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‘I’m just saying—I
know
you. When you get information
—any
information—about Martinez you go into these moods, lash out at people. Like I just saw. And someone like Frankie isn’t going to hang around to take it.’ He put his hands up in a mock surrender. ‘Just sayin’ …’

‘I’ve got it covered,’ he said.

‘I’m sure you have.’ Dante reached for him, slapped his back, the way they always did. ‘I’m going to head off now. Are you travelling back to BA today? Tomorrow?’

‘Later today, if you want a lift. Frankie has a meeting
set up with a trader to check out some aloe samples before she flies back to Madrid.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll leave you two alone. Time must be precious.’

Dante lifted his phone, drained his coffee and pulled out his car keys. One final slap on the back and then he walked away, tripping down the steps as if he was dancing in a damn Hollywood musical. How did he make every moment of his life look like a movie? He pulled him out of his moods every time.

Rocco smiled to himself. God, he loved that man. He headed indoors. Time to shower, shave and then bundle them both back to La Colorada and their full and frank, no-holds-barred discussion.

Frankie finished the last part of her email and reread it for the tenth time. Her finger hovered for two whole seconds above the keyboard—and then she pressed Send.

Gone. Too late to do anything about it now.

She had taken almost two hours to think it through, come to a final decision and then write the damned thing. Two hours in which she had written out a list of pros and cons that had Rocco Hermida’s name in both columns.

Staying here was a pro because it gave her more time with him—time to get to know him better, to explore every part of his fabulous estancia, to go riding, to take in the next polo match and to lie in his arms after it and revel in the gorgeous feeling of being Rocco’s girl.

But staying here was also a con, because if she did all of those things it meant that she was going to fall deeper and deeper in love. And she wasn’t stupid enough to think that was a two-way street—yet. It might be … in time. But after opening up to her last night, lifting the lid on his
box of secrets, he’d slammed it shut again, nailed it down and buried it deeper than it had ever been.

He’d prowled through the house on the phone, moving into empty spaces and closing glass doors, literally shutting her out. He’d spent nearly all morning running on the beach, and a good part of the afternoon in the gym. He’d been curt, verging on rude when Dante had been there, and though he’d apologised he’d offered no explanation or softening. It was almost as if he was angry at himself for sharing his story, for making himself seem a little more human, a little more mortal than godlike.

And in a way that just added to the allure. He was
so
complex, so dark, so vulnerable. And she ached to help him slough off this crown of thorns he wore. She’d never felt more moved than when she was lying in his arms, making love in the early hours of the morning. It was like opening her eyes after the longest sleep, glimpsing a beautiful sunrise, seeing a glorious future—and then feeling darkness seep back as night fell prematurely, suddenly. Leaving her stumbling about in the dark, unable to find the light.

So what to do? What to do …?

In the end one thing had tipped the balance—he enriched her. But more than that he needed her. She knew how hard it had been for him to talk about his early childhood. Maybe he never had before. And if she didn’t make an effort for him now she might never take the chance again. Because it
was
a chance. There was no guarantee that he was going to revisit any of that trauma with her or anyone else. It broke her heart to think that he carried that guilt. But it was so
him.
To shoulder everything himself. And keeping everyone else at a distance was probably the only way he could handle it.

Did she really expect him to treat her any differently
than any of the countless women she’d seen on those pictures that she and Dante had scrolled through earlier? She knew what she felt, but getting him to a point where he might admit the same was like trying to reroute a hurricane. It was only going to go where it wanted. And when it hit land everybody had better stand back.

She sighed and clicked on her sent box to confirm that the email had indeed been delivered. Knowing that in approximately two hours’ time her boss was going to read it and probably go into some kind of tailspin himself.

The timing couldn’t be worse. She was asking for leave at a time when she should have been parcelling herself up to be sent express delivery back to Madrid. She could feel in her bones the resistance to her proposals already. The emails that had been coming from head office were getting more and more cautionary. She could detect a derisory sniff in the air, and now she was seven days away from a one-to-one with her boss.

