Postcards From Buenos Aires. Bella Frances

in his mind. He’d worked up a king-size appetite, and as soon as Frankie came out of the shower he was going to feed her, nourish her, make sure she had enough fuel for them to continue where they’d left off. It was pretty much all he had head space for just now.

      He’d done too much thinking in the past few hours—watching her as she slept, biting down on his anger. He should have done more at the time. He should have checked she was all right. He should have at least figured out that the reason she’d never been mentioned was that she’d been sent away in disgrace.

      Damn, but this just proved his point. Being responsible for others was a non-negotiable non-starter. Lodo, Dante—and now this. Nothing good came of it but feelings of guilt, regret, that he could have done more.

      What concerned him most was that even though she had every right to hate him and hold him responsible she had come here—after all this time. And no matter what she claimed—that it was a business trip, that she’d wanted to see the ponies—she had tracked him down. And right now she was in his bedroom.

      That part wasn’t the problem—not at all. And she didn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d turn needy and emotional. But still, you never knew … Sometimes it was the wild ones who were the most vulnerable.

      So he had to be crystal clear that this was a short-term party for two. With no after-party. Of course, that would be a whole lot easier if he wasn’t so turned on by her. If he’d been able to get her out of his system like every other woman before. But that wasn’t looking as if it was going to happen any time soon.

      ‘Hey, guapo!’

      Rocco paused, and scowled at Dante as he sauntered in from the grounds.

      ‘What are you doing here?’

      Dante’s easy golden grin slid over him, for once jarring his mood.

      He didn’t want to be disturbed—didn’t want to have to think through or account for what he was doing. He just wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

      ‘You didn’t seriously think I would stay away? Took me a while to track you down, though. Never thought you’d hole up here.’

      He drew a hand through his dark blond hair, reached for one of the bottles of water.

      ‘There’s more in the fridge. These are for us.’

      ‘Us? As in la chica irlandés? So she’s still here?’

      He whistled. And grinned. And removed his hand when he saw that Rocco wasn’t going to relinquish the bottle.

      ‘Ah. So we’re still working through the obsession?’

      He nodded his head. ‘We’re getting there.’

      Dante was smirking, prowling about, checking things out.

      ‘You got plans?’ Rocco cracked the lid on his water, necked half of it, tried to swallow his irritation at the same time.

      ‘Well, the party’s moved on—everybody’s in Punta. Waiting on you.’ He tossed away his jacket and eased himself onto a sofa, looking as if he was just about to film a commercial. As usual.

      ‘Don’t let me hold you back. I’ve got stuff to do at the estancia. Might take me the weekend to fix—’

      Dante ignored him, cut in. ‘You know you’ve created a whole lot of buzz? The way you acted last night. But hey, it’s cool. I’ll get out of your hair. Leave you to work all the knots out. God knows you’ve been coiled up with it for years. A whole weekend, though? Impressive.’

      ‘You’re reading too much into this.’

      ‘What about Turlington?’

      ‘What about it?’

      Dante pulled out his phone, started to browse through it as if he had all the time in the world. That was the thing about Dante—he made easy an art form.

      ‘Oh, nothing. Except you’ve never missed it yet. And there will be a lot of disappointed people there if you don’t show up.’ He grinned at his phone. ‘In fact there will be a lot of disappointed people if you do show up with la chica. What’s her name again? Frankie?’

      ‘Yeah, that’s me.’

      They both turned round. And there she was. Framed in falling sunbeams from the hallway, golden all around. She walked towards them into the kitchen. And if he’d thought she’d looked sexy in her little blue dress, it was nothing to seeing her decked out in one of his favourite blue shirts. Scrubbed clean, hair sleek, bare limbs.

      Had she done the buttons up wrong just to add to the whole ‘tumbled out of bed’ look? His eyes zoned straight in on the asymmetric slices of fabric that skimmed her toned, succulent thighs.

      She strolled right up and took the bottle of water that was dangling limply from his hand. Then she unscrewed the top, tipped the bottle head against his, winked, said, ‘Cheers!’ and took a long, slow sip.

      His eyes zoned in on her throat. Swallowing the water. It killed him.

      He’d really thought that some of her allure would have rubbed off by now. Didn’t feel like it. Not the way he was warming up. He turned away.

      Dante beamed at her as if she was some kind of clever child who had taken its first steps or said its first words. Then he did exactly what he always did: he stood up and sauntered over as if he was being called to the stage to collect a prize—all easy charm and sunshine smiles.

      ‘I’m Dante. Absolute pleasure to meet you, Frankie. Again.’

      He kissed her right cheek, kissed her left cheek. Held her by the shoulders and gave her a long once-over. Nodded.

      Rocco sank the rest of his water and watched from the corner of his eye.

      She was smiling that smile. She could be so intense, but when she smiled her face lit up like carnival.

      ‘Pleased to meet you, too, Dante. Again.’

      ‘Dante’s just leaving.’ He took his empty bottle and fired it into the recycling bin. It clattered noisily.

      Dante didn’t miss a beat.

      ‘Yeah, I’m heading to Punta, Frankie. We always head there after the Molina party. It’s the Turlington Club party tomorrow night. I’d be happy to take you.’

      It was the usual chat, but seeing the flash of dipped eyes and the curve of a smile made him bristle. Was she flirting? Was Dante flirting right back? Whatever—it was pushing his damn buttons. That was all it was. He should know that. What was wrong with him? He should calm the hell down.

      She opened her mouth to reply but he cut in. ‘As I said, I have to call in at La Colorada. So I’ll let you know later if I’m going to make it up to Punta.’

      ‘How about you, Frankie? What would you rather do? Go and muck out horses with the Lone Ranger here, or drink cocktails at Bikini Beach with me?’

      Rocco felt his fingers grip Frankie’s shoulders. ‘Frankie came all the way here to see the horses, so I reckon that answers your question.’

      ‘And I thought she was here to see you …’

      The swine threw his head back and laughed. Round One to him.

      Rocco palmed her back as he steered her down the hallway, with Dante’s chuckling words ringing in the space. ‘I’ll see myself out, then. See you at the Turlington Club, Frankie—save me a dance.’

      How many times had Dante tried that routine on one of his girls? And how many times had Rocco found it entertaining? Countless. Watching their eyes widen, wondering who to look at—wondering if Dante really was flirting.

      ‘You never said anything about going to your ranch.’

      She had stopped dead, in that way that she