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 personal 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.
Longer term? No. Her expectations would be sky-high. She’d want an equal footing in everything. She’d fight him every step of the way if she felt something wasn’t fair. And he had no time for that. He had no time to be looking after a woman like that. That level of responsibility was to be avoided at all costs. Hadn’t he proved that? Wasn’t his trail of devastation big enough? No. She’d exhaust him. Cause him sleepless nights—in every sense.
That whole episode with her taking the pony and disappearing was evidence enough. His jaw clenched at the rage he’d felt when he’d found her gone. What a fool he’d been. Wandering around the garden first, calling her name, imagining that she’d be lying there waiting—warm and welcoming. Then when he’d realised she wasn’t there or anywhere in the house, that sick feeling of panic had begun to build.
He’d felt it countless times with Dante when they were younger—as teenagers out roaming around the city, or later when they’d both go out and Dante would disappear for days, getting lost in some girl. Forcing himself past the terror of losing him had been years in the achieving, but he’d schooled himself. He’d learned. Dante was in total control of Dante. Lodo—well, that had been a different matter.
And today he’d been feeling it all over again. Bizarre. He’d been dwelling a lot on Lodo these past few days. Dredging up all the pain again. He had to get hold of himself, though—put the plaster back over his Achilles’ heel. And damn fast.
Hours later he was sitting alongside her in the helicopter—watching the raw excitement on her face as the came in to land on the perfect patchwork quilt that made up Punta del Este. The sea, the beach, the clusters of yachts, the million-dollar homes—all were laid out like a beautiful chequered cloth.
He loved this place. Loved that Frankie was here, sharing it with him.
He showed her round his house and the gardens he’d designed himself. Watched her natural interest and joy at the little hidden corners, the sunken nooks, the bridge that spanned the inner courtyard swimming pool—it was a pleasure to see unguarded happiness. He wasn’t usually in the business of comparisons, but—again—her lack of artifice, her unedited honesty, was so striking up against some of the other women he’d dated. Refreshing as rain on parched earth. It fed something in him—something he hadn’t even known he was hungry for.
And then, of course, there was the passion. As soon as they’d got indoors and he’d got a message that there was further news about Martinez, he’d taken her—fast and hard. Maybe too hard. But she’d responded; she’d given it right back. She was just what he needed right now. No mind games, no manipulation. Just there, answering his body with her own. The perfect partner while he worked through this news.
Now he paced to the bathroom door. Opened it. Saw her. Wanted her all over again.
She kept her gaze straight ahead, frowned into the mirror as she smoothed her hair with her fingers and clipped in the emerald earrings he’d had delivered. He would give them to her to keep when she finally left. He would give them to her to remember him by.
The memories he had left her with the first time …
His hands curled into fists as he thought of how badly she had been treated. He had been so oblivious. He was angry, and still coming to terms with seeing a side of her she managed to keep well hidden.
To the world she was wilful, too stubborn. But to him she was just a highly strung filly. As highly strung as Ipanema had been when she’d arrived from Ireland. Missing her farm, her spoiled life. All she’d needed was a bit of careful management and a strong hand. She’d respected that. Needed that.
Just like her mistress.
And now he found himself easily, instinctively handling her.
He didn’t need to wonder too deeply about why. They were both meeting each other’s needs. It was that simple. There was no deeper, darker agenda. It was what it was. And it was good—for now.
‘Perfecto.’
He said it aloud.
She smiled a self-effacing little half smile. ‘Thank you. But I’m not going to lie … The thought of being all over the press as your date is giving me hives.’
He walked to her, wrapped his arms round her as she stood staring into the mirror. He in black, she in white. Her lips were a stain of poppy red, her hair a patent shimmer. In spiked heels, she was just tall enough to tuck her head under his chin completely. He nestled her against him, enjoying the fine-boned feel of her.
‘You’ll be sensational.’
‘I’d rather be a nonentity. Walls need flowers—that’s where I prefer to plant myself. And the thought of the media and all those people staring at the photographs of me …’
She shuddered and he held her back from him, stared at her. ‘All those people?’
‘Well, people who know me. Okay,’ she said, pulling away, ‘my family. They’ll judge. And not in a good way.’
‘It’s only a party, Frankie. I’m sure they have them in Ireland.’
‘Sure they do—but I like to keep my invites on the down-low. It’s easier that way.’
‘I reckon we can pull off a party without it hitting the headlines.’ He hooked his thumb under her chin, tipped it up gently. ‘Don’t you?’
She rolled her eyes, quirked her lips into a smile. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Good. So we’ll just go for a little while. I may have to return to BA