Postcards From Buenos Aires. Bella Frances
smoothed her hands over his chest, pressed her fingers into the bruise that now bloomed like a map of the world over his right pec.
‘Is that sore? Am I hurting you?’
He snatched at her skinny little wrist as she fired him one of her wicked grins.
‘The purple skin and burst stitches don’t give you a clue?’
She batted her eyes and lowered her head. Kissed the bruised flesh—little whispers of touch with that fiery mouth.
‘Is that better?’
He threaded his fingers through her hair, caught them up in a tangle and worked it free.
‘I’ll live. Come here.’
He wanted to feel her close against him. He was acting out of character, but having her wrapped over him felt so damn good. He loved women—of course he did—but he knew the chemistry, the bonding, the whole emotional fallout attached to the aftermath of lovemaking could lead to expectations he was never going to fulfil. But this moment he had waited for. And he was going to savour it.
‘Makes a change from the last time, when you tried to kick me out of bed.’
‘At least one of us had our head screwed on.’
He leaned up on his elbow to look at the sleek cat that lay across him.
‘You know how crazy that was? You tested me to the max. I’ve never been so tempted, and you were—what?—sixteen? Have you any idea how wrong that would have been?’
‘Didn’t feel wrong at the time, though, did it?’
She twisted her head round to look at him, pressed another whisper-kiss to his chest. Nothing about her felt wrong. Then or now.
He shook his head. ‘Your family didn’t strike me as being the most freethinking. It was a miracle that we weren’t caught.’
She turned her head, pulled herself away. Lay back on the bed beside him and stared up at the ceiling.
‘We were. Caught. Actually.’
‘What? Are you kidding me?’
He shifted up. No way. No. Way. He would have known—he would have been called to account. There was no chance her brother would have continued to do business with him—no way their professional or personal relationship could have withstood that type of interference.
She twisted her head. ‘Oh, don’t worry—I denied it. Until I was hoarse. And Mark doesn’t know—at least I think he doesn’t. But my dad—let’s just say he has suspicions … deep suspicions.’
Damn. He hadn’t considered that.
‘Angel—I’m sorry. I’d never have left you to handle that on your own had I known. What happened?’
She sighed, and he saw her twist at the silver ring on her finger.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know if we woke him with our noise or if he was just awake anyway. But after you’d got your stuff together and walked out I went to go back to my room and he was there—at the top of the stairs. He asked me outright what the hell I’d been doing.’
He remembered every second of that night. Stifling her cries with his mouth as she came in his hand from those few fevered touches. Pinning her down and then reality crashing round him as he’d realised what the hell had just happened—what the hell he’d been about to do. Trying to get out of bed, pulling on clothes that were icy and damp, buttoning himself up over the erection that wouldn’t go down. Heaving on his boots as she’d still tried to tempt him back to bed. Finally grabbing her shoulders and hissing at her to stop, to leave him, she was too young!
But she hadn’t given up. Naked, driving him wild. He’d hauled the sheet off the bed and wrapped her up. As he’d yanked the door open and tried to remember which way was out the farmhouse’s narrow windows and dark passages had lent him no clue.
Finally he’d stumbled down to the kitchen, past the sheepdogs lying in front of the fire’s dying embers, heard the tick of an old clock, heaved on the rusty bolts that had held the door closed.
She’d come down to stand in the doorway to the hall with a haunted look—as if the heart had been ripped out of her. He’d stopped then—aching to go to her, to make her feel better, to take away the hurt, take away his own hurt.
But he’d been young—only twenty-one! He’d spent so long getting to that point, working through his own pain. La Colorada had finally been ready. His polo career had been taking off. He hadn’t been able to stay there, to ally himself to a woman—a girl. He’d been only just beginning to taste the chance of a sweet future. It would have been madness to go to her.
So he’d turned back to the door, hauled it open and stepped out into the early-morning rain. She’d come right out into the daylight, onto the huge slabbed courtyard, called his name one final time. But he’d just slung his bag onto his shoulder, taken one final look at her, wrapped up like temptation’s gift. And then gone.
‘He was just standing there—then he went into the guest bedroom, saw you were gone and the state of the room. Saw me in the sheet.’
She turned her face away.
‘He slapped me and called me a whore.’
Rocco sat up, but she’d turned onto her side. He scooped her in close, feeling the shock of those words.
‘Hermosa, lo siento mucho,’ he soothed, furious that he had not known this.
‘It’s fine,’ she said—too brightly. ‘I lied. I said you must have left ages earlier. That I’d just pulled the sheet off. I don’t know what else I said. I made it up.’
He kissed her shoulder, cursed his stupidity. Of course they had been heard. They’d been wild for each other—then and now. And he’d thought they hadn’t been. Stupid.
‘It’s not fine. I apologise.’ He pulled her back and turned her round, right round, until her head was tucked under his chin. He rocked her, hating the thought of her hurting. ‘What did he do? Were you punished?’
She gave a hollow little laugh.
‘If you can say being sent away to a convent for two years is punishment, then, yes, I was punished.’
He struggled to get his head around this, but knew he had no small part to play.
‘And he made sure that Mark sold Ipanema. That she went to you was coincidence, but it made it all the harder.’
Rocco squeezed his eyes closed, feeling her pain.
‘I see. Now I see. I didn’t think … Angel, I’m sorry. If you’d got in touch I could have sorted it—I could have spoken to him. I wish you’d let me know.’
‘You made it quite plain that the last thing you wanted was for me to get in touch, Rocco. Anyway, it’s totally in the past—it’s fine. I served my time.’ She laughed. ‘Honestly. It’s done.’
He pulled her close. He couldn’t deny that. Any more than he could deny how deep the scars of childhood could wound. How hard they were to heal. His own were like welts under his skin. No one could see them, but they were always there—always would be. Despite the ‘luxury’ of enforced therapy for five years. Five years until he’d learned to say what they wanted to hear: that he didn’t hold himself responsible, that it wasn’t his fault his baby brother had died.
Who else was to blame if not him? Who else had dragged him from doorway to doorway, scavenging, begging, stealing and worse? Who else had got caught up with the gangs, the drug runners and the killers?
He glanced past Frankie’s scooped silhouette to the tiny battered photo of Lodo that he carried with him and placed at his bedside wherever he was. Precious life snuffed out before he’d even turned four