Читать книгу Postcards From Buenos Aires - Bella Frances - Страница 18

NIGHT’S DARK CLOAK lay heavy all around. Frankie woke with a start, for a moment lost, with no dawn-edged window, no lamplit carpet to guide her vision.

She was in a huge space, lightless. Black. Warm. Safe.

Rocco’s room. Rocco’s home.

She flung out her hand. No Rocco.

He liked total darkness when he slept. Blackout blinds, no lamps. Just bodies—naked, entwined—and loving, and snatches of deep, dreamless sleep.

Then daybreak.

But it was still so dark, so vividly velvety black. And his empty space was cold. She clutched her arms around her body and shivered.

Rocco had been more intense than ever in his lovemaking tonight.

Almost as soon as they had got home he had poured them both large measures of whiskey. His he had thrown down his neck in a single gulp, the stinging heat of the liquor appearing to make no impact on him. He’d seemed to waver over pouring another, glancing sideways at the bottle before putting his glass down carefully. Then he’d cast off his dinner jacket and tie and in two slow strides had hauled her against him.

He had devoured her. It was the only way she could describe it. It had seemed there wasn’t enough of her for him. They’d kissed so fiercely her lip had been cut and he’d tasted her blood. It was only then that he’d stopped his wildness. He’d heaved himself back from her, arms locked and rigid, gripping her and staring at her with shocked concern that he’d hurt her. But she’d felt nothing. Nothing but bereft when he’d pulled himself away.

She’d grabbed his head and pulled him back, and then they’d formed that heaving, writhing mass of fire and passion and pleasure. Hot, slick heaven. No wonder she was shivering now.

She licked her bruised lip and wondered where he was … what time it was.

Her hands groped over the clutter on the table beside her, grabbing for her phone. Her fingers bumped against the glass of water Rocco had placed there for her, trailed over the emerald earrings she’d carefully removed earlier and finally closed around her smartphone.

Instantly it lit the room. 4:00 a.m.

The screen showed two missed calls.

Mark.

Her heart froze. What was wrong? He rarely phoned. He knew she was here. Had something happened to her mother? Her brother? Her father …?

She sat up straight and frowned as her eyes focused, trying to work out the time in Dublin. 10:00 p.m.? She opened her messages and clicked on the link that he’d posted. It took her straight to a news item.

Her brother Danny. In Dubai. A photograph of him walking with a beautiful redhead. So what?

She squinted at the text. Married?

The message from Mark was curt. Did she know anything about it? Their mother was in a state of shock.

No wonder! Danny did exactly as he pleased. Without asking anyone’s permission. And the last person, the very last person he would confide in was Mark.

Frankie hated the estrangement between them. It had lasted so long. What a waste—what a terrible waste that they’d never got past their bitter feud. She thought of Rocco and Dante and the inseparable bond between them—her brothers should be like that. They really should.

She stared at the space where Rocco should be lying. Stared at the untouched glass of water on the table beside it, at his watch beside that, and beside that …

The tiny battered leather-framed photograph of the golden haired cherub. It was gone.

She stared at the space where it should be—where he’d carefully placed it earlier. She’d hardly even dared to look in his direction when he’d sat on the edge of the bed, pulled it from his pocket and set it upright. Almost ritualistic, almost reverential. She’d felt the air seize up, as if some sacred event was happening.

Of course since then she’d run her mind over all sorts of possibilities. It definitely wasn’t Dante. He’d been six years old to Rocco’s eight when Rocco had been adopted. The child in the photograph was barely two or three. She wasn’t given to flights of fancy, but she’d hazard that the child was a blood relative. Maybe they’d been separated through adoption? Maybe that was way off the mark, but there was something that ate at him from the inside—something that caused those growling black silences, that haunted glazed look, his overt aggression.

He’d been like that tonight. She’d sensed it. Sensed it in the way he’d lain in bed, holding her after they’d both lost and found themselves in one another.

After he’d poured himself into her she’d felt an instinctive need to hold him, cradle him. But he’d pulled away, closed down. Lain on his back, staring unseeing at the black blanket of air. Lost.

She knew she should encourage him to talk, the way he had encouraged her. She also knew getting past the hellhound that guarded his innermost thoughts would be a Herculean task. But it was the least a friend could do. The least a lover would do.

And that was the dilemma that she was going to have to face. What was she to him? What was he to her? And even if she worked that out, what future was there for two people who lived thousands of miles apart? He might say he wanted her to stay on, but even if she stayed a few extra days—assuming she could negotiate that with her boss—what was going to happen at the end? How horrible if he suddenly tired of her and she felt she’d overstayed her welcome, like the last guest at a party.

