Читать книгу Postcards From Buenos Aires - Bella Frances - Страница 10

IN THE LAZY warmth of a summer afternoon, Rocco ‘Hurricane’ Hermida stepped out of his helicopter onto the utterly perfect turf of the Buenos Aires Campo Argentino de Polo. From her vantage point in the crowd Frankie Ryan felt the air around her ripple with the flutter of a thousand eyelashes. If awe was a sound it was the reverent silence of grown men turning to stare at their own demigod. No doubt the polo ponies were stamping and snuffling and shaking their shaved manes adoringly, too. Yet all she could feel were the unbidden tremors of hurt and humiliation and—damn him to hell—shame.

With every step he took across the springy grass his fabulous outline sharpened. A little taller, definitely more muscular. Could his hair be longer? It had seemed so shockingly defiant all those years ago. Now it just trademarked him as none other than Argentina’s own—her finest, proudest export.

Wind whipped at silk skirts and hands flew to hair and hats. The crowd swelled and leaned closer. For a second her view was obscured, but then there he was again. Clearer and nearer. Ruggedly, shockingly beautiful. And still making her heart pound in her ears—after all these years.

He turned, cast his profile; it was caught on camera and screened all around. The scar through his eyebrow and the break in his nose—still there. A hand landed on his shoulder, and then there at his side was his brother Dante, as blond as Rocco was dark—twin princes of Darkness and Light.

It really was breathtaking. Just as they said in the media. Only even more potent in the flesh. The dazzling smiles of their happy conspiracy, the excitement of the match, the thrill of the crowd. How intoxicating.

How sickening.

How on earth was she going to get through the next four hours? The party afterwards, the gushing hero-worship? All over the man who had looked her in the eye, kissed her full on the mouth and broken her soft, trusting heart.

Easy. It would be no problem at all. How hard could it be to watch a little polo, sip a little Pimm’s and keep well out of trouble?

Tipping too large sunglasses onto her too small nose, she took a seat on the high-rise bleachers and crossed her jiggling legs. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here today. She could so easily have made this stopover in Buenos Aires and not taken in a polo match. It wasn’t as if she was obsessed with the game itself. Not anymore.

Sure, she’d grown up more in a stable than in a home. And yes, once upon a time becoming a polo player had been her sixteen-year-old heart’s desire. But she’d been naive back then. Naive enough to think her father had been kidding when he said the best thing she could hope to become was a rich man’s secretary, or better still a rich man’s wife. And even more naive to throw herself into the arms of the most dashing man she’d ever seen and almost beg him to take her to bed.

Almost beg? That wasn’t strictly accurate, either.

At least in the ten years since then she’d got well past palpitations and hand-wringing.

She spread out her pale Celtic skinny fingers, frowned them steady. Looked at the single silver ring with Ipanema carved in swirling writing—a gift for her fourteenth birthday, worn ever since. She rubbed at it. She still missed that pony. And she still hated the man who had stolen her away.

But at least Ipanema’s line was alive and well. She was the dam of two of the ponies on Rocco Hermida’s string. His favourites, as he made no secret of telling the world’s press. And rumoured to be being used in his groundbreaking genetics programme. And about to carry him onto the field and to victory at this charity polo match. Well, that was what everyone here thought anyway. To the home crowd there was not a shred of doubt that Argentina’s darling was going to triumph over the Palm Beach team. Totally. Unquestionably. And, with his brother at his side, the crowd would be guaranteed eight chukkas of the most mouthwatering display of virile man candy in the whole of South America.

But Frankie Ryan wasn’t drooling or licking her lips. Oh, no.

She was rolling her eyes and shaking her head. As much at herself for her stupid reaction—thankfully she now had that under total control—as at the flirty polo groupies all around her.

The fact that Rocco Hermida was here, playing, was completely irrelevant. It really was.

He probably didn’t even remember her …

Which was actually the most galling thing of all. While she had burned with shame and then fury on learning that he’d bought Ipanema, and had then been sent off to the convent, he had appeared in her life like a meteor, blazed a trail and as quickly blazed off. He’d never been back in touch. He’d taken her pride and then her joy. But she had learned a lesson. Letting anyone get under her skin like that was never going to happen again.

