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  It all came back—those daily rides with Ipanema, and before her all her other favourites from the yard.

  Feeling the warm air whip past her cheeks, the excited thump of her heart and the sensation that she was leaving all her worries behind her, she realised that there was no release like this. No wonder the first thing she’d done after school was to race home, tear off her school uniform and fly to the stables. She’d never known how badly she missed it until now.

  The countryside didn’t change—just more and more of the same. At one point she was alongside the stream, but then five minutes later it was nowhere to be seen. The huge grey clouds had rolled closer and were underlit with gold from the sinking sun. Sunsets seemed to arrive so much faster here than in Ireland. She’d check the time, but her watch was still stuffed in her case with her earrings … and her hurt at his actions over that photograph.

  Who could it have been? Who could have caused such a shut-down? She let the images flit through her mind: the cherubic cheeks, the shock of blond hair. Apart from the scowling mouth there wasn’t much of a family resemblance … but then there was no family resemblance between her and Mark. More between her and Danny …

  Anyway, she was thousands of miles away from any of them, and every strike of the pony’s hooves was taking her farther away from Rocco, too. She needed the space. This was definitely a much better option than hanging around by the pool, waiting for his godlike presence, for him to condescend to speak to her. She needed to get her world back into perspective. She needed to make sure her defences were completely and utterly intact.

  She slowed down, picked up the stream again, nosed the pony forward to have a drink. Smoothing her hand down the pony’s soft, strong neck, she made a mental note to check out some stables in Madrid. Maybe she should go even further than that. Maybe she should re-evaluate her whole life plan. Did she really want to work her way through the ranks of Evaña? Or did she want to go back to her first love: horses? How could she break back into that world? Move back to Ireland? Go work for Mark?

  A noise sounded above her, off in the distance. The pony’s ears pricked up.

  No, she didn’t want to keep running. But she didn’t want to go back, either. She had put so much into her career already, and had so much more to prove. To the company and to herself. She knew she’d chosen a deliberately hard path, but the payback from every small success was worth a thousand times more than any easy life back in Ireland. Only a few more days and she would get her next big break—or not. It was all to play for—and she was damned sure she was going to give it her all.

  She tugged the reins ever so slightly. Time to get going again. Another gallop around and then she’d head back. She was pretty sure she could find her way. If those thunderous-looking clouds hadn’t rolled in so quickly she’d have a glimpse of the sun to give her her bearings.

  The pony picked up her heels and they started to canter. The noise above her continued to grow. She twisted her head—a helicopter. They were so common here. Like a four-door saloon, everyone seemed to have one. It seemed to circle above her, and then flew away.

  She was thirsty—should have taken a drink at the stream herself. She looked around, trying to see where it was. It should be on her right, and if she could find it she could follow its path most of the way back.

  A slight sense of unease gripped her. Grasses swayed in the breeze in every direction. The wind was picking up. More low clouds swollen with summer rain had now rolled right overhead, darkening the day and filling the air with warning. There was not a landmark to gift her any sense of where she was or where she should go.

  The pony seemed quite content to trot on, but she was beginning to worry that it would trot on forever. Her legs were beginning to chafe on the saddle and a huge wave of tiredness washed over her.

  Suddenly, as fat raindrops landed on her legs, her bare arms and then all about her, she thought she saw movement off to her left. She turned the pony round, sure she knew now which way to go.

  The rain exploded in sheets of grey. She could barely see a foot in front of her. Her lashes dripped; rain ran down her face. She slid in the saddle and dipped her chin down to try and deflect what she could. She looked around, trying to make sense of her surroundings, but couldn’t see anything except wave after wave of summer storm.

  She tried to look for shelter—anything, even a tree—but there was nothing except the oceans of grass and rain. Rain didn’t fall like this in Ireland. This was vicious, relentless, unforgiving.

  Suddenly the pony was frisky. Movement again—and a figure appeared, riding right at her. She pressed her thighs, willed the pony on, but the pony was too excited. And in a heartbeat Frankie realised why.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Rocco. Like a freight train through the night he rode right at her. She tried to move away, but he pulled on his reins and spun to a stop at her side. The wildness, the rage on his face stole her breath. She pushed her soaked hair out of her eyes and bit back the shock and the swollen lump in her throat.

  ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

  He jumped down and grabbed her reins.

  ‘Get down.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that!’ she yelled back. ‘You’re not my damn father.’

  The rain was still lashing in sheets around them. She could barely see the planes of his tanned face but his eyes flashed fire through the silvery air.

  ‘For the first time I realise what it must have been like to be your damn father!’

  He circled her waist with his arm and heaved her off the horse. Landing against his side, she shoved him away.

  ‘Get your hands off me. Stop treating me like a child.’

  Her throat was sore from swallowed emotion, but she would not give him a hint of it.

  He moved to reach for her, but then stopped. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw was rigid, his mouth a grim slash. But his voice when he spoke was quietly, menacingly calm.

  ‘You caused me to send out a helicopter when a storm was coming in. You caused panic at the estancia. You stole a horse and—’

  ‘I did not steal—’

  He held his hand up to silence her and she was so taken aback she stopped.

