The Playboy of Argentina. Bella Frances

him, after a particularly broody day in Dublin when he’d failed to make contact with her, it hadn’t gone well. He’d called her Rocco’s ‘Irish obsession’. It was probably the only time they’d failed to agree on anything. He’d admit it now, though. He was definitely obsessing about her now.

      He checked his phone, his money and, for the first time in a long time, his appearance. He knew how he looked. He wasn’t coy or stupid. Normally it was irrelevant. There were far, far more important things in this world—like loyalty, like honour. Like family …

      And if he was honest, that penthouse full of beautiful women back there …? None of them interested him more than the skinny, hazel-eyed Irish kid he’d met ten years earlier. A little bit of closure on that particular puzzle would be good—it had been a long time coming.

      He swung into the back of the sedan. An hour earlier than he’d suggested and the city was limbering itself up for the night ahead. The party at Molina Lario would be good, for starters. But he was feeling post-match wired and just this side of in control. He spread his arms across the back of the seat, watched the sights of his town slip past. A bit of Barcelona here … a look of Paris there. The spill of people on wide streets, corners alive with café culture. Vibrant, creative and free.

      But he was no romantic fool. Yes, he loved it. Loved it that he had run its streets and slept in its parks. Loved it that he had survived. Was grateful that he had survived when so many others had fallen or, perhaps worse, were living the legacy of those years in prisons or still on the streets. He would never, ever forget or take that for granted.

      But all he had—his wealth, his businesses, his health, his adoptive family—all of that he would trade right now for one more day with Lodo. One more chance to shield him and protect him and cherish him—better than he’d managed last time …

      The car cruised to a stop. They were here. He hadn’t been in this part of town for years. Villa Crespo was outside Palermo and on the up, but he would have preferred that she’d stayed closer to the centre, where the worst that could happen was pickpocketing. He got out. Looked around. It seemed quiet enough. The hotel was traditional—a single frontage villa. Ochres and oranges. Cute, he supposed. He went inside.

      The concierge was startled to see him, and he jumped up from his TV screen, gave him the details he needed. Her room, first floor; her visitors, none; and her movements, she’d been in her room since her return earlier.

      He ignored the old cage elevator and took the stairs three at a time. If she felt about him the way he thought she did they could stay in her room. No problem. Or they could hang out for a while and then go on to another party, or back to Dante’s pad, or even to the estancia. It had been a long time since he’d taken a woman back there. But he felt even now that one night with Frankie Ryan might not be enough. An undisturbed weekend? That might just about slake this thirst for her.

      He stood outside her door.

      Dark polished wood. Brass number five.

      He knocked. Twice. Rapid. Impatient.

      Nothing.

      She should be getting ready, at the very least.

      He knocked again.

      Still nothing.

      He’d opened his mouth to growl out her name when the door swung open.

      And there she was.

      Bleary eyed, hair mussed and messy, one bony white shoulder exposed by the slipped sleeve of her pale blue nightdress, her face screwed up against the light from the hall.

      He’d never seen anything more adorable in his life.

      ‘Frankie.’

      He stepped forward, the urge to grab hold of her immense.

      But she put a hand to her head, set her features to a scowl and opened her mouth in an incredulous O.

      ‘What—what are you doing here?’

      He still couldn’t believe how sleepily, deliciously gorgeous she looked. His eyes roamed all over her—the eye-mask now awry, the milky pale skin and the utter lack of anything under that thin jersey nightdress. It clung to her fine bones and tiny curves. As beguiling as he remembered, though maybe her breasts were rounder, fuller …

      ‘What are you—? Why are you—? I told your guy I wasn’t coming.’

      He dragged his eyes back to her face. Heard a noise at the end of the corridor. The concierge was peeping, making an ‘everything all right?’ face, wielding a pass key. Rocco nodded, put up his hand to keep him back.

      ‘Let me in, Frankie.’

      She seemed almost to choke out her answer. ‘No!’

      ‘Okay, I’ll wait here—get dressed.’

      ‘I’m. Not. Coming.’

      He was slightly amused. Slightly. The irony of the situation was not lost on him.

      ‘We’ve been here before, querida, only last time it was you on the other side of the door. Remember?’

      And there it was—that wildness he had seen all those years ago. That almost wantonness she’d exuded that he’d found exhilarating, intoxicating. She leaned out into the corridor, to check who was there, then looked right up at him. He drew his eyes away from the gaping lines of her nightdress, followed her gaze.

      ‘I can’t believe you’re actually standing here!’

      ‘It would be better if I came in. As I recall, that was your preference last time.’

      ‘I was sixteen! I made a mistake!’ She blazed out her answer.

      Then she gripped her arms round herself. All that happened was that the neckline of her nightdress splayed open even more, letting him see right to the tip of one small high breast. He reached forward, gently lifted the fabric and tugged it back into position, ignoring her futile attempts to swat his arm away.

      ‘Why don’t we discuss that inside?’

      His hand hovered, then retracted. He badly wanted to touch her, but he was nothing if not a reader of women and he sensed she was going to need more than a pep talk to get her on-message.

      ‘You made yourself perfectly plain the last time we met. And I don’t have any wish to spend any more time with you. I told your guy. I couldn’t have been plainer.’

      ‘The last time we met was four hours ago. You were in my horse transporter. You came looking for me.’

      She was so wild, standing there in next to nothing. He was getting harder and harder just looking at her. Memories came of her slipping into his bed, waking him up with her naive little kisses and her hot little body. Him literally pushing her out of his bed—like rejecting heaven.

      Her eyes blazed. ‘I came looking for our bloodline, not you! You arrogant ar—’

      He put his finger on her lips where they framed the word he knew she was about to launch at him. Her eyes widened even more.

      ‘Don’t belittle yourself, querida.’ He lowered his voice, stepped closer. ‘Go inside, get dressed, and I will take you to the party and tell you everything you want to know about your ponies.’

      But lightning-quick she grabbed for his hand and tried to pull it away. The sleeve of her nightdress fell lower and the pull of the fabric strained on her breasts. Her nipples, twin buds, drew his eyes—and, damn it, the flame of heat coursed straight to his groin.

      ‘I call it as I see it, and I see you as an—’

      He couldn’t hold back. She fired him, inflamed him. He wanted to taste her so badly. He had to contain her, have her mouth under his.

      She lifted her arms to push him and he scooped her wrists together, pinned them behind her. Then he heaved her against him and crushed her insolent mouth. Fragile but strong, she strained and