0263249026 (R)

by Bella Frances

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it? The one who came here. The hotshot …’

  She stared at the picture. Stared at the man who was her whole world.

  Her father was droning on and on. ‘Coming here … turning your head like that … leading you on … getting you to do …’

  She was suddenly jolted out of her gloom.

  ‘Rocco didn’t lead me on. What are you saying? It was me who tried to lead him on.’

  The words her father was about to growl out hung in his mouth unsaid and he gaped.

  She looked at him. ‘Have you thought for all these years that he was the one to blame for what happened that night?’

  Across the gloom of the afternoon they stared at each other. She was barely aware of the television being turned off, a door closing softly downstairs.

  ‘It was me who went to him. I went to him. And then I went back to him last month.’

  She saw him swallow—heard it, too. A gulp of shock.

  For a moment he looked puzzled, even hurt. Then his face gathered itself into the storm that never seemed far away.

  ‘Well, why have you come back here now?’

  His voice was low and cold, like sleet landing on mud. But as she heard it and felt it all the darkness slowly began to melt away. She looked down at the magazine in her hand. She’d had all that. All that man. Her man. The only one who was right for her. All she’d lacked was the patience to help him see that, too.

  ‘You know, Dad, I’ve no idea why I came back here. Not for your support or your love anyway.’

  ‘Pfff!’ he said. ‘If we didn’t love you we wouldn’t care that you get yourself into all this trouble. You and your brother.’

  For a moment he looked at her and she saw the shadows of worry and care etched deep. He was so hidebound by what others saw that he couldn’t see that love was the most valuable commodity of all. He should be happy that Danny had got married in Dubai. So what if it wasn’t a traditional wedding? It wasn’t ‘trouble’—it was love.

  She thought of Rocco’s hands holding her, his lips loving her. She thought of their nights and days. She thought of him gently teasing her out of her silly insecurities and stubbornly hiding his. She thought of him with Dante, his flashes of jealousy. His tiny keepsake photograph of Lodo. His overwhelming loyalty. And his love. He had such a capacity for love. He was frightened of it, but it was there in everything he did for them. And for her. He couldn’t hide it. He loved her. He needed her.

  ‘He loves me,’ she whispered to herself. ‘He understands me. He would never do anything to hurt me.’

  ‘Well, if he loves you so much why are you here? Why aren’t you with him? Why hasn’t he made an honest woman of you instead of all this parading about, getting your picture in the papers, giving those gossips in the village something to say about you?’

  She looked away from her father—out at the December sky.

  ‘He made an honest woman of me the first day I met him. He showed me who I am and he made me learn about myself in a way that no one else possibly could.’

  And he had. Her sexuality was part of her—a part of which she was now proud. They were perfectly matched, true partners, but each of them carried such huge scars that only the unflinching patience of true love would get past them.

  ‘Well, I’ll say it again—what are you doing here, crying in your bedroom? That’s not going to solve anything.’ He lifted the magazine out of her hands, stared down at the photograph. ‘You might think that I’m some old fool, that I don’t understand, but I’m not daft. You won’t get far if you don’t commit to one another properly. And I don’t see much evidence of that if you’re here and he’s there.’

  Frankie looked at her father. Really looked. When was the last time she had done that? He was of a different generation, but maybe he was no less well meaning or principled than she was. Maybe he did truly want the best for her. There were things that mattered to him that she couldn’t understand. But she should respect them. For his sake.

  ‘I love you, Daddy,’ she said. ‘I won’t always agree with you, but this time I do.’

  He hugged her gruffly, then pushed her away. No time for that kind of nonsense.

  ‘Well, get on with you, then.’ He shuffled around, put his hand on the banister and made his way down to the kitchen—to his Sunday lunch and his steady, uneventful life.

  ‘You young people can be awful stupid at times.’

