FOUR
Kept at the Argentine’s Command
Bella Frances
For my mother,
with all my love
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 she could feel were the unbidden tremors of hurt and humiliation and—damn him to hell—shame.
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
