‘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.
‘He’s my brother. His name was Lodovico—Lodo. He was three years old when that photo was taken. And he was four years old when he died.’
She held her breath as he said the words.
‘I was his only family. Our papá had disappeared and Mamá had lost her mind. Nobody else wanted to know.’
His voice drilled out quietly, his chest moved rhythmically and the haunted black eyes of his poor baby brother gazed up.
‘I was with him when he died. I didn’t cause his death—I was only a child myself. I am not responsible.’ The words came out in a strange staccato rush. ‘But I feel it,’ he added harshly, and a curl of his agony wound round her own heart.
She swallowed, shifted her weight, slid to his side and under his arm. She held the photo in front of them, so they were both looking at it.
‘I can say those words over and over and they still mean nothing. I’ve said them so many times. Meaningless. Of course I am responsible.’
‘How did he die?’
It seemed baldly awful to say it aloud, but she knew she had hear it. She knew there was worse to come.
‘By gunfire. Shot dead. A bullet aimed at me. Because I was the one running errands for a rival gang. And when the stakes are high, and the police are being paid to look the other way, and mothers have gone mad and fathers can’t take the shame of not being able to provide … life is cheap.’
She sat up. He stared ahead. The credits were rolling on the television screen. His face was stone.
‘But you just said … you were a child, too. How can you be blamed?’
‘How can I not be blamed? If I hadn’t become little more than a petty criminal—if I had found another way for us to live—if I hadn’t got greedy and done more and more daring things … terrible things. If I hadn’t let go of his fingers when he needed me most …’
His eyes crashed shut and his face squeezed into a mask of agony.
Frankie tugged him to her, desperate for his warm, strong touch as the hurt of his words and in his face gnawed at her resolve.
‘What age were you—six? Seven? How could you have prevented any of those things happening?’
She stared up at him but he merely turned away, as if he’d heard it all before.
She placed her hands on his cheeks and positioned herself round to face him, held him steady in her grip. ‘Rocco. You were a child. And you’re still tearing yourself up over this?’
His face was a ridge of rock and anger.
She kissed him. She kissed the jutting cheekbone that he turned to her, the wedge of angry jaw, the harshly held crevice of his lips. She felt her tears slide between them and put her lips where they washed down.
‘Rocco, baby … you were not to blame.’
His eyes were still closed to her but she didn’t care. She couldn’t stand to see her warrior in such pain. With tiny, soft presses she slowly covered his face with her lips, whispering her heart to him.
He kept himself impassive, cold and distant. He didn’t push her away, but she could feel that he wanted to. As with every other time, she let her body guide her, not her head. He needed her. She needed to let him see how much. As instinctively as a flower faced the light, or curled its petals at night, she laid her body around him and soothed him.
And slowly he began to respond to her heat and light. He sighed against her whisper-soft kisses, melted into her cradling arms. He sat back against the couch and she climbed over him, slipped her legs around him to strengthen him, to imbue him with everything she could. The energy and emotion they had shared welled up inside her, and she knew she would gladly gift it all to him to ease his awful pain.
‘Frankie …’ he breathed into her neck as she lay over him.
His arms that had been lying limply at his sides, not quite rejecting her, now closed around her and held her tightly against him. She found herself rocking slightly, in that age-old movement of reassurance and care.
‘You would never do anything to harm an innocent child. Never.’
His arms slid closer around her, holding her body and her head clasped against him. He had so much power and strength and yet he was so vulnerable, lying there in her arms.
‘I would do anything to turn the clock back. I could have done so much more to protect him.’
‘And who was protecting you?’
He sighed against her. ‘I didn’t need protecting. I needed to be reined in. Always have.’
She pulled back and stared at him, cupped her hands around his beautiful, broken face.
‘Rocco, don’t you even see what you’re saying? You were a child, too. And what’s even harder to take is that you were trying to be an adult—to make decisions that your parents should have been making for you.’
He recoiled at that, but she didn’t stop.
‘I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve been through. But I do understand that you’re adding to the pain of losing Lodo by hating yourself so much for something that wasn’t your fault.’
He was still, his eyes level with her chest, not looking at her. The hair of his fringe had fallen down over his scar. She pushed it back and then gently lowered her head to kiss the reddened mark.
‘I wish you would leave the hate. There’s so much about you to love. Your body is covered in your history—even this crazy little scar. Fighting in the streets when you should have been learning Latin … I love it.’
He didn’t move a muscle. She moved her lips to the flattened break in the bridge of his nose. Kissed it.
