‘That doesn’t matter. I’m only here for a day or so.’
He was in no hurry to move. She looked away, around, at the empty glass she somehow still clutched in her hand. Anywhere but at him.
‘I think you should stay a little longer. Catch up.’
There was nothing but him—his body and his energy. Ten years ago she had dreamed of this moment. She had wept and pined and fantasised. And now she would rather die than give him the satisfaction.
‘Catch up with what? I’ve no wish to go over old ground with you.’
‘You think we covered ground? Back then? In that tiny little bed in your farmhouse?’
His words slipped out silken and dark.
‘You have no idea, querida, how far I would have liked to have gone with you.’
He caught a handful of her bobbed hair and tugged. She flinched—not in pain, but in traitorous delight.
‘How far I would go with you now …’
He smoothed a look of hunger all over her face. And her whole body throbbed.
‘You’ve got no chance,’ she hissed.
A smile—just a flash. Then his mouth pursed in rebuttal. A shake of his head.
It was enough. She put her hands on him and shoved. Utterly solid—she hadn’t a hope. He growled a laugh, but he moved. Stepped to the side.
His tone changed. ‘Your horses are resting. They played well. In the stalls at the top. Take your time.’
She pushed past him, desperate to escape from this man, but two steps away she stopped.
She swallowed. ‘Thank you.’
‘The pleasure is mine, Frankie.’ He whispered it, threatened it. ‘And I aim to repeat it.’
He left her there. She didn’t so much hear him go as feel a dip in the charge in the air. The ponies looked round at her—sympathising, no doubt, with how hard it was to share breathing space with someone who needed his own solar system.
She found her mares. Saw their Irish names—Roisin and Orla—and their white stars, but most of all their infamously wonderful natures, marking them out as Ipanema’s. She could never criticise what he had done with them—the effort and love he poured into all of his stock was legendary. And she was proud that Ipanema’s bloodlines were here, in one of the best strings in the world. If only Ipanema was still here, too …
Her brother Mark would be delighted. His own expertise was phenomenal in the field of equine genetics and this line had put their stud farm on the map. She knew he kept in touch with Rocco, sharing professional knowledge from time to time, while her father had fumed silently every time his name was mentioned. His suspicions had never been proved, but he’d never let her forget that he had them. Oh, no. And he’d punished her by sending her off to the convent to learn to ‘behave’.
But she’d been away from Ireland five years now. Away from that life and forging her own. Madrid was her home; Evaña was her world. Her father had passed the business to Mark and all her contact with beautiful creatures like these was sadly limited to the infrequent trips she made to see him.
She kissed their polished necks and they whickered their appreciation, soothing her heated blood before she went back out into the day.
Sometimes animals were a lot easier to deal with than people. Actually, animals had always been easier than people. They had their moods and their own personalities, of course, but they never judged, never made her feel like the slightly gawky, awkward tomboy that everyone else did. Especially Ipanema. Being given her as a foal to bring on had changed her life completely.
She’d loved that pony, and Ipanema had loved her right back, and when she’d been sold to Rocco her heart had taken its first battering.
She stepped out into the warm afternoon. The thrill and roar of the crowd had died down, but the celebrations were only just beginning. There was to be a party at the Molina Lario Hotel later, hosted by the champagne sponsors. Esme had told her to join her there.
It’s only the most talked-about event in the charity polo circuit after Dubai and Deauville! You need to let your hair down—there’s more to life than work!
But Rocco would most likely be there. And her reserves were running low. Maybe she’d call it a day, lap up the night safe in bed and swerve the whole unfolding drama attached to seeing him again.
She pushed her glasses back up her nose and wound her way round to the flotilla of white hospitality tents, her legs more obedient, less shaky now. But she should have known better than to think she was home free. At the edge of the field and up on the screens were four tall men in red, black and white, four in blue and yellow. All were standing on the podium, and every eye was drawn to them. Even hers.
Round about them were all the beautiful people. She hung back, watched.
A cheer … The cup being passed over, held up. Dante beaming his easy, confident golden smile. Rocco curling his lip. The crowd adoring.
They stepped down and into the flow of people—mostly girls, she noticed. Well, they were nothing but obliging! Letting themselves get all wrapped up in them, posing together in a spray of champagne, moving to another little group. Another pose, a squeeze, kisses on cheeks.