Distance was be the one thing that would give her clarity. Of course she wanted to stay on—he was addictive, this life was heavenly—but it was all part of the ten-year fuse that had been lit when they’d first met. And she didn’t want to be blown to pieces once it finally exploded. She’d have to have this conversation with him. And before too much longer.

Her phone vibrated in her hand. Another message from Mark … another photograph. This time there was no mistake. Bride and groom. She dragged on the photo to enlarge it. The girl was beautiful, but with Danny that was nothing new. Whoever she was, and whatever she had, she’d hooked him. Danny looked … awestruck.

Wow. She had to show this to Rocco. Had to share her news.

She swung her legs out of bed, reached for a shirt and set off to find him along the cool, tiled hallway. At the far end she could see the eerie green glow from the courtyard pool. On the other side, the TV room was lit up, the flickering glare of the television screen sending lights and shadows dancing.

She took the long way—through the house rather than across the little bridge. The glass walls reflected light and made it hard to see anything.

But what she did see wounded her more than any torn lip.

He was sitting on a low couch, facing the screen. The light licked at the naked muscled planes of his body. One arm rested on the armrest of the couch, a whiskey tumbler full of liquor caught in his hand, and the other held something small, square—it had to be the photograph. He was staring at it, unsmiling, as a sitcom she recognised played out on the screen.

Parallel to the room, across the courtyard, separated from him by the illuminated water, the bridge and all that glass, she watched him. He didn’t move. Not a single muscle flickered with life. He sat as if cast in marble.

Finally he lifted the glass to his lips and sank a gulp of whiskey.

She didn’t need any close-up to see that he was upset. Her heart ached for him.

Through the glass rooms she went until she came alongside the doorway. She stood still.

‘Rocco,’ she said softly.

He knew she was there. She felt his sigh seep out into the room. He blinked and dipped his head in acknowledgement, then finally lifted his arm in a gesture she knew was an invitation to join him.

She moved, needing no further encouragement, and slid onto the couch, under his arm. He closed it round her and she laid her head on his chest.

His body was warm. He was always warm. She rubbed her face against him, absorbing him, scenting the faint odour of his soap and his sweat. The powerful fumes from the whiskey.

He lifted the tumbler to his lips and drank. Less than earlier, but still enough for her to hear the harsh gulp in his throat as he swallowed. He put the glass down on the edge of the armrest and sat back, continued to hold her in the silence of the night.

‘I woke up. My phone’s been going off.’

He took another silent sip.

She spoke into his chest. ‘Looks as though Danny got married. In Dubai. Mark sent some pictures that are in the news over there. He says no one had any idea. Mum’s in a state.’

‘He’s a big boy,’ said Rocco.

What could she say to that? He was right. There was no way anyone would have hoodwinked Danny. He was far too smart.

‘I know, but I kind of wish he’d told us.’

‘What difference would it have made? Would you have gone?’

She shrugged her shoulders, incarcerated under his arm.

‘I might.’

The silence bled again. He took another sip.

‘Are you planning on sharing that whiskey?’

‘You want to drink to the happy couple?’

It wasn’t a snarl, but it wasn’t an invitation to celebrate, either. She pushed up from him but he didn’t look at her. His face, trained now on the television screen, was harsh, blank.

She reached out her fingers, gingerly threaded them through his fringe, softly swept it back from his brow.

‘I want you to be happy, Rocco.’

It was barely audible, but it was honest. Shockingly honest. And when he turned his hurt-hazed eyes to hers she began to realise how much she meant it.

‘Come on. Come back to bed,’ she said—as much a plea as an order.

She stood, reached for the tumbler, tried to take it out of his hand. And then her eyes fell on the leather-framed photo that he held in his other hand. He turned it then. Turned it round so that the plump-cheeked infant was staring up at him. He looked at it and his bleak, wintry gaze almost felled her. Then he turned it face down, lifted the glass and tipped his head back to drain the dregs.

‘Come on, Rocco. Please.’

He held his eyes closed as he breathed in, soul deep, then opened them and stared blankly at the screen.

Frankie turned to see the characters’ slapstick antics. They were trying to move a couch up a flight of narrow stairs—a scene she’d seen countless times before and one that always made her laugh. But not this time. Not in the face of all this unnamed pain.

She turned back to see the coal-black eyes trained back on the photograph.

‘If you want to talk or tell me anything …? God, Rocco, I hate to see you like this.’

‘Go back to bed, then.’

She swallowed that. It was hard. It would be hard hearing it from anyone. But from a man of his strength, his intensity, his power—a man who meant as much to her as he did …

‘Not unless you come with me.’

He lifted the empty glass to his lips, sucked air and the few droplets of whiskey that were left. Like a nonchalant cowboy before he went back on the range.

‘As much as you tempt me, I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,’ he said, glancing at the bottle on the bar to one side of the huge television.

