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And after he’d done all that he was going to get
Frankie. He was going to lay his heart out for her. And if she didn’t want him he would understand. He’d understand, but he wouldn’t give up. He would prove to her that he was worthy of her. Somehow.

And now things had panned out just as he’d hoped. Even the tracking down of Martinez. The trail had heated up again and he’d stepped forward himself—no proxy. He’d wanted a face-to-face, and he wouldn’t be wearing anyone’s mask when it happened.

And now he was here. This was it.

To think it was all about to draw to its conclusion after twenty years on a pavement outside a modest villa, sandwiched between two high-rises in Belgrano. With the only criminals in sight the tourist-fleecing café owners.

For two hours he sat there, his fingers making slow drumrolls on the steering wheel. Two hours and then twenty years of hate would be gone. Twenty years of carrying a stone in his heart. Weighted, heavy, dungeon dark. And now, with one simple sighting, he’d stepped up to the light.

One look at the family that exited the dusty sedan and trooped into the house—a fifty-year-old man, his wife, his daughter and an infant that had to be his grandchild—and he knew he was free. Martinez looked aged, haggard. Weary. And suddenly the thrill of the chase was doused. He was finally hauling the past into the sunshine of this moment.

Chris Martinez hadn’t caused the economic crash.
He
wasn’t responsible for them ending up on the streets, for his father vanishing and his mother’s breakdown. Rocco had chosen a path close to the dark side, sleeping on cardboard in doorways with Lodo. Stealing and mixing with criminals had only ever been going to end one way.

The Martinez brothers had been little more than children
themselves—young men who’d gone deeper and darker than Rocco. But who knew what would have happened if Lodo hadn’t died? If the nuns hadn’t taken him in? If Senor and Senora Hermida hadn’t shone a light in his life?

Lodo was gone. But there was so much to love and live for—so, so much.

His hand hovered over the car’s door handle. It was time. He had to tie up this last knot.

He got out of the car and walked across the street. A tiny fence marked off the front yard from the pavement. He swung open the gate and walked four paces to the door. Gomez, the nameplate said. Knocked.

The young woman opened, the dark-eyed baby on her hip. She recognised him immediately and her mouth and eyes widened.

Behind her loomed her father—Chris Martinez, now Chris Gomez. They stared at one another and Rocco saw acknowledgement, acceptance and fear flit across his haggard face.

‘I know who you are,’ he said.

Rocco nodded. ‘Then, you’ll know why I’ve come.’

Martinez didn’t flinch, but he stepped out onto the street, pulled the door closed behind him, shielding his home and his family.

Rocco could smell his fear, could see him digging deep for the strength he’d known he would one day need.

‘I’ve changed.’

He stared at his face—looking for what he’d expected to see. Ugly snarling hate … brutality. But it was just a face.

‘So have I.’

‘I’ve watched you for years. I’ve waited for you to come—I knew you would find me.’

Rocco said nothing. There was nothing to say.

‘I never meant for it to happen. I was afraid of them—They gave me a gun …’ He dipped his head, shook it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally, looking up.

Rocco looked into his sunken eyes, at his flabby face, his paunch and, behind the windows, peering out, his family.

‘It was for me to forgive you.’

He held that gaze for long, searching seconds. This was the moment he had dreamed of for all these years. And now it was his … just seconds ticking by, two men united by one terrible moment and then separated on their own paths.

‘It’s done now,’ he said, and walked away.

Rocco parked outside the cemetery. The late morning had seeped into noon brightness. The shadows had begun to lengthen. He pulled the tiny battered photograph from its leather frame. Lodo had lived for such a short time. If he’d survived.? Who could say? But he would treasure the moments they’d had together for evermore.

He should mark his time on earth in some way. A charity cup? A sponsorship? A garden? He would work that out. But now it was time to move into the present. He’d done all he could. He had to grasp his future with both hands—and fast.

He looked at his watch, worked out the time in Dublin. He knew she was there. Just as he knew it was only a matter of time now until he followed her.

But there was no way he could have forced himself back into her life until he’d cleared this path.

He could see that now. Finally. After the massive fight he’d had with Dante, which had almost ended in violence for the first time ever—and it was all thanks to Dante
that it hadn’t. His long-suffering brother had taken the verbal blows, the emotional abuse, and had walked away before he’d had to defend himself against the physical ones, too. A true brother.