‘And this perfect imperfect nose. Getting a polo stick in your face because you wouldn’t give up …’
She curled downward, holding on tightly, not daring to open her eyes, letting her body guide her, remembering all the things he’d told her about his injuries. The bones in his shoulder were all out of alignment from his falls and fights. She lowered her lips and ran them along each bump and ridge.
Finally she placed her lips over his. Soft, firm, warm. The fires they had lit between them were always glowing, ready to flare into life.
‘I love these lips.’ She kissed him so softly. ‘The pleasure they have given me …’
She felt something inside h
er contract as she spoke. Waves of emotion rolled and more words formed in her throat. She choked them back and used her mouth to show him how she felt. Softly pressing their mouths together, carefully sculpting and moulding and shaping. The familiar blaze was already taking hold, but this time something bigger, higher, sweeter sang out through the fire.
‘Oh, Rocco …’ she said as the waves began to break.
He stood up in one smooth movement. She held on as he began to walk, as he repositioned her, cradled her and carried her forward. She held on to the thick column of his neck and pulled herself close as he walked slowly back to the bedroom.
He opened the door and carried her in, walked right over to the bed and laid her down as if she were a silken cloth. He moved over her and stared down at her. She stared back. Up at his face, still intense—always intense—but softer now.
‘You sweet, sweet girl,’ he said as he slowly unbuttoned the shirt she’d thrown on.
She sat up, threaded her hands through his hair and pulled him down to her. She kissed him. Over and over. That was all. Just kissed him. Feeling those lips that she’d come to cherish for the pleasure they gave. Kissing and holding and adoring him. Nursing him with her body. And her heart.
Those words welled up in her throat again. But she swallowed them down.
He touched her as if she was treasure, moved her carefully on the bed, began to stoke their sexual love with his mouth and his hands. She climbed higher and higher, beginning to lose track of where she ended and he began.
‘Frankie, carina …’
He eased her legs open with his thighs and slid inside her. Huge and thick, he filled her completely, perfectly. Inches from her face she felt his warm breath. She ran her hands over the rough stubble of his jaw, felt the enveloping power of his body around her.
She knew the crescendo was coming, but each honeyed beat of the prelude was immense. So perfectly, precisely slowly he eased himself in and out of her. Rocco … her wounded soldier … her love. The words choked her as she kissed him and he kissed her back, murmuring sounds about how he treasured her until she knew she could hold on no longer.
Never, ever had she known the depths of such feeling for another human as their lovemaking throbbed to its final conclusion and she broke like a concerto of strings all around him and cried out the blissful joy from her heart.
He collapsed onto her, crushing her, winding her in the most perfect way possible. His hair-roughened limbs and stubbled jaw were her satin sheets. Their breath and sweat mingled. Light from the neglected hall doorway seeped into the room and soothed the night’s edges with silvery strokes.
And together they lay, weary, slipping into slumbers and dreams, knowing that they’d crossed some giant divide and there was no longer any way back.
CHAPTER TEN
A WHISKEY HEADACHE was about the last thing Rocco needed as he prowled through the house, drinking water and rewinding the events of the previous night.
What the hell had he been thinking? Did he have a body double? What had gotten into him?
The party. And for the first time he could remember wanting to leave the Turlington Club early. Hell, he’d even had to be persuaded to attend in the first place. It had all looked the same—the crowd had been the same, the sponsors had laid on the usual fantastic spread. The only thing that had been different was his head. And Frankie. And those two things were probably connected.
Carmel … Trying so hard to eclipse Frankie and having it backfire so spectacularly. If anything had made him realise how much of a sham his relationship with her had been it had been seeing her beside Frankie, seeing how much of a contrast they were.
Carmel was all about Carmel. She never gave a damn about anyone else. He’d was only ever been there because he’d given her social credit—not because she’d actually loved him … He should have seen through that right at the start instead of being captivated by her body. A body that left him completely cold now. Now his ‘type’ ran to a whole different set of vitals.
He took another glug of desperately needed water. Dehydrated on top of everything else.
Dante and the news that there was no news. How the hell all this had ended in another blind alley, he still couldn’t figure. As soon as Dante got here he’d go through the whole trail piece by piece.
He rubbed at his jaw, rasped his fingers through the stubble. He really needed to shave—he’d probably removed another layer of Frankie’s skin this morning.
Frankie. Most of all Frankie. Was he losing control? He was still furious with himself for taking her so fast and hard, hurting her in his selfish need to bury his anger. He’d known he was being rough. They did ‘rough’ really well. But he’d pushed the limits, and ‘rough’ definitely didn’t mean drawing blood.
