Postcards From Buenos Aires: The Playboy of Argentina / Kept at the Argentine's Command / One Night, Twin Consequences

CHAPTER EIGHT

ROCCO STARED AT the phone in his hand as if it was an unexploded bomb. Finally the PI he’d had on his books for the past ten years had uncovered something concrete.

So long. It felt as if he’d been waiting his whole life to hear it. And, no—it wasn’t even confirmed—but, hell, it was as close as it had ever been. He’d pursued this last lead tirelessly, feeling in his gut that he was closing in. And to discover that Martinez—Lodo’s killer—might have been living for the past ten years in Buenos Aires would be a twist of fate almost too bittersweet to bear.

He’d admit it to no one but Dante, but this news shook him to his core.

He fastened cufflinks and tugged cuffs. Glanced into the mirror and confirmed that his restless mood was reflected all over his face. The shadow from his imperfect nose was cast down his cheek and his scar throbbed—a reminder of every punch he’d ever slung in the boxing ring and on the streets. Every blow, every ounce of rage directed at Chris Martinez for what he had done. And at himself for what he hadn’t.

It was the timing of this that was wrong—in the middle of the Vaca Muerta shale gas deal, which was worth billions and his biggest venture yet. That and the delicious distraction of Frankie. But it was too important to let a moment pass.

This was the closing in on a twenty-year chase—one that had started with him running for his life, dragging Lodo along behind him, as the shout had gone up that the gang were back and wanted revenge. And Lodo—trusting, loyal Lodo—had been right there behind him as they’d leaped up from their cardboard box beds and hurled themselves into the pre-dawn streets.

Why he had let him go, let his fingers slip, was the question he could never answer. It was the deathly crow that lived in his chest, flapping its wings against his ribs at the slightest memory of Lodo—a shock of blond curls, the curve of a child’s cheek, the taste of choripan, the sight of graffiti, the swirl of Milonga music. Every part of BA held a memory, and it was why he would never, ever leave.

Even when that piece of slime Martinez was locked up or dead. Even then. Lodo was still there in those streets. The streets were all he had to remember him by, and nothing would drag him away. At least he understood that now—now that the counsellor’s words had sunk in, twenty years after hearing them.

How could someone who was as blessed as he’d turned out to be have fought against it so hard?

He’d been ‘saved’ by Señor and Señora Hermida as part of their personal quest to ‘give back’ to BA after they had just managed to escape the big crash that had caused so much devastation to others. Been dragged to their estancia, sent to an elite school with Dante, given every last chance that he would never have had when he’d wound up abandoned, orphaned and nearly killed.

The years of his hating the privilege had taken their toll on his madre and padre—that was how he referred to his and Dante’s parents. They deserved that at least, after tirelessly forgiving him time after time. Bringing him back every time he ran away, channelling his energies into pursuits like boxing and polo that had eventually turned out to be life-saving. They had understood that he couldn’t just accept the endless stream of money that could so easily have been his—not that they’d allowed him to squander it. He’d had to work for every peso.

But he’d preferred a much harder path. Starting with only the blood in his veins and the sharp senses he’d been born with. Self-sacrifice, almost self-flagellation, had been way better than any golden-boy opportunities. He had self-funded every step of the way. For him there had been no other way.

And he had done well. Very well. He had everything he could ever want.

Apart from his own family. He would never have that. It was a fruit too sweet. There would be no wife, no child. No one to fill Lodo’s place.

But he was a man. He needed a woman. Of course he did. And one who accepted the limitations of her role.

The scent of Frankie wound through from the dressing room. This whole situation had unravelled in a way he had not predicted. He’d thought a passion this hot was just after a ten-year build-up and would be over well within the time he’d allotted. That it was as much about finally sampling forbidden fruit as any genuine full-blown attraction. But he’d been wrong. He was nowhere near sated.

How long it would last was something he was not prepared to commit to—but he was not going to let her out of his sight. Not while she excited him and incited him so much. Pure sex, of course. But sex the likes of which he had never known. And, since all his relationships were effectively based on sex, the currency of this one was totally valid.

Longer term? No. Her expectations would be sky-high. She’d want an equal footing in everything. She’d fight him every step of the way if she felt something wasn’t fair. And he had no time for that. He had no time to be looking after a woman like that. That level of responsibility was to be avoided at all costs. Hadn’t he proved that? Wasn’t his trail of devastation big enough? No. She’d exhaust him. Cause him sleepless nights—in every sense.