She had a perfectly legitimate reason for being here that had nothing to do with Rocco Hermida. She might look like a tourist today, but she was full of business. Landing a job as product development manager at Evaña Cosmetics, after slogging her guts out as an overgrown intern and then an underpaid assistant just so she could sock it to her old man was a dream come true!

She could think of worse things than travelling to the Dominican Republic and then Argentina in search of the perfect aloe vera plantation. And she could think of much worse things than an overnighter in Buenos Aires to lap up the polo followed by a weekend at her friend Esme’s place in Punta del Este to lap up the sun and the sea.

Bliss.

She got another drink—why not? As long as she was fresh enough to start on her presentation tomorrow she could have a little downtime today. It might even do her good to relax before she went out on her last trips. She still had plenty of time to put it all together into a report before the long flight home and her moment in the boardroom spotlight.

It was such a big deal. She’d spent so long convincing the directors to take this leap of faith, to look farther than their own backyard for organic ingredients, to have a unique selling point that was truly unique. So while she could play the tourist here today, the last thing she’d do was jeopardise it by getting all caught up in Rocco damn Hermida.

She began to thread and weave through the contrasting mix of casual porteños and glamorous internationals. On the other side of the giant field, spread out like bunting, she spotted the exclusive white hospitality tents. Esme would be in one of them, playing hostess, smiling and chatting and posing for pictures. As the Palm Beach captain’s wife, she was part of the package. Frankie could imagine nothing worse.

An announcement rang like a call to prayer, and another headshot loomed on the giant screens. There he was again. The default scowl back in position, the dark hair swept back and landing in that flop across his golden brow. He was in the team colours, scarlet and black, white breeches and boots. As the camera panned out, she instinctively looked at his thighs. Under the breeches they were hard, strong and covered in the perfect dusting of hair. She knew. She remembered. She’d kissed them.

For a moment she felt dazed, lost in a mist of girlish memories. Her first crush, her first kiss, her first broken heart. All thanks to that man. She drew her eyes off the screen again, scowled at it. Muttered words under her breath that her mother would be shocked to hear, let them slide into the wind with the commentator’s jabbering biography—a ‘what’s not to love?’ on the Hurricane—and the brassy notes of a gaudy marching band.

The first chukka was about to start. The air around her sparkled with eager anticipation. She could take her place—she could watch this—and if he turned her stomach with his arrogance she could cheer on Palm Beach. Even if two of his ponies were from Ipanema, the Rocco Hermida on those screens was just an imprint of a figment of a teenage girl’s infatuation. She owed him nothing.

If only it was that simple.

He was electric.

Each chukka was more dramatic and stunning than the one before.

He galloped like the wind and turned on a sixpence. His scowl was caught on camera, a picture of composed concentration, and when he scored—which he did, ten times—a flash of white teeth was his momentary gift to the crowd.

And of course there was Dante, too. Like a symphony, they flew up and down the field. Damn, damn, damn, but it was utterly, magnetically mesmerising.

They won. Of course. And as fluttering blue-and-white flags transformed the stadium and the crowd hollered its love she scooted her way out. Head down, her face a picture of ‘seen it all before, can take it or leave it, nothing that special’, she made her way round to the ponies—the real reason she was here.

The grooms were hosing down the last of them when she slipped through the fence, and watery arcs of rainbows and silvery droplets filled the air. She sneaked around, watched the action. She loved this. She missed it. Until this moment she hadn’t realised how much.

Everyone was busy, the chat was lively and the whole place was buzzing at the fabulous result. Of course the Palm Beach team were no pushovers, and Esme would be satisfied, but the day belonged to Rocco Hermida. And Dante. As expected.

As soon as she had taken a little peep at the two ponies she wanted to see she’d head off, have a soak in the tiny enamel bath in her hotel’s en-suite bathroom. She would use some of the marketing gifts from the last plantation: a little essential oil to help her relax, and a little herbal tea to help her sleep. She’d been on the go for twenty-four hours. Even if she did make the party tonight, which Esme seemed so determined she would, sleep was going to have to feature somewhere.

