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.
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 named.
She’d looked around, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She wouldn’t be back there after all. Spotting her watch on the floor, where she must have thrown it earlier, she’d bent to pick up. Where were her new earrings? She’d glanced all around and then had seen them at the side of the bed, there beside a little photograph. She’d walked round and reached out to scoop them up, but her hand had closed on the tiny frame that lay face down instead. She’d placed it upright.
It had been a picture of a child. She’d lifted it up to have a closer look. A blurry picture of an infant, maybe two or three years old. Bright blond hair, kept long, but definitely a boy. Solemn dark eyes, only just turned to the camera, as if he really hadn’t wanted to look. There had been something terribly familiar in the scowling mouth. Dante? She didn’t think so.
She’d turned to ask Rocco. He had stopped his artillery fire of instructions for a moment, had been standing framed in the hugely imposing window, an outline of the blue day all around him—so light and bright that she hadn’t quite been able to see his features.
She had smiled, held up the picture.
The phone had been dropped to the end of his arm, a voice babbling into the air unheard. He’d paced forward as a thunderous tension had rolled through the room. Something akin to fear had spread out from her stomach at the way he’d moved, the slash of his features and the dark stab of his eyes.
He had taken