  Rocco turned off the radio. Silenced the preamble to today’s match. A resounding win predicted for Hermanos Hermida against their old rivals San Como. Dante was captaining for the first time. Rocco was glad. It was time he led the team on his own. He was a much more naturally talented player anyway—always had been. What Dante lacked in bloodthirstiness he made up for in consummate skill. A fearless child, he had excelled in every sport.

  Yes, he thoroughly deserved his place—and the win that was predicted to follow.

  As for himself …? Rocco wasn’t sure when or if he’d play again. He’d wanted to be there today, to lend Dante support. But right now he had come to the end of this particular road.

  He sat back, ensconced in the leather bucket seat of his Lotus, tilted his head and closed his eyes.

  You’d better get yourself sorted, man. You’ve just lost the best thing that ever happened to you and you’re in danger of losing everything else if you don’t dig yourself out of this pit.

  Dante’s words still rang in his ears.

  He’d faced Rocco across the snug—having found him holed up there three days after Frankie had gone—when he’d run out of bags to punch and miles to run. When he’d been left with nothing more than a cluster of bottles to drain as he tried to drink the misery away.

  ‘What do you think she’d say if she could see you now?’ He’d looked at the mess on the wall—the vintage red-wine stain now dried and pink. ‘Her hero. Everybody’s hero. God only knows what you did for her to give up on you.’

  ‘What would you know?’ he’d slurred back at Dante. ‘You’ve never known what it’s like to feel misery. Everything lands at your feet. Women, money, success …’

  ‘You think? You think I’ve never known any pain? That just shows what you know. It’s always been about you, Rocco. You and your real family. Your real brother. You never gave a damn about all the times I watched my mother in pain, waiting for news of where you were, never understanding why you’d do anything rather than be with us. And all we did was love you. You threw it back in our faces time and time again.’

  He had been angry. Angrier than Rocco had known he could be. He’d sobered up in a heartbeat, watching him.

  Dante had gone on, ‘And how do you think I felt? Did you ever stop to think? Rejected over and over like that? Knowing that I was never going to be good enough for you? That I’d never hold a candle to Lodo’s memory? You kicked me in the stomach more times than you’ll ever know.’

  ‘I … I’m sorry. Dante—I’m so … I’m just a mess. Not worth your love …’

  At that Dante had reared up, his face a furious mask.

  ‘Just shut up! Stop your self-pity. You’re worth every bit of my love and our parents’ love. And her love—Frankie’s. You’re just too damn stubborn and blind to see it.’

  They’d ended up standing, facing each other like cage fighters. He’d so badly wanted to swing at him. So badly wanted to hurt him. Because he knew he was right. He’d acted terribly. Selfishly.

  In the end Dante had walked away, shaking his head. And in that moment Rocco had made his mind up. His life as he knew it was over. He didn’t want to be a playboy polo player anymore. He didn’t even want to be a horse breeder. He didn’t care about any of that. None of it mattered while he was hurting the people he loved. And he loved Frankie so much—so much it killed him to think what he’d done to her.

  From the moment he’d seen her he’d loved her. He’d fought against it all these years, but he had. She sparkled, she shone, and she was as pure as a brilliant-cu
t diamond. She’d brought energy and passion and love to his life. She’d lit up the dark, solemn corners of his heart. She’d set fire to him that night in her bed—a fire that he’d never been able to put out. All the women he’d bedded since had been just an effort to smother that flame. But none of it had worked.

  Seeing her at the Campo had just lent oxygen to the embers that had always been there. And he’d known then he’d had a second chance. He’d pursued her relentlessly, not taking no for an answer. She was his. He wanted her and he would have her. But only on his terms.

  Who the hell did he think he was?

  Standing in the wreck of his room, he’d thought about what he’d built up and now cared nothing for—his polo, his ponies, his estancia. She’d come farther than him. She might not have the baubles to show for it, the money, but she was honest. She had strength. Integrity. Compassion. And those were the things he’d suddenly realised he lacked.

