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  But she hadn’t. She’d held back. She’d silently floated in oceans of happiness, but had been ever aware of the crashing waterfall that was right there, just out of sight, a glaring reminder to hold something back—her life raft.

  She couldn’t criticise Rocco for anything. He was attentive, considerate and caring. He worshipped her body, and he appeared to enjoy her mind, her conversation and her company. But he was as deep and as distant as ever. Every time she’d tried to sneak a look past his barricades he’d somehow made them higher.

  And now, with the days ticking by, she was feeling more and more anxious that she’d made a terminal career mistake by asking for more time when the finance department was asking for more cutbacks.

  But she’d left this morning determined to bring back some good news, to make the directors see that she really knew what she was doing.

  Before that she and Rocco had breakfasted on the north-facing terrace, surrounded by huge potted urns of showy red flowers and under the arches of clambering ivy that softened the house and the wide, spare landscape. Silently, comfortably, they’d munched on freshly made bread, sipping strong coffee and planning their day, so full of promise and excitement.

  Rocco had planned a morning of intense demanding phone calls to finally nail the squirming management of Mendoza Vineyard, and then an afternoon of wild riding across his land. He’d promised to wait until she returned so she could join him. That had been the plan. And she had been desperate to saddle up the other mare—Roisin—and see just how much like her mother she was. In fact she had jumped right into his lap with joy at the thought of it, and he had gifted her one of his rare laughs, his face lighting with happiness, his eyes sparkling with pleasure.

  Frankie had never felt more alive. Today was going to be her day. She was going in well armed after her visit to the traders in the Dominican Republic. She knew what she wanted, the terms she could afford to offer. The processing plants were nearer at hand, and the botanicals they needed were all available locally, too. The opportunity to make genuinely organic products rather than to follow the market leaders with their petrochemical derivatives was just too good to miss. She could visualise the artwork, smell the creams and lotions, feel the luxury …

  So where had it all gone wrong?

  Along the wide, straight jacaranda-lined driveway she stumble marched. Sweat and dust and her own gritty determination were smeared all across her face. Her mascara had run about three hours earlier. She’d seen it when she had tried to stare herself calm in the bathrooms of the one-storey cubic office block. When she’d excused herself after an excruciating meeting between the trader who’d gathered all the samples she’d asked for and an audience she hadn’t.

  Staring into that mirror, her best suit a crumpled mess, her hair blown all over, she had felt again the crippling sense that she was once more a silly little girl playing in a big boys’ world.

  La Gaya—one of them had openly called her that. Magazines with Carmel de Souza’s picture had been clearly laid out on the reception area’s coffee table. One of the traders, his arms folded over his chest, had set his face in amused judgement. So this was the Hurricane’s lover? Not much to see. Not compared to Carmel.

  Either they hadn’t known she was fluent in Spanish or they hadn’t cared. The terms they’d offered had been unmanageable. The profit margins and her hopes of promotion had slid away like oil through her fingers as she’d contemplated their bottom line. It had been hopeless.

  All this time, all this work, and the whole thing was now unravelling out of her control. And she suspected that more than some of the reason for the unreasonable terms was her relationship with Rocco. Who would take her seriously when she was, after all, just another morsel of arm candy?

  She’d kept it together for as long as she could—she really had. She knew there was no place for emotion in business. Especially when she was there representing her company. So she’d taken it on the chin until she’d heard ‘La Gaya’ one last time. Then she’d stood up, snapped her tablet closed, braced her hands on the desk and fired at them with both barrels.

  She hadn’t come all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to listen to this rubbish. They were in business or they weren’t. And the last thing—the very last thing—that a prestigious, established firm like Evaña would do was get into bed with a bunch of half-baked professionals like them!

  She reached the lakes that marked the start of the house grounds proper. Willows overhung the water, fronds dripping down, gently scoring the water’s surface. Huge puffy clouds bounced their way across the sky. So much nature and not a living soul to be seen. Good. That was just what she needed right now.

  She pulled her phone out of her bag as she marched, checking to see if there were any messages. Not trusting herself to call Rocco, she had sent him a text.

  I’ll pass on the riding. See you later.

  No kiss. She’d ignored his call and climbed back into the helicopter, feeling twenty-year-old pain all over again. Fury at not being taken seriously; rage that she wasn’t considered equal. Like when she’d been her brothers’ shadow, following them about the farm, until her father had caught her and sent her off to the kitchen, roaring at her that she was getting in the way—a liability, a pest.

  She flung open the front doors and clicked her way along the parquet. Heels deadened in the rugs, she passed the photos of sullen gauchos, passed the console table now groaning under the weight of Rocco’s boxing trophies. She’d found them the day before, in a box in the dressing room, and polished them up happily and set them out proudly as he’d watched, humouring her.

  She pushed her way into the bedroom and stood there. And breathed. And stared around.

  Rocco’s bedroom. Rocco’s house.

  What was she doing? What on earth was she doing?

  Still behaving as if she was six years old—running away from her problems. Hiding out in her bedroom until she stopped crying and then flying back outdoors on a pony or after her brothers, only this time being much more careful not to get caught.

