‘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 did. Like a mule.
‘No, I didn’t, but I have to go there now.’
He paused. This could be the moment. At 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