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.