She stood right in front of him, deliberately blocking his view of the silently flickering screen and the half bottle of whiskey that was just out of reach.

‘Why not, Rocco? Why not talk or make love or even just hold each other?’

He shook his head slightly, made a face. It was as if all his effort was trained into just … being.

‘Right now I don’t trust myself. I don’t want to hurt you again.’

‘What do you mean, again? You didn’t mean to hurt me—you got carried away. We both got carried away. You’ve got something carving you up. Rocco. Let me …’

‘Just give me space, Frankie.’

She swallowed. He sounded exhausted, but he was brutal. She was brave enough to take him on, though. Him and his dark, desperate mood.

She wedged herself between his open legs, hunkered down, rested her arms on the hard, solid length of his thighs. This beautiful man—every inch of him—deserved her care.

‘I don’t think space is what you need just now.’

She looked up past the black band of his underwear to the golden skin and dark twists of hair, the ripped abs and perfect pecs, the strong male shoulders and neck and the harsh, sensuous slash of his mouth.

She trailed her touch down hard, swollen biceps, followed the path of a proud vein all the way to where his fingers lay around the photograph. Finally she traced her fingertips over his, and held his eyes when they turned to hers.

‘What can be so bad? There’s nothing that isn’t better when it’s shared.’

Slowly, boldly, she closed her fingers around the photograph frame.

‘Can I see?’

His gaze darkened, his mouth slashed more grimly, but she didn’t stop.

Gingerly, she tugged it from his grip. ‘Is he your son?’

She had no idea where that came from. But suddenly the thought of an infant Rocco was overwhelming.

‘You’re opening up something that’s best left shut.’

His voice was a shell—a crater in a minefield of unexploded bombs.

She climbed up closer to him, balanced on his thighs. Lifted the photo frame into her hands completely, laid her head against his chest and scrutinised it.

And he let her.

She felt the fight in him ease slightly as he exhaled a long breath.

She sat there waiting. Waiting …

Finally he spoke.

‘He’s my brother. His name was Lodovico—Lodo. He was three years old when that photo was taken. And he was four years old when he died.’

She held her breath as he said the words.

‘I was his only family. Our papá had disappeared and Mamá had lost her mind. Nobody else wanted to know.’

His voice drilled out quietly, his chest moved rhythmically and the haunted black eyes of his poor baby brother gazed up.

‘I was with him when he died. I didn’t cause his death—I was only a child myself. I am not responsible.’ The words came out in a strange staccato rush. ‘But I feel it,’ he added harshly, and a curl of his agony wound round her own heart.

She swallowed, shifted her weight, slid to his side and under his arm. She held the photo in front of them, so they were both looking at it.

‘I can say those words over and over and they still mean nothing. I’ve said them so many times. Meaningless. Of course I am responsible.’

‘How did he die?’

It seemed baldly awful to say it aloud, but she knew she had hear it. She knew there was worse to come.

‘By gunfire. Shot dead. A bullet aimed at me. Because I was the one running errands for a rival gang. And when the stakes are high, and the police are being paid to look the other way, and mothers have gone mad and fathers can’t take the shame of not being able to provide … life is cheap.’

She sat up. He stared ahead. The credits were rolling on the television screen. His face was stone.

‘But you just said … you were a child, too. How can you be blamed?’

‘How can I not be blamed? If I hadn’t become little more than a petty criminal—if I had found another way for us to live—if I hadn’t got greedy and done more and more daring things … terrible things. If I hadn’t let go of his fingers when he needed me most …’

His eyes crashed shut and his face squeezed into a mask of agony.

Frankie tugged him to her, desperate for his warm, strong touch as the hurt of his words and in his face gnawed at her resolve.

‘What age were you—six? Seven? How could you have prevented any of those things happening?’

She stared up at him but he merely turned away, as if he’d heard it all before.

She placed her hands on his cheeks and positioned herself round to face him, held him steady in her grip. ‘Rocco. You were a child. And you’re still tearing yourself up over this?’

His face was a ridge of rock and anger.

She kissed him. She kissed the jutting cheekbone that he turned to her, the wedge of angry jaw, the harshly held crevice of his lips. She felt her tears slide between them and put her lips where they washed down.

‘Rocco, baby … you were not to blame.’

His eyes were still closed to her but she didn’t care. She couldn’t stand to see her warrior in such pain. With tiny, soft presses she slowly covered his face with her lips, whispering her heart to him.

He kept himself impassive, cold and distant. He didn’t push her away, but she could feel that he wanted to. As with every other time, she let her body guide her, not her head. He needed her. She needed to let him see how much. As instinctively as a flower faced the light, or curled its petals at night, she laid her body around him and soothed him.