But she was going to use this extra time to polish her proposal until it shone. Going organic was the only way. Natural products were everywhere. There was nothing to commend Evaña to the modern savvy shopper. If she could develop an organic line and hook in a couple of bloggers, they’d be off to a flyer. If not they were going to continue to lose customers like skin lost elasticity, and none of the big stockists would look twice at them. At least this way the ageing geriatric company might have a future. And if it had a future, so did she.

That
had
to remain her number one priority. Being here with Rocco was enriching, but it wasn’t real life. Real life was waiting for her when she jumped out of the metro in Madrid and picked her way along the
calle
to head office and her moment in the spotlight.

She packed up her briefcase in readiness for their
early-morning helicopter ride. Rocco’s helicopter … Rocco’s pilot. Hopefully their journey would go by unnoticed. The last thing she wanted was any more media interest as a result of her being with him. Her poor mother was already contending with whatever it was that had tipped Danny over the edge and into wedded bliss. He was playing his cards very close to his chest, as he always did. But thankfully what had happened in Punta seemed to be staying in Punta—for now anyway.

She braced herself every time she got a message, thinking it might be her mother, wailing and crossing herself over her daughter’s loose morals—or even more likely her father, who would be happy to finally be proved right.

She zipped up the black leather case, stacked it beside the gorgeous old desk in the study she’d settled herself in and smiled. Strange how she’d begun to see things slightly differently after hearing Rocco’s words. For a moment she let herself bask in all the sweet things he’d whispered to her at night. Let herself feel that she was unique in a positive way, rather than freakily different from all the local girls. Feel proud of what she’d achieved rather than ashamed that she didn’t want what had been mapped out for her. An inspiration, he’d called her once. And more than a tiny part of her wanted to believe that.

She traced her way back through the expansive masculine home. Polished parquet floors with silk runners spread out along long narrow hallways. Console tables punctuated the burgundy silk walls, highlighting fabulous black-and-white photographs of gauchos and dancers and patent-coated stallions. It was so
him
—so darkly, elegantly, brutally beautiful.

His bedroom threw the house’s dark arteries into airy relief. High ceilings, wide windows and sumptuous silk
carpets—and the bed that they had christened after that disastrous pony ride two days earlier.

She smiled, looked at it and straightened the pony-skin cushions, setting them against the vast wooden headboard. The little photo of Lodo was back in place on the bedside table. She picked it up and looked at it—really looked at it. What a beautiful boy he had been … but so solemn. God only knew what terrors he’d seen—what terrors Rocco had seen and continued to see. He might have clammed up again, but those flashes of truth had given her such insight—personal nuggets she’d hold dear and treasure.

She sighed. Blew out a huge breath she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding. She glanced over at the door to the dressing room and her battered little carry-on and suit bags. She had to remember she was here for a purpose, and it wasn’t all about taming the Hurricane—and the more she read the subtext of her directors’ bulletins the more she felt the enormity of that task, too.

But she
could
nail this, she thought as she moved over and ran a hand down her best summer suit, smoothing down the fabric and straightening the seams. She could actually make a difference—not only to Evaña but to herself, too. She could talk terms with traders, strike reasonable deals and put the stats into a really slick presentation. She could do some groundwork with bloggers and a beauty editor she’d begun to get friendly with. She really could pull this off.

And then she’d have banked more than enough to ride back to County Meath with her head high and her pride intact and demand a very long overdue apology from her father.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
WENTY
-
FOUR HOURS LATER
Frankie jumped out of the helicopter, kept her head bent, clutched her briefcase to her body and hurled herself across the parched grass to the driveway. Her heels stuck in mud-baked crevices and the rotors thundered over her head, throwing up the skirt of her dress. But she didn’t care. She just wanted out of it. Out of the helicopter and away from her stinging reflections on the crucifying day she’d forced herself to relive on the hour-long flight back.

