Postcards From Buenos Aires. Bella Frances

any other time, with any other woman, this would be the moment. As soon as they got possessive, bitchy or mean: It’s been great, but change of plans. Thanks for a wonderful time. It would be that clean. The words would maybe sound harsh, but it would be short, sweet, simple.

      He considered, but he just didn’t want to. Not yet anyway. Another day should see all the knots worked out …

      ‘But I’ve already told you I was only here with you for the day. I’ve come halfway across the world to see Esme.’

      She was still with that? She couldn’t see herself that the minute she’d landed it was him she’d tracked down? He was still coming to terms with everything she’d told him, but he was slowly getting there—she couldn’t really be blind to the fact that it was his house she was standing in, in his shirt, after having his body all over her for the past ten hours.

      ‘Punta is a two-hour trip. If you want to leave now I’ll make the arrangements …’

      She opened her mouth.

      ‘I have to go to the estancia. Juanchi, my head gaucho, wants to talk. He’s got a concern about one of the ponies on the genetics programme. It’s up to you. Easy to get you to your friends, if that’s what you want.’

      She twirled a strand of hair, made a little face, shrugged. ‘Okay. Sounds like a plan. As long as there are no more surprises.’

      Sounds like a plan? No more surprises? He almost did a double-take. God, she riled him like no other woman ever could.

      But even as she stood there he wanted to wipe the coy little look off her face with his mouth.

      ‘That’s the thing about surprises—you can’t always see them coming.’

      She slipped him a little smile. ‘I suppose …’

      ‘Take us—right now.’

      He took the water from her hand, put it on the console table beside them.

      ‘Bolt from the blue.’

      He slid his hands round her waist, felt the faint outline of her ribs, pulled her towards him. She was still holding back. Still playing her game. He could feel it. No arms round his neck … no legs round his waist.

      ‘This has been a very lovely surprise. Gorgeous.’

      He stepped into her space, eased his thumbs to the underside of her breasts. Slowly, slowly rubbed the soft flesh, gently massaged.

      ‘So what if it’s only going to last a few more hours? A day? You go your way—I go mine.’

      He kept up his sensuous caressing. She blinked her eyes, slowly, softened like butter in the sunshine.

      ‘But there’s no point denying that right now we’re very …’

      His hands slid to the sides of her breasts and his thumbs found her nipples. Little light touches to begin with, just how she liked it.

      ‘Very …’

      She closed her eyes.

      ‘Hot for one another …’

      Her head fell back and she ground out a long, satisfied sigh. ‘Mmm …’

      He nodded. Slid one hand to the hem of the shirt, gripped her hips, kept up the pressure on her nipples. Then he bent his mouth to the fabric, drew long and deep on each nipple, soaked his own shirt with his mouth, tugging those buds to hard points.

      She was so easy to turn up and down, on and off. Like a geyser.

      He stood back, admired his work.

      ‘Lose the shirt,’ he said.

      For a moment she stood, dreamy and drugged. Then she fixed him with a look. Dipped her chin. Smiled like sin.

      ‘Make me.’

      He grinned. He couldn’t help it. There she went again—matching him. Firing him up. Making him feel that here was a woman who could stand toe to toe with him.

      Dammit, but he couldn’t afford to let crazy thoughts like those into his head.

      He grabbed for her. ‘Make you, Angel? In ways you’ve never even dreamed of …’

      She tried to duck away but he caught her. She screamed with laughter as he hauled her close to him and silenced her with kisses like a crazy man. She caved. Totally caved. Couldn’t get enough. She suckled his lip, his tongue, showered him with kisses.

      She thought she was calling the shots?

      He needed to be in complete control of this. Couldn’t afford any slip-ups.

      He tossed her over his shoulder. Her shirt—his shirt—rode up, and he held his hand over her bare backside, bringing it down just a little hard. Just a little warning—he was in control. And that was how it would stay.

       CHAPTER SIX

      FRANKIE WAS PREPARED for the long jacaranda-lined driveway. She was prepared for the still green lakes overhung with sleepy willows. The curved pillared entrance, the endless array of white-framed windows, the pops of colour from plants, pots and baskets—all of them were totally as she’d envisaged. She was even prepared for the unending horizons she could see on either side of the mansion-style ranch house, rolling into the distance, underlining the vastness of the lands, the importance of the estancia, the power of the man.

      But she was not prepared for the huge lump that welled in her throat or the hot tears that sprang to her eyes when she saw the horses that galloped over to the fence to welcome their master home, racing alongside the car as he drove, happily displaying their unconditional love. Nor was she prepared for the uninhibited smile that lit up Rocco’s face as he watched them.

      The freedom they enjoyed shone out as they played in the fields surrounding La Colorada. It had been so long … so, so long since she had enjoyed that self-same freedom. After Ipanema had gone she’d never felt the same. She’d barely even sat on a horse—she’d thought she’d grown up, moved on from her teenage fixation with horses, moved on to her adult fixation with escape.

      But here, now, it all came flooding back. Maybe it was just because she was so tired, or maybe it was a reflection of all that had come at her these past several hours, but she struggled to hold back a sob as memories of her happy childhood slammed into her one after another after another. A childhood that had been so completely shattered with the arrival of Rocco Hermida.

      She twirled her ring and swallowed hard.

      ‘I have to find Juanchi. You can wait in the house—relax until supper. Come on, I’ll show you inside.’

      Those were the first words he had spoken to her in the best part of an hour. They’d gone back to bed, both drifted off to sleep, and when she’d woken he’d been pulling on clothes with his phone clamped to his ear. It hadn’t moved far ever since.

      Her little vinyl carry-on case had arrived, its gaudy ribbon, scuffed sides and wonky wheel incongruous beside the butter-soft leather weekend bag Rocco had been chucking things into as he spoke.

      Rattling out questions, he’d glanced at her, given a little wink, then turned his back and walked to the window, continuing to berate the poor director of some vineyard who was on the other end. His hand had circled and stabbed at the air as he’d punctuated his questions with a visual display of his frustration.

      She’d showered and dressed quickly in what she’d thought might be appropriate—denim shorts and a pink T-shirt. What else would you wear to a ranch? She’d slipped her feet into white leather tennis shoes and thrown everything else in her case. Rocco had dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. He’d paced up and down. More gestures, more rattled commands, more reminders that the Hurricane was well