Bella Frances – The Playboy of Argentina (страница 1)
Slower, softer, but still a kiss that killed her. He tilted his brow to rest it on hers and held her close in his arms. Francesca felt the heat, the strength, the fire of this man all around her.
‘I want you so badly. I want you like I’ve never wanted any other woman. Ever.’
He pushed back from her, still held her head, stayed nose to nose with her.
‘You are with me now. The games are over.’
He kissed her again, fiercely branded her mouth with his tongue. Then he stepped back, ran one hand through his hair and took her hand in the other.
‘Come. We will go to my home.’
Unable to sit still without reading, BELLA FRANCES first found romantic fiction at the age of twelve, in between deadly dull knitting patterns and recipes in the pages of her grandmother’s magazines. An obsession was born! But it wasn’t until one long, hot summer, after completing her first degree in English literature, that she fell upon the legends that are Mills & Boon® books. She has occasionally lifted her head out of them since to do a range of jobs, including barmaid, financial adviser and teacher, as well as to practise (but never perfect) the art of motherhood to two (almost grown-up) cherubs. Bella lives a very energetic life in the UK, but tries desperately to travel for pleasure at least once a month—strictly in the interests of research!
Catch up with her on her website at bellafrances.co.uk
The Playboy
of Argentina
Bella Frances
For my mother, with all my love.
Table of Contents
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
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.
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
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.
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
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,
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
She began to thread and weave through the contrasting mix of casual
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.