the worm casts and gull cries and the steady, rhythmic motion of the lapping water, the ebb and flow of life—had struck her in that moment.

  Such a beautiful moment. Such a treasured memory. She’d known that even as it had faded. Even as they’d stepped away from the soft swell of each broken wave...even as their feet had splashed in the little pools left behind in the ridged sand. As Dante had held her hand and they’d walked silently away from the air that had been filled with her happy cries and his deep laughter mere minutes earlier.

  He had turned just as she had, and they’d shared a smile. Just that. A single smile.

  Lucie’s throat closed and her eyes smarted for a moment at the thought. How strange that a beautiful memory could reduce her to tears. She quickly lifted her head, stared out at the passing scenery, blanked her mind and breathed from her diaphragm. In and out and all would be well. The last thing she needed to be was weepy about silly things like walks on the beach! Not when she had all these other things swimming about in her head.

  Her mother, for one thing. Well, she couldn’t be faulted for trying! And using a new angle this time. Gone was the, Don’t you dare! approach, and in its place was, Have your heard the rumours?

  Apparently Dante was the worst womaniser on the planet. He had never had a girlfriend for longer than three months. He was always in the coolest nightclubs, with the coolest people. With men who were just like him and girls who drank only champagne and ate only with their eyes. Oh, and finally—his adopted brother was a thug with a terrible past and no breeding whatsoever.

  Lucie had shut her up at that point. She’d been able to hear the shrill desperation, the need for control, but she absolutely would not listen to her mother passing judgement on people she’d never even met.

  People like Dante, whose hand now gently squeezed her thigh. She turned her head to look at him just as he gave her a sun-bright wink. And her heart nearly stopped beating in her chest.

  ‘What is it?’ she almost snapped at him. It really was unhelpful that he was just so heart-stoppingly handsome.

  ‘Hey, don’t go getting all icy on me now, Princess. You’ve been sweet all evening and we’re almost there.’

  He pressed another squeeze to her leg and rubbed it. Then lifted his hand and placed it back on the steering wheel as he began to turn the car into a car park lot. Lucie looked around at the dozen or so cars lined up on either side of the picket fence and the sign with curlicue letters picked out in red, reading ‘Betty’s Kitchen’.

  ‘Well, here we are. And it looks like Marco’s here already.’ Dante nodded to a gleaming motorbike parked right at the front of the steps. ‘Sounds like he’s here already too,’ he said, as a chorus of laughter erupted and carried all the way out to the car park.

  Lucie’s fingers fumbled on the seatbelt clasp, but in seconds Dante had opened her door, unclipped her and helped her up from the low bucket seat.

  He slid her a smile and cocked his head as she smoothed her skirt and tried to tug it down an inch or so past the wobbly flesh above her knees.

  ‘What are you doing that for? You’ve got fantastic legs,’ he said, stilling her and giving her a bemused look. ‘Come on.’

  He took her hand and on they walked—five steps up and a short stroll past red-shuttered windows that opened onto a white deck offering glimpses of intimate tables and elegant bodies. The quiet, convivial buzz of conversation and clinks of glassware and tableware melted into the early-evening air.

  ‘There he is!’

  A girl’s voice—American west coast, and positively brimming with confidence. Lucie felt her stomach lurch. The glossy black doors, pinned back with brass latches, were right in front of her now and there was nowhere else to go but forward.

  Lucie’s feet faltered.

  ‘Dante—baby!’

  In the gloom of the restaurant she could make out a polished floor, tables covered in white linen with fresh bowls of flowers, candles and glasses all catching the light, and there at the back one single long table. Her eyes landed there, on the dark-haired man who sat at the centre with a broad smile and a hand raised. And the sleek-limbed lovelies who sat all around him, each dress
shorter than the next.

  She steeled herself. It was just a restaurant...they were just people. No one was going to die and there was every chance she would have a nice time.

  She found her breath and followed it for a moment.

  From the corner of her eye she could see a man in black trousers and shirt approach them. He smiled broadly and gestured them inside.

  ‘How lovely to see you, Dante. It’s been too long. And you’ve brought a friend...’

  Lucie felt herself being gently shoved forward.

  ‘You’re with me. You’re beautiful. You’re going to have a great time.’

  Words whispered close to her ear, but instead of shivering she absorbed them.

  ‘Gino, hey—thanks!’ Dante strode past her but clasped her hand as he moved and tugged her along in his wake. ‘This is my friend Lady Lucinda Bond. Though I reckon she’ll let you call her Lucie.’

  Smooth and sure, he slid his arm around her waist and kept them both moving inside, shaking the maître d’s hand as he went and steering them through the room to the table at the back.

  In a haze of air the slimmest, sleekest limbs and the shiniest, longest hair she had ever seen appeared—all swarming and air-kissing around Dante, with wide, perfect smiles and sooty-rimmed eyes. One after the other they paid homage and then slowly sat down, folding their limbs like retractable weapons and lifting glasses to their lips.

  ‘And you must be Lucie!’ The swarthy dark-eyed man who was clearly holding court beamed. He stood. A few faces turned at the noise of his chair scraping on the floor. He began to walk round the table and she could feel a bristle of energy.

  ‘This must be and is Lady Lucinda Bond of Strathdee. Play nice, now, Marco.’

  Suddenly she felt like a package at some silly show-and-tell event. She wasn’t going to let herself down!