Postcards From Buenos Aires. Bella Frances

hold his confidence. But, no. That was not an option. Never an option.

      ‘I head out the day after … so that all works out, then.’

      Her voice was strained. He understood instantly.

      ‘No, Frankie. I am not saying goodbye. Not tomorrow or the day after.’

      He held her within his outline, stared at them in the mirror.

      ‘I’d like you to stay on in Buenos Aires—with me. Until … until we put out this fire between us.’

      ‘Rocco—’ she started.

      He watched her steady herself, watched strain splinter across her face.

      ‘I’m only in South America for a few more days and then I’m flying back to Europe.’

      ‘So stay longer. We have to continue this thing that we’ve started. It would be crazy not to. What do you say? Think about it.’

      He didn’t want to think about it. He just knew it felt right.

      He turned her in his arms. She opened her mouth, as always needing to have her say, but some things needed no discussion. This was one of them.

      Careful not to smear her lipstick, he kissed her lightly. But he slid his tongue into her mouth—just as a little reminder that the slightest touch was all it took.

      The party was exactly as he’d expected it would be. The elegant country club was bedecked with all sorts of champagne-themed nonsense, and golden fairy lights around the jacarandas that lined the driveway made the blue-flowered trees look like sticks of giant glittery candyfloss. A gold marquee squatted on the lawn at the front of the old colonial-style house that had now become the clubhouse. Grace and glitz cautiously circled each other before the electrifying dance that would come later.

      He watched as Frankie warily eyed the obligatory press corps as their car curved round the driveway. He had to smile at how contradictory she could be. So confident, so combative—but also so anxious about being his date.

      He smiled, squeezed the hand he’d held throughout the car ride even though his mind had drifted to the next stage of the Martinez investigation—a task he’d entrusted to Dante: one final check on the identity of the man they suspected of being Chris Martinez. He scanned his phone for about the thousandth time in the past hour. Still nothing. He slid it away, held her close, tucked under his shoulder, feeling her presence soften his frayed edges.

      Shadows of other times flitted through his mind, startling him. Fleeting moments when the salve of another body had shored up the pain. One happy dark morning, before her breakdown, when he had crawled into the warmth of his mamá’s bed after his papá had left on the soulless search for work. Feeling her love as she’d closed her arms around him. And then, mere months later, he had been collapsing into the arms of the nuns at the hospital. Hiding in their long black skirts. Racked with the agony of guilt when he’d seen Lodo laid out in the mortuary.

      Strange that the touch of a lover had brought of these feelings back. It never had before. The news about Martinez had affected him very deeply, it seemed.

      ‘Here we go, then.’

      He smiled. It was unusual for him to have a date who preferred to stay in the background. Refreshingly unusual. He tried to soothe the tension in the brittle grip of her fingers and the jagged cut of her shoulder under his arm as he steered her past the openly intrigued crowd. Fields of happy, curious faces turned towards them like flowers—as if they were the sun, giving light and warmth. To him, Frankie felt colder by the second.

      He knew she’d rather be curled up in his lap on the couch, watching TV and making love, than stuck in the media glare with all these gilt-edged sycophants.

      Carmel had loved the spotlight. And had stupidly thought she could use her media chums to manipulate him, dropping hints that they were ‘getting serious’. Hearing that had sobered him up pronto. Finalmento.

      And of course Carmel was here tonight—she’d never miss it. All flowing golden hair and shimmering curves in a red sequined dress. Holding court in the middle of the vast foyer. She caught sight of them entering, covered her shock well. But he knew that the extravagant tilt of her head, the slight hitch in her rich syrupy laugh and the twisting pose to showcase her fabulous figure were all for him.

      Dante had warned him that Operation: Frankie Who? was well underway. Everyone was desperate to know about the girl who had caused the Hurricane to bail out of the post-match celebrations and go off radar. The fact that she was more shot glass than hourglass, and had never made a social appearance before that anyone could remember, was as baffling as it was irritating for them.

      Baffling for him, too, if he was honest. He’d felt physical attraction before. But this was crazy—like a wild pony. Ten years breaking it in, and still it wasn’t tamed.

      ‘Look how much of a sensation you’re making,’ he whispered into her ear, lingering a moment, knowing just how to heat her up.

      ‘The only sensation I’ve got is horror,’ she shot back. ‘They’re like vampires, waiting for blood. Get your garlic ready. And stay close with your pitchfork.’

      ‘Relax …’ He smiled and steered her through with a few nods, a few handshakes, but it was clear for all to see that he was lingering with no one but Frankie. He’d need to work hard to ease these particular knots from her shoulders—especially since she was so damn independent in every other aspect of her life.

      ‘Let’s get a drink.’

      He liked this club—this home away from home. It was old, but not stuffy. The rules were as relaxed as you could hope for, and the people easy.

      He and Dante had spent so much of their time here, back in the day. Made fools of themselves, learned to charm, in Dante’s case, or in his case, fight a way out of trouble. All in the relative safety of this club that had seen generations of polo-playing Hermidas. Generations who now posed with other serious-eyed teammates or proud glossy ponies, looking down at them from their brass frames in the oak-panelled club rooms. Full-blood Hermidas. He never forgot that he was there by invitation only. But he was grateful now—accepting. Indebted.

      He led her through the gold-draped dining room, past the billiard room and out to the terrace. Dark, warm air flowed between open French doors and mingled with chatter and laughter and lights. On the lawn the marquee throbbed with a low baseline—incongruously, invitingly.

      ‘Do you want to dance?’ he asked, handing her a glass of champagne.

      ‘No. Thanks.’ She sipped it, looked around.

      ‘You want some food?’ He indicated the abundant buffet.

      ‘Not hungry. Who’s the girl in the red dress?’ she shot out.

      He looked down at Frankie’s upturned curious face. So she’d noticed. Predictably, Carmel was on form.

      ‘An ex-girlfriend. Carmel de Souza. She likes the limelight—and you’re in it.’ He sensed some kind of predatory emotion in Frankie, but for once in his life it didn’t make him recoil. ‘She once had plans that involved me, but I suspect she has all those bases covered by now. She’s never single. Ever.’

      ‘That’s no surprise—looking as she does.’

      ‘Relax. Looking as she does is a full-time occupation. And I mean full-time.’

      ‘Really?’ Frankie sounded slightly snippy. ‘Doesn’t she have a proper job? Something with a bit more … substance?’

      He shrugged. What did she do? Shop? Party? Self-promote? She was her own industry.

      ‘She looks good. She snares rich men.’

      ‘So she’s a man hunter? Is that it?’

      ‘More of a husband hunter, to be honest. And with me that was never going to happen. It became a bit of an issue