  He had so much to make up for.

  The next day he’d gotten up, cleared up the squalor he’d created and started to sort everything out. He’d called in on Dante. Apologised and shared his plans with him: he was going to bow out of polo, get more serious with life, get more involved in his new businesses. And he was going to meet Chris Martinez. He didn’t know how yet—but he was.

  And after he’d done all that he was going to get Frankie. He was going to lay his heart out for her. And if she didn’t want him he would understand. He’d understand, but he wouldn’t give up. He would prove to her that he was worthy of her. Somehow.

  And now things had panned out just as he’d hoped. Even the tracking down of Martinez. The trail had heated up again and he’d stepped forward himself—no proxy. He’d wanted a face-to-face, and he wouldn’t be wearing anyone’s mask when it happened.

  And now he was here. This was it.

  To think it was all about to draw to its conclusion after twenty years on a pavement outside a modest villa, sandwiched between two high-rises in Belgrano. With the only criminals in sight the tourist-fleecing café owners.

  For two hours he sat there, his fingers making slow drumrolls on the steering wheel. Two hours and then twenty years of hate would be gone. Twenty years of carrying a stone in his heart. Weighted, heavy, dungeon dark. And now, with one simple sighting, he’d stepped up to the light.

  One look at the family that exited the dusty sedan and trooped into the house—a fifty-year-old man, his wife, his daughter and an infant that had to be his grandchild—and he knew he was free. Martinez looked aged, haggard. Weary. And suddenly the thrill of the chase was doused. He was finally hauling the past into the sunshine of this moment.

  Chris Martinez hadn’t caused the economic crash. He wasn’t responsible for them ending up on the streets, for his father vanishing and his mother’s breakdown. Rocco had chosen a path close to the dark side, sleeping on cardboard in doorways with Lodo. Stealing and mixing with criminals had only ever been going to end one way.

  The Martinez brothers had been little more than children themselves—young men who’d gone deeper and darker than Rocco. But who knew what would have happened if Lodo hadn’t died? If the nuns hadn’t taken him in? If Senor and Senora Hermida hadn’t shone a light in his life?

  Lodo was gone. But there was so much to love and live for—so, so much.

  His hand hovered over the car’s door handle. It was time. He had to tie up this last knot.

  He got out of the car and walked across the street. A tiny fence marked off the front yard from the pavement. He swung open the gate and walked four paces to the door. Gomez, the nameplate said. Knocked.

  The young woman opened, the dark-eyed baby on her hip. She recognised him immediately and her mouth and eyes widened.

  Behind her loomed her father—Chris Martinez, now Chris Gomez. They stared at one another and Rocco saw acknowledgement, acceptance and fear flit across his haggard face.

  ‘I know who you are,’ he said.

  Rocco nodded. ‘Then, you’ll know why I’ve come.’

  Martinez didn’t flinch, but he stepped out onto the street, pulled the door closed behind him, shielding his home and his family.

  Rocco could smell his fear, could see him digging deep for the strength he’d known he would one day need.

  ‘I’ve changed.’

  He stared at his face—looking for what he’d expected to see. Ugly snarling hate … brutality. But it was just a face.

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘I’ve watched you for years. I’ve waited for you to come—I knew you would find me.’

  Rocco said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  ‘I never meant for it to happen. I was afraid of them—They gave me a gun …’ He dipped his head, shook it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally, looking up.

  Rocco looked into his sunken eyes, at his flabby face, his paunch and, behind the windows, peering out, his family.

  ‘It was for me to forgive you.’

  He held that gaze for long, searching seconds. This was the moment he had dreamed of for all these years. And now it was his … just seconds ticking by, two men united by one terrible moment and then separated on their own paths.

  ‘It’s done now,’ he said, and walked away.