That whole episode with her taking the pony and disappearing was evidence enough. His jaw clenched at the rage he’d felt when he’d found her gone. What a fool he’d been. Wandering around the garden first, calling her name, imagining that she’d be lying there waiting—warm and welcoming. Then when he’d realised she wasn’t there or anywhere in the house, that sick feeling of panic had begun to build.

He’d felt it countless times with Dante when they were younger—as teenagers out roaming around the city, or later when they’d both go out and Dante would disappear for days, getting lost in some girl. Forcing himself past the terror of losing him had been years in the achieving, but he’d schooled himself. He’d learned. Dante was in total control of Dante. Lodo—well, that had been a different matter.

And today he’d been feeling it all over again. Bizarre. He’d been dwelling a lot on Lodo these past few days. Dredging up all the pain again. He had to get hold of himself, though—put the plaster back over his Achilles’ heel. And damn fast.

Hours later he was sitting alongside her in the helicopter—watching the raw excitement on her face as the came in to land on the perfect patchwork quilt that made up Punta del Este. The sea, the beach, the clusters of yachts, the million-dollar homes—all were laid out like a beautiful chequered cloth.

He loved this place. Loved that Frankie was here, sharing it with him.

He showed her round his house and the gardens he’d designed himself. Watched her natural interest and joy at the little hidden corners, the sunken nooks, the bridge that spanned the inner courtyard swimming pool—it was a pleasure to see unguarded happiness. He wasn’t usually in the business of comparisons, but—again—her lack of artifice, her unedited honesty, was so striking up against some of the other women he’d dated. Refreshing as rain on parched earth. It fed something in him—something he hadn’t even known he was hungry for.

And then, of course, there was the passion. As soon as they’d got indoors and he’d got a message that there was further news about Martinez, he’d taken her—fast and hard. Maybe too hard. But she’d responded; she’d given it right back. She was just what he needed right now. No mind games, no manipulation. Just there, answering his body with her own. The perfect partner while he worked through this news.

Now he paced to the bathroom door. Opened it. Saw her. Wanted her all over again.

She kept her gaze straight ahead, frowned into the mirror as she smoothed her hair with her fingers and clipped in the emerald earrings he’d had delivered. He would give them to her to keep when she finally left. He would give them to her to remember him by.

The memories he had left her with the first time …

His hands curled into fists as he thought of how badly she had been treated. He had been so oblivious. He was angry, and still coming to terms with seeing a side of her she managed to keep well hidden.

To the world she was wilful, too stubborn. But to him she was just a highly strung filly. As highly strung as Ipanema had been when she’d arrived from Ireland. Missing her farm, her spoiled life. All she’d needed was a bit of careful management and a strong hand. She’d respected that. Needed that.

Just like her mistress.

And now he found himself easily, instinctively handling her.

He didn’t need to wonder too deeply about why. They were both meeting each other’s needs. It was that simple. There was no deeper, darker agenda. It was what it was. And it was good—for now.

‘Perfecto.’

He said it aloud.

She smiled a self-effacing little half smile. ‘Thank you. But I’m not going to lie … The thought of being all over the press as your date is giving me hives.’

He walked to her, wrapped his arms round her as she stood staring into the mirror. He in black, she in white. Her lips were a stain of poppy red, her hair a patent shimmer. In spiked heels, she was just tall enough to tuck her head under his chin completely. He nestled her against him, enjoying the fine-boned feel of her.

‘You’ll be sensational.’

‘I’d rather be a nonentity. Walls need flowers—that’s where I prefer to plant myself. And the thought of the media and all those people staring at the photographs of me …’

She shuddered and he held her back from him, stared at her. ‘All those people?’

‘Well, people who know me. Okay,’ she said, pulling away, ‘my family. They’ll judge. And not in a good way.’

‘It’s only a party, Frankie. I’m sure they have them in Ireland.’

‘Sure they do—but I like to keep my invites on the down-low. It’s easier that way.’

‘I reckon we can pull off a party without it hitting the headlines.’ He hooked his thumb under her chin, tipped it up gently. ‘Don’t you?’

She rolled her eyes, quirked her lips into a smile. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Good. So we’ll just go for a little while. I may have to return to BA early tomorrow anyway. I have some business that can’t be postponed.’

He regarded her carefully, feeling strangely sure that if he opened up to her she would hold his confidence. But, no. That was not an option. Never an option.

‘I head out the day after … so that all works out, then.’

Her voice was strained. He understood instantly.