And slowly he began to respond to her heat and light. He sighed against her whisper-soft kisses, melted into her cradling arms. He sat back against the couch and she climbed over him, slipped her legs around him to strengthen him, to imbue him with everything she could. The energy and emotion they had shared welled up inside her, and she knew she would gladly gift it all to him to ease his awful pain.

‘Frankie …’ he breathed into her neck as she lay over him.

His arms that had been lying limply at his sides, not quite rejecting her, now closed around her and held her tightly against him. She found herself rocking slightly, in that age-old movement of reassurance and care.

‘You would never do anything to harm an innocent child. Never.’

His arms slid closer around her, holding her body and her head clasped against him. He had so much power and strength and yet he was so vulnerable, lying there in her arms.

‘I would do anything to turn the clock back. I could have done so much more to protect him.’

‘And who was protecting you?’

He sighed against her. ‘I didn’t need protecting. I needed to be reined in. Always have.’

She pulled back and stared at him, cupped her hands around his beautiful, broken face.

‘Rocco, don’t you even see what you’re saying? You were a child, too. And what’s even harder to take is that you were trying to be an adult—to make decisions that your parents should have been making for you.’

He recoiled at that, but she didn’t stop.

‘I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve been through. But I do understand that you’re adding to the pain of losing Lodo by hating yourself so much for something that wasn’t your fault.’

He was still, his eyes level with her chest, not looking at her. The hair of his fringe had fallen down over his scar. She pushed it back and then gently lowered her head to kiss the reddened mark.

‘I wish you would leave the hate. There’s so much about you to love. Your body is covered in your history—even this crazy little scar. Fighting in the streets when you should have been learning Latin … I love it.’

He didn’t move a muscle. She moved her lips to the flattened break in the bridge of his nose. Kissed it.

‘And this perfect imperfect nose. Getting a polo stick in your face because you wouldn’t give up …’

She curled downward, holding on tightly, not daring to open her eyes, letting her body guide her, remembering all the things he’d told her about his injuries. The bones in his shoulder were all out of alignment from his falls and fights. She lowered her lips and ran them along each bump and ridge.

Finally she placed her lips over his. Soft, firm, warm. The fires they had lit between them were always glowing, ready to flare into life.

‘I love these lips.’ She kissed him so softly. ‘The pleasure they have given me …’

She felt something inside her contract as she spoke. Waves of emotion rolled and more words formed in her throat. She choked them back and used her mouth to show him how she felt. Softly pressing their mouths together, carefully sculpting and moulding and shaping. The familiar blaze was already taking hold, but this time something bigger, higher, sweeter sang out through the fire.

‘Oh, Rocco …’ she said as the waves began to break.

He stood up in one smooth movement. She held on as he began to walk, as he repositioned her, cradled her and carried her forward. She held on to the thick column of his neck and pulled herself close as he walked slowly back to the bedroom.

He opened the door and carried her in, walked right over to the bed and laid her down as if she were a silken cloth. He moved over her and stared down at her. She stared back. Up at his face, still intense—always intense—but softer now.

‘You sweet, sweet girl,’ he said as he slowly unbuttoned the shirt she’d thrown on.

She sat up, threaded her hands through his hair and pulled him down to her. She kissed him. Over and over. That was all. Just kissed him. Feeling those lips that she’d come to cherish for the pleasure they gave. Kissing and holding and adoring him. Nursing him with her body. And her heart.

Those words welled up in her throat again. But she swallowed them down.

He touched her as if she was treasure, moved her carefully on the bed, began to stoke their sexual love with his mouth and his hands. She climbed higher and higher, beginning to lose track of where she ended and he began.

‘Frankie, carina …’

He eased her legs open with his thighs and slid inside her. Huge and thick, he filled her completely, perfectly. Inches from her face she felt his warm breath. She ran her hands over the rough stubble of his jaw, felt the enveloping power of his body around her.

She knew the crescendo was coming, but each honeyed beat of the prelude was immense. So perfectly, precisely slowly he eased himself in and out of her. Rocco … her wounded soldier … her love. The words choked her as she kissed him and he kissed her back, murmuring sounds about how he treasured her until she knew she could hold on no longer.

Never, ever had she known the depths of such feeling for another human as their lovemaking throbbed to its final conclusion and she broke like a concerto of strings all around him and cried out the blissful joy from her heart.

He collapsed onto her, crushing her, winding her in the most perfect way possible. His hair-roughened limbs and stubbled jaw were her satin sheets. Their breath and sweat mingled. Light from the neglected hall doorway seeped into the room and soothed the night’s edges with silvery strokes.

And together they lay, weary, slipping into slumbers and dreams, knowing that they’d crossed some giant divide and there was no longer any way back.