  Rocco parked outside the cemetery. The late morning had seeped into noon brightness. The shadows had begun to lengthen. He pulled the tiny battered photograph from its leather frame. Lodo had lived for such a short time. If he’d survived.? Who could say? But he would treasure the moments they’d had together for evermore.

  He should mark his time on earth in some way. A charity cup? A sponsorship? A garden? He would work that out. But now it was time to move into the present. He’d done all he could. He had to grasp his future with both hands—and fast.

  He looked at his watch, worked out the time in Dublin. He knew she was there. Just as he knew it was only a matter of time now until he followed her.

  But there was no way he could have forced himself back into her life until he’d cleared this path.

  He could see that now. Finally. After the massive fight he’d had with Dante, which had almost ended in violence for the first time ever—and it was all thanks to Dante that it hadn’t. His long-suffering brother had taken the verbal blows, the emotional abuse, and had walked away before he’d had to defend himself against the physical ones, too. A true brother.

  He lifted his phone. His trips to Europe would be even more frequent now, so the jet he’d just bought was more a necessity than a luxury. The flight plan was already lodged: he’d be flying to Dublin later that day. But back to La Colorada first, to get everything organised with the horses. Although Dante was captaining HH, he had a ton of stuff of his own going on, too. Not least with this new mystery woman—the duchess he’d been pictured with on a yacht in the Caribbean.

  He’d never known Dante so tight-lipped about a woman. And so sensitive. It made a change …

  He pulled out into the midday suburban traffic, the urge to plant his foot to the floor immense. Anything to speed up this journey … the sooner to let his eyes light upon her sweet face.

  God, he hoped she’d been okay. That last night—staying apart from her—had been one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. Knowing that they were both in such pain and not being able or equipped to deal with it. She’d refused every offer of help—even a ride to the airport. But he’d insisted on that. As a concession, he hadn’t driven the car himself. A concession that he’d rethought so many times. If he’d actually been at the departure gate with her could he really have let her go?

  He didn’t think so.

  He pulled out onto the highway, sped along. Four hours and then he’d be on the jet. The best sixty million dollars he’d ever spent if he could bring her back home with him.

  The straight, sandy driveway, its jacarandas weighted down with purple blooms, the sky a streak of pale turquoise and the droopy green willows all welcomed him home. He spun the Lotus round and parked with a lot less care
than usual. He felt teenager happy. Excited. As if he was going on a first date, but with the stakes so much higher. Incredibly high.

  In through the doors and instantly he sensed it.

  He stopped. Listened.

  Nothing.

  Only the steady tick-tock of the irritating antique clock that presided over the mantelpiece in the wide wooden vestibule. Underneath, the unlit fire was flanked by two towering palms in glazed urns. Corridors stretched off in two directions, the sheen of the parquet gleaming with hundred-year-old pride.

  Silence.

  It was lunchtime. He should be hearing the grooms chattering: the European girls, so highly strung, and all the gauchos—the young ones flirting and the older ones solemnly muttering. But there was nothing.

  He walked on through the house. He couldn’t dare think the thoughts he wanted to think. But the last time the house had been this silent was when he had thrown everyone out while he went on his three-day bender. And the time before that …

  It had been when the staff had given him space. Space to share with Frankie.

  He reached the snug, listening like a hunter, feeling as if he was following in the wake of something … of someone. But it was empty. He kept on, his footsteps now falling on the silk runners, deadening all sound apart from the thump of his heart in his ears.

  His bedroom. He paused. Put his hand on the brass door plate and pushed. Cautiously he let his eyes fall into the space between the wall and the open door. His eyes landed on the rug, on the shaft of sunlight that lit the floor, moved to the wall by the dressing room. And there sat the tiny battered carry-on bag.

  He threw open the door.

  He checked the room, the dressing room, the bathroom, went out onto the terrace.

  There was no mistake—no mistake—none. He picked up the bag and scanned every inch of it. It was Frankie’s. He’d know it anywhere. And unless someone was playing tricks with his mind, it could only mean one thing.