Postcards From Buenos Aires. Bella Frances

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