Coming in to land, she’d spotted riders cutting through the head-high grass fields and moving into the rougher countryside that she’d crossed herself a few days earlier. Clouds of dust swirled and settled as they rode through green-and-yellow grassland. Rocco was sure to be with them. She’d left him this morning, after another night of frenzied passion—another night when she’d longed to cry out her heart into the hot dark night, to whisper her love and bask in the emotions that rolled through her when she lay in his arms.

But she hadn’t. She’d held back. She’d silently floated in oceans of happiness, but had been ever aware of the crashing waterfall that was right there, just out of sight, a glaring reminder to hold something back—her life raft.

She couldn’t criticise Rocco for anything. He was attentive,
considerate and caring. He worshipped her body, and he appeared to enjoy her mind, her conversation and her company. But he was as deep and as distant as ever. Every time she’d tried to sneak a look past his barricades he’d somehow made them higher.

And now, with the days ticking by, she was feeling more and more anxious that she’d made a terminal career mistake by asking for more time when the finance department was asking for more cutbacks.

But she’d left this morning determined to bring back some good news, to make the directors see that she really knew what she was doing.

Before that she and Rocco had breakfasted on the north-facing terrace, surrounded by huge potted urns of showy red flowers and under the arches of clambering ivy that softened the house and the wide, spare landscape. Silently, comfortably, they’d munched on freshly made bread, sipping strong coffee and planning their day, so full of promise and excitement.

Rocco had planned a morning of intense demanding phone calls to finally nail the squirming management of Mendoza Vineyard, and then an afternoon of wild riding across his land. He’d promised to wait until she returned so she could join him. That had been the plan. And she had been desperate to saddle up the other mare—Roisin—and see just how much like her mother she was. In fact she had jumped right into his lap with joy at the thought of it, and he had gifted her one of his rare laughs, his face lighting with happiness, his eyes sparkling with pleasure.

Frankie had never felt more alive. Today was going to be
her
day. She was going in well armed after her visit to the traders in the Dominican Republic. She knew what she wanted, the terms she could afford to offer. The processing
plants were nearer at hand, and the botanicals they needed were all available locally, too. The opportunity to make genuinely organic products rather than to follow the market leaders with their petrochemical derivatives was just too good to miss. She could visualise the artwork, smell the creams and lotions, feel the luxury …

So where had it all gone wrong?

Along the wide, straight jacaranda-lined driveway she stumble marched. Sweat and dust and her own gritty determination were smeared all across her face. Her mascara had run about three hours earlier. She’d seen it when she had tried to stare herself calm in the bathrooms of the one-storey cubic office block. When she’d excused herself after an excruciating meeting between the trader who’d gathered all the samples she’d asked for and an audience she hadn’t.

Staring into that mirror, her best suit a crumpled mess, her hair blown all over, she had felt again the crippling sense that she was once more a silly little girl playing in a big boys’ world.

La Gaya—one of them had openly called her that. Magazines with Carmel de Souza’s picture had been clearly laid out on the reception area’s coffee table. One of the traders, his arms folded over his chest, had set his face in amused judgement. So
this
was the Hurricane’s lover? Not much to see. Not compared to Carmel.

Either they hadn’t known she was fluent in Spanish or they hadn’t cared. The terms they’d offered had been unmanageable. The profit margins and her hopes of promotion had slid away like oil through her fingers as she’d contemplated their bottom line. It had been hopeless.

All this time, all this work, and the whole thing was now unravelling out of her control. And she suspected that more than some of the reason for the unreasonable
terms was her relationship with Rocco. Who would take her seriously when she was, after all, just another morsel of arm candy?

She’d kept it together for as long as she could—she really had. She knew there was no place for emotion in business. Especially when she was there representing her company. So she’d taken it on the chin until she’d heard ‘La Gaya’ one last time. Then she’d stood up, snapped her tablet closed, braced her hands on the desk and fired at them with both barrels.