And even after that she’d still come to find him. And he had stupidly told her all about Lodo. He felt like knocking his head off the wall to see if there were still any brains in there. When had he ever, ever opened up to anyone about his brother? It had taken his therapists five years to get him even to say his name, and he had blurted the whole thing out to her in one night!
What kind of crazy was going on with him just now? And how was he going to get back from where they’d ended up last night? Sex that had been tender, beautiful. The best tender and beautiful sex he’d ever had. The only tender and beautiful sex he’d ever had.
Dammit again. What was happening? He knew things had changed now. Not permanently—but she was a woman. She’d have expectations. Women always had expectations. And he’d paved the way for that.
Why was sex such a comfort in his life right now? Couldn’t he just rein in his emotions as he had every other time and use sport? Boxing had sorted him out in his early teens, and polo had been his salvation right up until she’d walked back into his life.
He really had to get some kind of normal back in place. This just wasn’t him. Using a woman to help him sift through all the debris in his head showed a lack of judgement.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her to keep the story about Lodo to himself—he did, of course he did. It was just that keeping things tight had worked so well up to now. The closed ranks of himself and Dante were perfect. There was no judging, no explaining. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about it. Women were always talking about it.
He reached the TV room and saw the whiskey bottle. At least half of it gone. And it hadn’t even served its purpose, because he’d sunk it and still blabbed when she’d come in—when she’d wheedled it out of him.
He shook his head as he lifted the bottle and carried it back to join the others on the bar. It would be a long time before he’d touch it again.
He looked at the couch, saw the photo. Staring at it, he saw an image of them sitting together. She hadn’t wheedled it out of him. She’d been great. She’d done exactly what he would have done if he’d seen her sitting in a mood like that. Exactly what he had done when she’d gotten herself in such a state about the media.
He picked up Lodo’s picture. So he’d told her? He shook his head again. The only thing to do now was make the best of it.
He knew that it was only a matter of time before some nosy investigative journalist or unofficial biographer unearthed it and splashed it all over the media anyway. He’d buried as much as he could of his early life, but there was always someone willing to swap a story for cash. Hadn’t he tried that himself in the hunt for Chris Martinez? He was still trying. It was all he had left.
And as soon as Dante came over, after they’d talked through in detail what he had and hadn’t found, he’d be back on it—like the relentless bloodhound he was.
Although, he thought as he lifted the whiskey tumbler and made his way through to the kitchen, the hunt for the Martinez brothers was something he’d be keeping to himself. The contacts he’d had to establish, the risks he’d taken to scratch the underbelly of the world they existed in, to breathe that stench again—there was no way he wanted to share any of that with Fr
ankie. He barely wanted Dante to be involved. He didn’t want her exposed to it and, crucially, he didn’t want to increase the risk by widening the circle of knowledge.
No, he’d shared more than enough with her already.
He put the glass in the gleaming empty dishwasher, turned to the coffee machine and started it up. There was no point in trying to claw back what had gone. All he could do now was keep a lid on the rest. And, yes, he’d asked her to stay on here—but after the events of last night maybe that wasn’t such a great idea. Not while Dante was due and the chase was still on. Not when he seemed to be in the habit of opening up and blabbing about stuff that no one should have to carry apart from him.
He shook his head again. What was it about her that she had got him to open up like that? He’d never even come close to it before. Totally uncharacteristic behaviour. He had quite knowingly left Lodo’s picture out in the bedroom, even after she’d asked him about it. With every other woman that picture had been tucked away. He did not sow the seeds of pity—he did not want to harvest their emotions. If he had any sense at all he’d shut his mouth and shut down this obsession that seemed less and less like unfinished business and more and more like an unsolvable problem.
He was getting used to her being here. He was loving the way their bodies were so utterly in tune with one another. He was loving the easy presence she had, sharing space with him. He was loving the ease that she brought to his life rather than the fuss and nonsense of someone like Carmel. But she had to know that there was never going to be anything more than this. She’d started to ask him last night, just before the call from Dante, and they had to finish that conversation soon.
He checked the time. Dante would have partied hard last night, knowing him, so it would be another couple of hours before he was ready to surface. He could get caught up on work, or he could sweat out this hangover with some serious exercise. An hour of running on the beach and then a session with the punching bag should sort him out. Maybe he should wake Frankie and ask her to come running with him? No, maybe not. He could do with some more thinking time. Because ‘losing himself’ in her just seemed to be adding to the list of problems, not solving any.
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