She’d seen it all before, of course—most recently in the pages of various magazines and in online news. But watching it like this she felt a flame of anger burst inside her. Anger at herself for still being there! Still gawping. She was a respected businesswoman now. Not a stupid, infatuated little girl!
She turned and began a fast path out. She’d get a cab, get away, get her head straight.
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
‘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.
Still nothing.
He’d opened his mouth to growl out her name when the door swung open.
And there she was.
Bleary eyed, hair mussed and messy, one bony white shoulder exposed by the slipped sleeve of her pale blue nightdress, her face screwed up against the light from the hall.
He’d never seen anything more adorable in his life.
‘Frankie.’
He stepped forward, the urge to grab hold of her immense.
But she put a hand to her head, set her features to a scowl and opened her mouth in an incredulous O.
‘What—what are you doing here?’
He still couldn’t believe how sleepily, deliciously gorgeous she looked. His eyes roamed all over her—the eye-mask now awry, the milky pale skin and the utter lack of anything under that thin jersey nightdress. It clung to her fine bones and tiny curves. As beguiling as he remembered, though maybe her breasts were rounder, fuller …
‘What are you—? Why are you—? I told your guy I wasn’t coming.’
He dragged his eyes back to her face. Heard a noise at the end of the corridor. The concierge was peeping, making an ‘everything all right?’ face, wielding a pass key. Rocco nodded, put up his hand to keep him back.
‘Let me in, Frankie.’
She seemed almost to choke out her answer. ‘No!’
‘Okay, I’ll wait here—get dressed.’
‘I’m. Not. Coming.’
He was slightly amused. Slightly. The irony of the situation was not lost on him.
‘We’ve been here before, querida, only last time it was you on the other side of the door. Remember?’
And there it was—that wildness he had seen all those years ago. That almost wantonness she’d exuded that he’d found exhilarating, intoxicating. She leaned out into the corridor, to check who was there, then looked right up at him. He drew his eyes away from the gaping lines of her nightdress, followed her gaze.
‘I can’t believe you’re actually standing here!’
‘It would be better if I came in. As I recall, that was your preference last time.’
‘I was sixteen! I made a mistake!’ She blazed out her answer.
&n
bsp; Then she gripped her arms round herself. All that happened was that the neckline of her nightdress splayed open even more, letting him see right to the tip of one small high breast. He reached forward, gently lifted the fabric and tugged it back into position, ignoring her futile attempts to swat his arm away.
‘Why don’t we discuss that inside?’
His hand hovered, then retracted. He badly wanted to touch her, but he was nothing if not a reader of women and he sensed she was going to need more than a pep talk to get her on-message.
‘You made yourself perfectly plain the last time we met. And I don’t have any wish to spend any more time with you. I told your guy. I couldn’t have been plainer.’
‘The last time we met was four hours ago. You were in my horse transporter. You came looking for me.’
She was so wild, standing there in next to nothing. He was getting harder and harder just looking at her. Memories came of her slipping into his bed, waking him up with her naive little kisses and her hot little body. Him literally pushing her out of his bed—like rejecting heaven.
Her eyes blazed. ‘I came looking for our bloodline, not you! You arrogant ar—’
He put his finger on her lips where they framed the word he knew she was about to launch at him. Her eyes widened even more.
‘Don’t belittle yourself, querida.’ He lowered his voice, stepped closer. ‘Go inside, get dressed, and I will take you to the party and tell you everything you want to know about your ponies.’
But lightning-quick she grabbed for his hand and tried to pull it away. The sleeve of her nightdress fell lower and the pull of the fabric strained on her breasts. Her nipples, twin buds, drew his eyes—and, damn it, the flame of heat coursed straight to his groin.
‘I call it as I see it, and I see you as an—’
He couldn’t hold back. She fired him, inflamed him. He wanted to taste her so badly. He had to contain her, have her mouth under his.
She lifted her arms to push him and he scooped her wrists together, pinned them behind her. Then he heaved her against him and crushed her insolent mouth. Fragile but strong, she strained and stiffened and held her lips closed. Which just drove him wilder! He could smell her desire. He could taste her passion. So why was she so intent on keeping him back?
0263249026 (R) Page 2
