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.
He got to the terrace, caught sight of the spill of people all staring inside, through the French doors. Strode inside.
He might have known.
There she was. Carmel and her circus. And pinned in the middle, like a church candle in a blaze of fireworks, was Frankie.
Carmel was working her red dress as only she could. Fabulous breasts up and out, tiny waist twisted, hair tumbling like a waterfall of silk. She would have dwarfed Frankie anyway, but right now she looked just as she had in the bathroom mirror—a pale ghost of who she really was.
She made his heart