No one was paying her any attention. She didn’t blame them. Small and slight and unremarkable, she tended to pass under most people’s radar. Unlike the polo scene groupies, who were just like the ponies—all perfect teeth, lean bodies and long legs. Treated as a boy until she’d realised herself that being a girl was a lot more fun, she’d run with her brothers, ridden the horses and wandered wild and free all over the farm. Until the day that she had flown out of the stables to hunt for her brothers and run straight into Rocco Hermida.

She would never forget that moment.

Rounding the corner, she’d seen him, blazing like sunshine after thunder in the shadows of the muddy lane. He’d stood and stared. She’d slammed to a stop and gawped at him. She had never seen anything more brilliant, more handsome, more menacing. He’d looked her over, taken his time. Then he’d turned back to Mark and Danny and wandered away, rattling off questions in his heavily accented English, turning her life on its head, oblivious.

Now he was responsible for this world-class string of ponies, his world-class genetics programme and a whole host of other businesses. But polo was his passion. Everyone knew that. And the giant horse transporter with ‘Hermanos Hermida’ on it, parked at the rear of the campo and drawing her closer, was an emblem of how much care he put into his ponies.

It was immaculate. A haven. Ponies were hosed down, dried off and resting in their stalls. Gleaming and proud. She walked amongst them, breathing in their satisfied air. Where were her girls? She was so keen to see the mix of thoroughbred and Argentinian pony, trained to world-class perfection. She knew she’d recognise Ipanema’s progeny—the ponies he’d kept on the string were her living image. She felt sure she would feel some kind of connection with them.

‘Que estas haciendo aqui?’

Right behind her. Frankie started at the quiet growl. Her stomach twisted. Her whole body froze.

‘Did you hear me? I said, what are you doing?’

Words stuck, she willed herself calm. ‘Just looking,’ she finally managed.

‘Turn round.’

She would not—could not.

‘I said, turn round.’

If she’d been in the heart of an electric storm she couldn’t have felt more charged. The voice she hadn’t heard for years was as familiar as if he had just growled those unforgettable words, ‘You are too young—get out of here!’

A pony turned its head and stared at her with a huge brown eye. Her heart thunder-pulsed in her chest. Her legs felt weak. But from somewhere she found a spark of strength. He might be the most imposing man she had ever known, but she was her own woman now—not a little girl. And she wouldn’t let herself down again.

She turned. She faced him. She tilted up her chin.

He stared, took a pace towards her. Her heel twitched back despite herself.

‘I knew it was you.’

She forced her eyes to his even as the low growl in his voice twisted around her.

He was still in his playing clothes, his face flushed with effort and sweat, his hair mussed and tousled. Alive and vital and male. She could hardly find the strength to stand facing him, eyeing him, but she was determined to hold her own in the face of all that man.

‘I came to see Ipanema’s mares.’

Her words were stifled and flat in the perfectly climate-controlled air. Another pony stamped and turned its head.

‘You came to see me.’

Her eyes widened in shock and she spluttered a laugh. ‘Are you joking?’

He stepped back from her, tilted his head as if she was a specimen at some livestock market and he might, just might, be tempted.

He raised an eyebrow. Shook his head—the slightest movement. ‘No.’

He was appalling, arrogant—outrageous in his ego.

‘Look, think what you like—and I’m sorry I didn’t ask permission to come to a charity match—but, really? Come to see you? When I was sixteen I had more than my fill of you.’

A rush of something dangerous, wicked and wondrous flashed over his eyes and he closed the gap between them in a single step. His fingers landed on her shoulder, strong, warm and instantly inflaming. He didn’t pull her towards him. He didn’t need to. She felt as if she was flush against him, and her body sang with delight.

‘You didn’t get your fill—not at all.’ He curled his lip for a moment. ‘But you wanted to.’

The coal-black eyes were trained right on her and she knew if she opened her mouth it would be to whimper. She clamped it shut. She would stare him out and then get the hell away from him.

But his hand moved from her shoulder, spread its warming brand up her neck.

‘Frankie … Little Frankie.’

He cupped the back of her head, held her. Just there.

She jerked away.

‘What?’

If she could have spat out the word with venom she would have, but she was lucky to get it out at all, the way he was simply staring at her.

‘All grown-up.’