‘No, Frankie. I am not saying goodbye. Not tomorrow or the day after.’

He held her within his outline, stared at them in the mirror.

‘I’d like you to stay on in Buenos Aires—with me. Until … until we put out this fire between us.’

‘Rocco—’ she started.

He watched her steady herself, watched strain splinter across her face.

‘I’m only in South America for a few more days and then I’m flying back to Europe.’

‘So stay longer. We have to continue this thing that we’ve started. It would be crazy not to. What do you say? Think about it.’

He didn’t want to think about it. He just knew it felt right.

He turned her in his arms. She opened her mouth, as always needing to have her say, but some things needed no discussion. This was one of them.

Careful not to smear her lipstick, he kissed her lightly. But he slid his tongue into her mouth—just as a little reminder that the slightest touch was all it took.

The party was exactly as he’d expected it would be. The elegant country club was bedecked with all sorts of champagne-themed nonsense, and golden fairy lights around the jacarandas that lined the driveway made the blue-flowered trees look like sticks of giant glittery candyfloss. A gold marquee squatted on the lawn at the front of the old colonial-style house that had now become the clubhouse. Grace and glitz cautiously circled each other before the electrifying dance that would come later.

He watched as Frankie warily eyed the obligatory press corps as their car curved round the driveway. He had to smile at how contradictory she could be. So confident, so combative—but also so anxious about being his date.

He smiled, squeezed the hand he’d held throughout the car ride even though his mind had drifted to the next stage of the Martinez investigation—a task he’d entrusted to Dante: one final check on the identity of the man they suspected of being Chris Martinez. He scanned his phone for about the thousandth time in the past hour. Still nothing. He slid it away, held her close, tucked under his shoulder, feeling her presence soften his frayed edges.

Shadows of other times flitted through his mind, startling him. Fleeting moments when the salve of another body had shored up the pain. One happy dark morning, before her breakdown, when he had crawled into the warmth of his mamá’s bed after his papá had left on the soulless search for work. Feeling her love as she’d closed her arms around him. And then, mere months later, he had been collapsing into the arms of the nuns at the hospital. Hiding in their long black skirts. Racked with the agony of guilt when he’d seen Lodo laid out in the mortuary.

Strange that the touch of a lover had brought of these feelings back. It never had before. The news about Martinez had affected him very deeply, it seemed.

‘Here we go, then.’

He smiled. It was unusual for him to have a date who preferred to stay in the background. Refreshingly unusual. He tried to soothe the tension in the brittle grip of her fingers and the jagged cut of her shoulder under his arm as he steered her past the openly intrigued crowd. Fields of happy, curious faces turned towards them like flowers—as if they were the sun, giving light and warmth. To him, Frankie felt colder by the second.

He knew she’d rather be curled up in his lap on the couch, watching TV and making love, than stuck in the media glare with all these gilt-edged sycophants.

Carmel had loved the spotlight. And had stupidly thought she could use her media chums to manipulate him, dropping hints that they were ‘getting serious’. Hearing that had sobered him up pronto. Finalmento.

And of course Carmel was here tonight—she’d never miss it. All flowing golden hair and shimmering curves in a red sequined dress. Holding court in the middle of the vast foyer. She caught sight of them entering, covered her shock well. But he knew that the extravagant tilt of her head, the slight hitch in her rich syrupy laugh and the twisting pose to showcase her fabulous figure were all for him.

Dante had warned him that Operation: Frankie Who? was well underway. Everyone was desperate to know about the girl who had caused the Hurricane to bail out of the post-match celebrations and go off radar. The fact that she was more shot glass than hourglass, and had never made a social appearance before that anyone could remember, was as baffling as it was irritating for them.

Baffling for him, too, if he was honest. He’d felt physical attraction before. But this was crazy—like a wild pony. Ten years breaking it in, and still it wasn’t tamed.

‘Look how much of a sensation you’re making,’ he whispered into her ear, lingering a moment, knowing just how to heat her up.

‘The only sensation I’ve got is horror,’ she shot back. ‘They’re like vampires, waiting for blood. Get your garlic ready. And stay close with your pitchfork.’

‘Relax …’ He smiled and steered her through with a few nods, a few handshakes, but it was clear for all to see that he was lingering with no one but Frankie. He’d need to work hard to ease these particular knots from her shoulders—especially since she was so damn independent in every other aspect of her life.

‘Let’s get a drink.’

He liked this club—this home away from home. It was old, but not stuffy. The rules were as relaxed as you could hope for, and the people easy.