  ‘You stole—’ he emphasised the word again ‘—a twenty-thousand-dollar horse. A horse that is part of our genetics programme. Without a thought about anyone but yourself you took off into the country. And that’s not behaving like a child?’

  She heard his words, saw his fury and felt such a wave of shame.

  ‘I didn’t mean any harm.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘Look at you.’ He reached across, roughly cupped the back of her soaked head, wiped his thumb hard across her cheek. ‘Soaked to the skin … Lost …’

  She dug her teeth into her lip. She would not cry. Would not.

  ‘I wasn’t lost. If the storm hadn’t come in I would have been fine.’

  She could feel the ache between her legs from hours in the saddle, her skin was beginning to chill, and despite herself her teeth began to chatter.

  He regarded her with such contempt—as if she was the most infuriating thing he’d ever had to deal with. Then he reached back to his own saddle to a blanket that lay beneath. He yanked it free and held it out.

  ‘Here. You need to get rid of those clothes—for what they’re worth.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘What? And then you’ll wrap me up and make me ride home side-saddle in a blanket? This isn’t some damned John Wayne film! I’m not your weak little woman!’

  She grabbed the reins out of his hands and tried to climb back on the horse. Immediately she felt his arms around her, spinning her to face him.

  ‘Weak little woman? You’re as far from that as it’s possible to be. God knows, you might want to try it some time.’

  He stared down at her, his fingers gripping her shoulders. She looked into those eyes, at that mouth. She felt the tug of d
esire and desperately, desperately wished that she didn’t. She knew that she wanted to slide her arms around his strong neck, wrap herself up in his hard, warm body. How could this physical draw be so strong? So irresistible? But she wouldn’t give in—no way, not this time.

  She turned her cheek. He tugged at her chin.

  ‘Look at me,’ he ordered.

  She tensed, but slid her eyes back.

  ‘Look at you? Now? Because it suits you?’ She shoved at him. ‘But from the moment I woke up at your town house, and then in the car, the last thing you wanted me to do was look at you. Or at your damned photo!’

  ‘I was busy. I have to take care of so many things,’ he growled out.

  ‘You’re not the only one with a life. With a past.’

  He looked away, as if expecting the horses to agree that this was the most exasperating nonsense he’d ever had to endure.

  ‘Frankie—I don’t do this with women. I don’t explain myself … I don’t fight.’

  ‘No? Well, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you should try explaining yourself once in a while!’

  She knew she sounded shrewish and shrill. She knew her voice was wobbling with unspilled tears. She knew if she stood another second in his company she would submit to whatever he wanted—just so she could feel that soothing sense of completeness he gave her.

  But where would that leave her?

  ‘I’ll follow you back to the ranch,’ she said to the wind. ‘And then I’ll make my own way to Punta. Okay? Then you’ll not need to look at me, or fight with me, or damn well come and “rescue” me.’

  She tried to stuff her wet tennis shoe into the stirrup, tried to hoist herself up. Once, twice, three times she tried, but exhaustion wound through her, heavy and dark as treacle. She laid her arms on the saddle and hung her head, dug deep and tried again.

  Then Rocco’s arms. Rocco’s shoulder.

  He pulled her back, and she used the last of her energy to spread her fingers against him and push.

  ‘Frankie, querida, stop fighting me.’

  He scooped her against his body, his shirt wet but warm. He walked her three paces, holding her close, whispering and soothing. She had nothing left to battle him with, and as he pinned her arms at her side in his embrace she let all her fight go like a dying breath.

  ‘I can’t let you go back like this.’ He clutched her in one arm and flicked out the blanket with the other. ‘I can’t stand watching you fighting against me so hard when there’s no reason.’

  ‘But there’s every reason,’ she whispered. If she didn’t put up a fight now, God only knew where she would end up.

  He cupped her face by the jaw and stared down, the angry black flash of his eyes softening as the raindrops suddenly lessened, then stopped, leaving a cooling freshness all around. Light settled.

  ‘There’s nothing to be gained. Not when this is what we should be doing.’

  He gently brought his mouth down to hers.

  Heaven.

  Warm presses, soft, then more demanding. She answered him, echoed everything he did—how could she not? His tongue slid into her mouth; his hand slid under her T-shirt. He cupped her damp flesh and shoved her bra to the side. She burned for him. She clutched at him, at every part of him.

  This hunger was insatiable. Terrifying. Thundering through her like the summer storm.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom.

  ‘Do I need to carry one everywhere I go now?’ he breathed into her. ‘What I have to put up with to get what I want …’

  And just like that the soft, easy current she was slipping into so easily turned into a dangerous riptide.

  She pulled back. ‘What?’ she whispered. ‘What did you just say? What you have to put up with? You don’t have to put up with me. Nobody’s forcing you!’

  He grabbed her roughly. Shook her shoulders.

  ‘Why do you misinterpret everything I say or do? You and I … We are incredible together. And we don’t have much time left. If you want to waste it fighting—that’s your choice.’

  He shook her again, and she felt her world wavering right there. He was right. They had only hours left. Hours she had dreamed of her whole adult life. But she wasn’t going to mould herself into the image of the women he was used to. She was who she was.