He took another step. She saw the logo of his team in red silk thread: two balls, two sticks, two letters H. She saw the firm wall of muscle under his shirt—hard, wide pecs, the shadow of light chest hair framed in the V. She saw the caramel skin and the wide muscular neck, the heavy pepper of stubble and the rich wine lips. She saw his broken nose, his intensely dark eyes, his questioning brows. And she scented him. Pure man.

That hand was placed on her head—and it felt as if he was the high priest and this was some kind of healing ritual.

One she did not need to receive.

‘Yes, all grown-up. And leaving.’ She pulled away. ‘Let me past. I want to go.’

But he held her. Loosely. His eyes finally dropped to absorb every other possible detail. She could feel his appraisal of her sooty eyes too big for her face; her nose too thin; her mouth too small; her chin too pointed. But instead of stepping back he seemed to swell into the last remaining inch of space and he shook his head.

‘In a moment. Where are you staying?’

She wavered—rushed a scenario through her mind of him at her cute little hotel, in her tiny room. Filling up all the space. The picture was almost too hot to hold in her head.

‘That doesn’t matter. I’m only here for a day or so.’

He was in no hurry to move. She looked away, around, at the empty glass she somehow still clutched in her hand. Anywhere but at him.

‘I think you should stay a little longer. Catch up.’

There was nothing but him—his body and his energy. Ten years ago she had dreamed of this moment. She had wept and pined and fantasised. And now she would rather die than give him the satisfaction.

‘Catch up with what? I’ve no wish to go over old ground with you.’

‘You think we covered ground? Back then? In that tiny little bed in your farmhouse?’

His words slipped out silken and dark.

‘You have no idea, querida, how far I would have liked to have gone with you.’

He caught a handful of her bobbed hair and tugged. She flinched—not in pain, but in traitorous delight.

‘How far I would go with you now …’

He smoothed a look of hunger all over her face. And her whole body throbbed.

‘You’ve got no chance,’ she hissed.

A smile—just a flash. Then his mouth pursed in rebuttal. A shake of his head.

It was enough. She put her hands on him and shoved. Utterly solid—she hadn’t a hope. He growled a laugh, but he moved. Stepped to the side.

His tone changed. ‘Your horses are resting. They played well. In the stalls at the top. Take your time.’

She pushed past him, desperate to escape from this man, but two steps away she stopped.

She swallowed. ‘Thank you.’

‘The pleasure is mine, Frankie.’ He whispered it, threatened it. ‘And I aim to repeat it.’

He left her there. She didn’t so much hear him go as feel a dip in the charge in the air. The ponies looked round at her—sympathising, no doubt, with how hard it was to share breathing space with someone who needed his own solar system.

She found her mares. Saw their Irish names—Roisin and Orla—and their white stars, but most of all their infamously wonderful natures, marking them out as Ipanema’s. She could never criticise what he had done with them—the effort and love he poured into all of his stock was legendary. And she was proud that Ipanema’s bloodlines were here, in one of the best strings in the world. If only Ipanema was still here, too …

Her brother Mark would be delighted. His own expertise was phenomenal in the field of equine genetics and this line had put their stud farm on the map. She knew he kept in touch with Rocco, sharing professional knowledge from time to time, while her father had fumed silently every time his name was mentioned. His suspicions had never been proved, but he’d never let her forget that he had them. Oh, no. And he’d punished her by sending her off to the convent to learn to ‘behave’.

But she’d been away from Ireland five years now. Away from that life and forging her own. Madrid was her home; Evaña was her world. Her father had passed the business to Mark and all her contact with beautiful creatures like these was sadly limited to the infrequent trips she made to see him.

She kissed their polished necks and they whickered their appreciation, soothing her heated blood before she went back out into the day.

Sometimes animals were a lot easier to deal with than people. Actually, animals had always been easier than people. They had their moods and their own personalities, of course, but they never judged, never made her feel like the slightly gawky, awkward tomboy that everyone else did. Especially Ipanema. Being given her as a foal to bring on had changed her life completely.

She’d loved that pony, and Ipanema had loved her right back, and when she’d been sold to Rocco her heart had taken its first battering.