He and Dante had spent so much of their time here, back in the day. Made fools of themselves, learned to charm, in Dante’s case, or in his case, fight a way out of trouble. All in the relative safety of this club that had seen generations of polo-playing Hermidas. Generations who now posed with other serious-eyed teammates or proud glossy ponies, looking down at them from their brass frames in the oak-panelled club rooms. Full-blood Hermidas. He never forgot that he was there by invitation only. But he was grateful now—accepting. Indebted.

He led her through the gold-draped dining room, past the billiard room and out to the terrace. Dark, warm air flowed between open French doors and mingled with chatter and laughter and lights. On the lawn the marquee throbbed with a low baseline—incongruously, invitingly.

‘Do you want to dance?’ he asked, handing her a glass of champagne.

‘No. Thanks.’ She sipped it, looked around.

‘You want some food?’ He indicated the abundant buffet.

‘Not hungry. Who’s the girl in the red dress?’ she shot out.

He looked down at Frankie’s upturned curious face. So she’d noticed. Predictably, Carmel was on form.

‘An ex-girlfriend. Carmel de Souza. She likes the limelight—and you’re in it.’ He sensed some kind of predatory emotion in Frankie, but for once in his life it didn’t make him recoil. ‘She once had plans that involved me, but I suspect she has all those bases covered by now. She’s never single. Ever.’

‘That’s no surprise—looking as she does.’

‘Relax. Looking as she does is a full-time occupation. And I mean full-time.’

‘Really?’ Frankie sounded slightly snippy. ‘Doesn’t she have a proper job? Something with a bit more … substance?’

He shrugged. What did she do? Shop? Party? Self-promote? She was her own industry.

‘She looks good. She snares rich men.’

‘So she’s a man hunter? Is that it?’

‘More of a husband hunter, to be honest. And with me that was never going to happen. It became a bit of an issue between us.’

She gave a derisory little sniff and he cocked a curious brow. Her eyes, turned up to him, were full of clarity, deserving truth.

‘Is that something you’d struggle with?’ It was as well to know. It had been a deal-breaker before. More than once.

‘It’s not something I’ve ever given much thought to.’

He felt his phone vibrate.

‘Is that you stating your position, Rocco?’

She’d framed the question carefully, but it would have to wait. He whipped his phone out, saw the screen ablaze with messages and one missed call. Dante.

Dammit.

‘What’s wrong? Is everything okay?’

‘Nothing. Just a call I need to return. Give me a moment.’

He stepped away from her on the terrace, which was glazed with more firefly golden lights. Tried to press Redial. The call wouldn’t connect. He pressed again. And again.

He strode along the terrace, checking the phone for a signal. Chatter from the house and music from the marquee clouded the air. Still no connection.

He paced away from the clubhouse, took a flight of stone steps down towards the tennis courts. Nothing.

There was a couple necking in the shadows—he took a path to their left. A gravel walkway narrowed by high hedges studded with flowers, their petals closed in sleep. The trail of party voices was now dimmed, the lights less frequent. Only occasional glimpses of moonlight and his frustratingly inept phone gifted him any real visibility.

He tried one more time.

The phone lit up as a message came through.

Dead end. Sorry. Be with you shortly.

A peal of laughter sounded above the strains of dance music. A breath of wind rose and fell. Around him leafy bushes puffed out like lungs, then sank back. He stood staring at the message.

It couldn’t be. He had been so sure. So sure. Had felt it so strongly.

He had thrown everything at this. Years of patience. Every favour called in. How much longer was it going to take? How could thugs like Martinez hide their tracks so well? He’d known even as a child that the Martinez brothers were in deep with Mexican drug lords. Why hadn’t the police ever caught up with them? Surely not every cop was bent? But they’d evaded everyone, and every effort he had put in had hit a dead end.

But they were out there somewhere. And they were not invincible. He was not frightened of them. Not anymore.

He would find him—Chris—the one who had fired the shot.

His day would come.

He stood. Drew in a deep, deep breath. Squared his shoulders. Slipped the phone away again. Looked back at the clubhouse, the party.

Frankie. For a fleeting moment a knot loosened inside him. Like a drop of black molasses slipping from a spoon. Peace. Another strange, unbidden thought.

He banished it. He was getting sentimental—that was all. He needed to get his head clear, keep his focus.

He started back up the path. Dante couldn’t be too much longer. He listened for a helicopter, but the wind was rising and the party was beginning to throb as parties did.