  ‘Apologise for how you treated me when I held up that photo.’ She saw him physically bristle. ‘I don’t need to know who it is, but I didn’t deserve that.’

  He eyed her steadily. His eyes held the power and the vastness of the rolling skies above them, but she didn’t look away.

  ‘It is … he is … someone very close. Someone who is no longer here.’

  She swallowed.

  His eyes slid away, then back.

  ‘I see,’ she said. It had been all she needed, but hearing the words, she knew she had prised open a box that was kept very, very tightly shut. ‘Thank you. I didn’t mean to pry.’

  She dipped her eyes, but felt his fingers gentle on her chin.

  ‘And I did not mean to hurt you.’

  Tenderly he touched his lips to her brow, pulled her against him and tucked her under his head.

  The horses stood together, heads twisting, eyes wide. The grasses settled into a silken green wave, the sky cleared of clouds and then darkened and the warm summer day slid slowly into sleep.

  They stood together, silent, breathing, thinking, kissing. And Frankie knew that, no matter what happened next, the rest of her life would be marked by this day.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ROCCO STARED AT the phone in his hand as if it was an unexploded bomb. Finally the PI he’d had on his books for the past ten years had uncovered something concrete.

  So long. It felt as if he’d been waiting his whole life to hear it. And, no—it wasn’t even confirmed—but, hell, it was as close as it had ever been. He’d pursued this last lead tirelessly, feeling in his gut that he was closing in. And to discover that Martinez—Lodo’s killer—might have been living for the past ten years in Buenos Aires would be a twist of fate almost too bittersweet to bear.

  He’d admit it to no one but Dante, but this news shook him to his core.

  He fastened cufflinks and tugged cuffs. Glanced into the mirror and confirmed that his restless mood was reflected all over his face. The shadow from his imperfect nose was cast down his cheek and his scar throbbed—a reminder of every punch he’d ever slung in the boxing ring and on the streets. Every blow, every ounce of rage directed at Chris Martinez for what he had done. And at himself for what he hadn’t.

  It was the timing of this that was wrong—in the middle of the Vaca Muerta shale gas deal, which was worth billions and his biggest venture yet. That and the delicious distraction of Frankie. But it was too important to let a moment pass.

  This was the closing in on a twenty-year chase—one that had started with him running for his life, dragging Lodo along behind him, as the shout had gone up that the gang were back and wanted revenge. And Lodo—trusting, loyal Lodo—had been right there behind him as they’d leaped up from their cardboard box beds and hurled themselves into the pre-dawn streets.

  Why he had let him go, let his fingers slip, was the question he could never answer. It was the deathly crow that lived in his chest, flapping its wings against his ribs at the slightest memory of Lodo—a shock of blond curls, the curve of a child’s cheek, the taste of choripan, the sight of graffiti, the swirl of Milonga music. Every part of BA held a memory, and it was why he would never, ever leave.

  Even when that piece of slime Martinez was locked up or dead. Even then. Lodo was still there in those streets. The streets were all he had to remember him by, and nothing would drag him away. At least he understood that now—now that the counsellor’s words had sunk in, twenty years after hearing them.

  How could someone who was as blessed as he’d turned out to be have fought against it so hard?

  He’d been ‘saved’ by Señor and Señora Hermida as part of their p
ersonal quest to ‘give back’ to BA after they had just managed to escape the big crash that had caused so much devastation to others. Been dragged to their estancia, sent to an elite school with Dante, given every last chance that he would never have had when he’d wound up abandoned, orphaned and nearly killed.

  The years of his hating the privilege had taken their toll on his madre and padre—that was how he referred to his and Dante’s parents. They deserved that at least, after tirelessly forgiving him time after time. Bringing him back every time he ran away, channelling his energies into pursuits like boxing and polo that had eventually turned out to be life-saving. They had understood that he couldn’t just accept the endless stream of money that could so easily have been his—not that they’d allowed him to squander it. He’d had to work for every peso.

  But he’d preferred a much harder path. Starting with only the blood in his veins and the sharp senses he’d been born with. Self-sacrifice, almost self-flagellation, had been way better than any golden-boy opportunities. He had self-funded every step of the way. For him there had been no other way.

  And he had done well. Very well. He had everything he could ever want.

  Apart from his own family. He would never have that. It was a fruit too sweet. There would be no wife, no child. No one to fill Lodo’s place.

  But he was a man. He needed a woman. Of course he did. And one who accepted the limitations of her role.

  The scent of Frankie wound through from the dressing room. This whole situation had unravelled in a way he had not predicted. He’d thought a passion this hot was just after a ten-year build-up and would be over well within the time he’d allotted. That it was as much about finally sampling forbidden fruit as any genuine full-blown attraction. But he’d been wrong. He was nowhere near sated.

  How long it would last was something he was not prepared to commit to—but he was not going to let her out of his sight. Not while she excited him and incited him so much. Pure sex, of course. But sex the likes of which he had never known. And, since all his relationships were effectively based on sex, the currency of this one was totally valid.