She stepped out into the warm afternoon. The thrill and roar of the crowd had died down, but the celebrations were only just beginning. There was to be a party at the Molina Lario Hotel later, hosted by the champagne sponsors. Esme had told her to join her there.

It’s only the most talked-about event in the charity polo circuit after Dubai and Deauville! You need to let your hair down—there’s more to life than work!

But Rocco would most likely be there. And her reserves were running low. Maybe she’d call it a day, lap up the night safe in bed and swerve the whole unfolding drama attached to seeing him again.

She pushed her glasses back up her nose and wound her way round to the flotilla of white hospitality tents, her legs more obedient, less shaky now. But she should have known better than to think she was home free. At the edge of the field and up on the screens were four tall men in red, black and white, four in blue and yellow. All were standing on the podium, and every eye was drawn to them. Even hers.

Round about them were all the beautiful people. She hung back, watched.

A cheer … The cup being passed over, held up. Dante beaming his easy, confident golden smile. Rocco curling his lip. The crowd adoring.

They stepped down and into the flow of people—mostly girls, she noticed. Well, they were nothing but obliging! Letting themselves get all wrapped up in them, posing together in a spray of champagne, moving to another little group. Another pose, a squeeze, kisses on cheeks.

She’d seen it all before, of course—most recently in the pages of various magazines and in online news. But watching it like this she felt a flame of anger burst inside her. Anger at herself for still being there! Still gawping. She was a respected businesswoman now. Not a stupid, infatuated little girl!

She turned and began a fast path out. She’d get a cab, get away, get her head straight.

Her flat-heeled sandals moved swiftly over the grass, her stride long in her cotton sundress. Molina Lario was getting less and less attractive by the moment. More of that? No, thanks. Esme would understand. She knew her feelings for the arrogant Rocco ran to pathological disgust—she just didn’t know why.

No one did.

The one thing she could thank him for, she supposed, was igniting that fire for her to get the hell out of County Meath. When she’d watched him swing his rucksack over his shoulder and walk away from her, down the singletrack farm lane, through the dawn light and rain dust, she’d realised he was heading back into a world wide open with choices and chances. She didn’t need to be tied to County Meath, to Ireland, to the narrow options of which her dad thought her capable.

She’d taken a cold hard look at herself. Skinny, flat chested, unattractive and unkempt. Her dressing table cluttered with riding trophies instead of make-up. And when she’d stopped wailing and sobbing into her pillow she’d plotted her escape.

And now here she was—out in the world.

And here she would stay—proving them all wrong.

Head down, she reached the gates.

Just as a figure in black stepped alongside her. Large, male, reeking of strength.

‘Señor Hermida asks that you join him.’

A rush … a thrill thrummed through her. For a moment she felt the excitement of flattery. Tempted.

But, no. That way disaster lay. She was headed in a whole different direction.

She didn’t even break her step.

‘Not today. Or any other day, thanks.’

She eyed the gate like a target board, upped her pace. Lost him.

Almost at the gate, she felt his presence again.

‘Miss Ryan, Señor Hermida will collect you later for the party. 10:00 p.m. At your hotel.’

She spun on her heel, ready to fire a vicious volley of words right back. But he was walking away, obscured by the hundreds of people crossing in front of her. As obscured as her own feelings at seeing the Hurricane.

So sure he’d mean nothing to her, she’d turned up as if it was all in a day’s work to bump into him. But skulking about in the crowds, sneaking among the horses when she could so easily have done things properly …? She should have asked Mark to set it up. That was what someone who truly wasn’t fazed would have done—brushed off what had happened between them and joined him for a drink and a chat for old times’ sake …

Instead of spontaneously combusting when he’d come up behind her.

He was dangerous. The last thing she needed.

Her career was her life. Not ponies. Or polo. Or dark, intense men who lit up her body and squeezed at her heart.

She emerged onto the pavement like a hostage set free. He didn’t know her hotel. And he didn’t know her. Collect her later? Arrogant fool. One overbearing father and two extremely alpha brothers did not make Frankie Ryan anyone’s pushover.

She would be swaddled in Do Not Disturbs and deep, deep sleep. He could just cross her off his list and move to the next name. There were bound to be hundreds.