  But she wasn’t in her own bedroom. She wasn’t even in her own country. She was here because she’d contrived to be.

  Like dawn breaking over frosty fields, suddenly everything sparkled with clarity. She walked to the bed and sank down.

  She really had brought this on herself. The whole nine yards of it. The trip to South America. She’d been doggedly, determinedly desperate to come here. Desperada. He was right. She had done all this for him. Right from dreaming up the new range, so dependent on natural products … She could have gone to India or Africa. But no, she’d found the best plantations in Argentina. And no one had been able to persuade her otherwise.

  She’d planned and plotted the whole thing. Including the polo match. How could she have been so blind that she hadn’t seen for herself what she was doing? So she was over Rocco Hermida? Hated the man who had broken her heart and stolen her pony? Who was she fooling? She had never gotten over him. And every move she’d made in the past four days had guaranteed she never would.

  Blind …? Stupid …?

  Now she had to add those to the mix.

  She was ambitious, yes—but even she hadn’t realised how much. And now the whole thing was coming tumbling round her head. She’d veered off her career path and right into the path of the Hurricane. Even though she’d known it would be short-term, even though she’d been able to see the devastation that was bound to be wreaked.

  She was all kinds of a fool. If she didn’t act fast she was going to blow her future with Evaña. It was time she grew up. It was time she stopped waiting for Rocco. She’d chased her dream all the way here. And her dream was as out of reach as it had ever been.

  Because what was Rocco doing? Was he pining in his bedroom, head under the pillow, wailing like a baby? No. Damn right he wasn’t. He was out on the pampas, wind in his hair, riding up a storm. He was no closer to her emotionally than he had been that very first night.

  She h
ad seen into the depths of his despair, had tried to soothe and salve. She could see how much hurt he harboured and she could help him through it—she knew she could. But he would not let her in.

  Lodo’s picture was there. Rocco’s mind was not. Every time she tried he backed right off.

  She had gone out on a limb professionally and now, instead of ticking off her to-do list, she was actually unravelling all her efforts. She wasn’t just putting things on hold, she was deconstructing them. Getting her face splashed all across the media and then erupting when an ill-mannered man made some stupid comments. Had she learned nothing? Had she left the farm, travelled round the world, fought her way to a position of relative success just to have it all shatter around her?

  An inspiration?

  A devastation, more like. She had to get her act together and salvage what was left. Get back on the career path. Limit the damage. Batten down the hatches and hold tight.

  What a day! How long since he’d allowed himself the luxury of taking off for the afternoon? Riding out around his land, feeling free, feeling part of a bigger scene, a higher purpose? Feeling that the world was his and that peace was … possible. He’d wanted Frankie there—he’d waited for her—but there would be other times. Perhaps.

  As he’d ridden out through dust clouds and stony streams he’d had time to think, to curse himself for not being as straight with her as he should have been. The emails she’d gotten from her boss had crushed her. Panicked her. Adding to that by laying it out that what they had was at best a one-week sexual odyssey had seemed too cruel. And the more time he spent with her, the more he began to wonder if this might actually work longer term … It might—but he had to be absolutely honest with himself and with her.

  He wasn’t the marrying type. He wasn’t even the commitment type. And she was. She might not admit it, even to herself, but she was the type of girl who put down roots, built a nest, cultivated life in a way that he recognised. If things had been different he might have wanted it, too. Real depth … real values. A real person. She wasn’t going to flit about like an overpainted butterfly, landing on flowers, looking for attention like all the other women he’d dated.

  He paused at that. Had he dated them for that very reason? So there would be no genuine commitment? Possibly. But Frankie was different. So was he being fair to her? Because it wasn’t going to end any other way. He’d made that promise to himself years back. Being responsible for other human beings was not something he did well. Hell, the only reason he and Dante were so close now was because of the utter devastation he had caused every time he’d run away.

  Two years his junior, Dante had hung on his every word, so when his efforts to get back to the streets had become wilder and wilder, when he’d seen just how upset he’d made Dante every time he was dragged back to his life of luxury—all that emotional blackmail had been banked and paid out again in brotherly bonding. They’d used Dante as a weapon to tame him. But that manipulation, that responsibility for someone else was never going to happen again.

  So had he given Frankie false hope with his drunken blurting about Lodo? Sharing his emotional detritus for her to pick over? Who knew? He’d expected her to be flying high on some emotional magic carpet the next day, looking for him to jump on and relive it all over again. He’d been on his guard for pitying looks, stage-managed conversations, trailing pauses. No way was he going to indulge in any review of that particular episode.

  It was time to face up to having the inevitable conversation that had eluded them so far. To go on any longer without talking through the state of play was disingenuous. The last thing he wanted was for her to build their time together into more than a week of fantastic sex—to set any emotional store by the fact that they’d each had their confessional moments … in his case a once-in-a-lifetime confessional moment.

  But he’d be fooling himself if he didn’t admit how much he hoped she’d share his point of view and keep things ticking along as they were. If she was cool with a physical relationship—a monogamous physical relationship—he was right there with her.

  He walked from the yard to the house, already thinking about where she would be. What they’d do as soon as they met. He’d decanted the 2006 and 2003 Malbecs from Mendoza—could almost taste the subtle soft fruits and the plump warm spices. A couple of steaks, the fabulous wine and then an evening together in exactly the same way they’d shared every previous one. Perfect.

  The house was empty. Usually the gauchos and grooms inhabited the kitchen and the rooms on the south wing, but since Frankie had taken up residence they had made themselves scarce. Another unnecessary line in the sand, he thought, kicking off his boots, pulling his shirt over his head and twisting the lid from a bottle of water. People were reading more into this than they should.

  He walked on through the house. Alone.

  She’d have been back for a good two hours now. Hot tub? Terrace? Bed?

  He drew a sharp breath through his teeth and felt himself tighten as every sweet little image formed in his mind. This separation, if only for a few hours, had done them good. He was half crazy with longing for her. Strange that she hadn’t wanted to come out riding. He reckoned things at work had maybe piled up for her. He had monopolised her time, and after all she was here on business. Even if that business was a bit sparse.

  He’d done a bit of digging. Just a bit. And he wouldn’t be holding his breath that her efforts were going to pay off. Or any efforts. Evaña was a company heading in the wrong direction, and Frankie dragging herself along in the dirt as it stuttered to the end wasn’t going to be her smartest career move.

  But that was her business. There would be nothing to be gained by him voicing that opinion.

  The bedroom was empty. He seized the chance and had a quick shower, soaping himself alone for the first time in days. Strange how he’d got so acclimatised to her being around … Strange that he didn’t resent it.

  In fact as he tossed the damp towel into the laundry bin and pulled on fresh clothes an irritation that he’d never felt before barked up, unbidden. Where the hell was she? She should have been there to meet him.

  His calls through the house echoed back unanswered. He checked his phone, checked his messages, but there were none from her.

  Five minutes later he found her. Coiled on the ancient leather sofa in his favourite room—the snug. It was the room that had been his bedroom when he’d first bought the estancia. His bedroom, living room and kitchen. He’d existed in there as he had slowly ripped out and rebuilt the place, brick by brick. He’d made this room habitable first, then a bathroom. Then the stables.

  For a long time the stables had been way more luxurious than the house. His horses deserved that. They were his everything. He poured his love—what there was of it—into them. He owed them everything. Without them he was nothing. He owed them for every envious glance from a polo player, every roar of adulation from the crowd. For each and every sponsorship deal that had opened doors and fast-tracked him to his other business deals.

  People didn’t understand that. Leaving behind the luxury of the Hermida estancia had been like fleeing a gilded cage. He’d been thought mad to walk away. But his parents had understood. And Dante. They had understood everything, supported him in everything. He’d left that ‘safe house’ with one pony—Siren, his eighteenth birthday present. And after that he’d headed to Europe. Met Frankie in Ireland. Life had taken off. He would never, ever repay that debt. But he would never stop trying.

  Frankie. She had to have heard him coming in but she kept her head buried in her laptop, brows knitted and a strange swirl of tension all around her.

  She still didn’t look up.

  ‘Hey … I missed you out riding.’

  He walked over to her, the dusky evening already softening every surface, blurring the odds and ends of dark artisan furniture against the plaster walls.

  He leaned over her, kissed the top of her head, lifted her chin with his finger and met her li
ps. He could taste slight resistance, but it was nothing that he couldn’t melt in moments.

  And he did.

  She sighed against his mouth.

  ‘I missed you out riding, too.’

  He kissed her, revelling in the ‘Hi, honey, I’m home’ greeting between them. He could get quite used to this.

  ‘I waited. But there will be other times.’

  She pulled herself back, dipped her head, stared at the screen.

  So she was in a mood—prickly, like a neglected pony, one who’d expected to be ridden at a match but had been swapped for another. Sulky and jagged. Playing hard to get. Okay. He could deal with that.

  He lifted her laptop onto the couch and scooped his hands under her arms, lifted her up. Her reluctant hands slid around his neck.

  ‘So what happened? How was your day? Did it go as well as you hoped?’

  Her eyes rolled and her mouth tightened into a grim little slash.

  ‘Not quite. Walking into an AGM of the Carmel Fan Club wasn’t quite what I had in mind.’

  He frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

  This time she pulled herself totally out of his arms, slid back down onto the couch, lifted up her laptop again—as if it was some kind of guard dog and he should back right off.

  ‘Just what I said. There was quite a welcoming committee—seemed as though the traders had got the whole company out in force to see how I measured up. I had to wait in the reception area—and guess what were all over the coffee table? Celebrity magazines dedicated to your airhead ex. It was heartfelt—it really was.’

  ‘I’m sure it was coincidental,’ he said, thinking how unlike her this spiteful tone was.

  ‘Are you? Were you there?’

  He looked at her. Weighed up the benefit of engaging in this. Decided against it.

  He turned round, shook his head and went off to the dining room. The wine decanters were set as he’d left them. Each vintage the perfect temperature, opened to breathe for the optimum length of time. He lifted the 2006. It was mooted to be even plummier than the 2003, and he held it to what remained of the light. These were his wines now. And there would be better and better to come.