He lifted his phone. His trips to Europe would be even more frequent now, so the jet he’d just bought was more a necessity than a luxury. The flight plan was already lodged: he’d be flying to Dublin later that day. But back to La Colorada first, to get everything organised with the horses. Although Dante was captaining HH, he had a ton of stuff of his own going on, too. Not least with this new mystery woman—the duchess he’d been pictured with on a yacht in the Caribbean.

He’d never known Dante so tight-lipped about a woman. And so sensitive. It made a change …

He pulled out into the midday suburban traffic, the urge to plant his foot to the floor immense. Anything to speed up this journey … the sooner to let his eyes light upon her sweet face.

God, he hoped she’d been okay. That last night—staying apart from her—had been one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. Knowing that they were both in such pain and not being able or equipped to deal with it. She’d refused every offer of help—even a ride to the airport. But he’d insisted on that. As a concession, he hadn’t driven the car himself. A concession that he’d rethought so many times. If he’d actually been at the departure gate with her could he really have let her go?

He didn’t think so.

He pulled out onto the highway, sped along. Four hours and then he’d be on the jet. The best sixty million dollars he’d ever spent if he could bring her back home with him.

The straight, sandy driveway, its jacarandas weighted
down with purple blooms, the sky a streak of pale turquoise and the droopy green willows all welcomed him home. He spun the Lotus round and parked with a lot less care than usual. He felt teenager happy. Excited. As if he was going on a first date, but with the stakes so much higher. Incredibly high.

In through the doors and instantly he sensed it.

He stopped. Listened.

Nothing.

Only the steady tick-tock of the irritating antique clock that presided over the mantelpiece in the wide wooden vestibule. Underneath, the unlit fire was flanked by two towering palms in glazed urns. Corridors stretched off in two directions, the sheen of the parquet gleaming with hundred-year-old pride.

Silence.

It was lunchtime. He should be hearing the grooms chattering: the European girls, so highly strung, and all the gauchos—the young ones flirting and the older ones solemnly muttering. But there was nothing.

He walked on through the house. He couldn’t dare think the thoughts he wanted to think. But the last time the house had been this silent was when he had thrown everyone out while he went on his three-day bender. And the time before that …

It had been when the staff had given him space. Space to share with Frankie.

He reached the snug, listening like a hunter, feeling as if he was following in the wake of something … of someone. But it was empty. He kept on, his footsteps now falling on the silk runners, deadening all sound apart from the thump of his heart in his ears.

His bedroom. He paused. Put his hand on the brass door plate and pushed. Cautiously he let his eyes fall
into the space between the wall and the open door. His eyes landed on the rug, on the shaft of sunlight that lit the floor, moved to the wall by the dressing room. And there sat the tiny battered carry-on bag.

He threw open the door.

He checked the room, the dressing room, the bathroom, went out onto the terrace.

There was no mistake
—no mistake
—none. He picked up the bag and scanned every inch of it. It was Frankie’s. He’d know it anywhere. And unless someone was playing tricks with his mind, it could only mean one thing.

Like a wild horse he charged back through the house, powering through doors, changing direction. Back to the snug, where the scent of fresh paint cut through the air. Where could she be? Where the
hell
could she be?

The main doorway was still open as he passed the ticking clock and stepped out into the sunshine, stared out all around. In the distance the grass-cutting tractors were trailing like giant beetles around the cultivated lawns surrounding the lakes. To the left horses grazed, staying near the trees for much-needed shelter.

And then his feet knew where to go, even if his mind didn’t. In less than two minutes he’d skirted the house, run past the back terrace to the yard and the stables. Straight to the stalls of Roisin and Orla.

Dante might have chosen them for his string for today’s match, but if he hadn’t …

He stepped inside.

His heart stopped.

There she was.

Roisin’s nose nuzzled into her hand as she turned her huge watchful eyes on him.

Frankie looked up, smiled.

‘Hello, Rocco.’

He swallowed. ‘Frankie.’

‘Hope you don’t mind me coming out here to see the ponies.’ She ran the backs of her fingers down Roisin’s white star. ‘I never got a proper chance to get to know them last time.’

She turned her attention fully on the horse, smiled again and kissed her bobbing head, clapped her strong silky neck.

He watched her, transfixed. She was exactly as he remembered—but so different. Her sleek bobbed hair dipped over each cheek, almost obscuring her perfect petite nose and huge honest eyes. Her lips were parted as she murmured a reassuring string of soft words to Roisin. Then they tilted into another smile, which she turned to gift to him.

‘You were right. I didn’t come here for the horses last time. I thought I had. But it turns out there was a bigger attraction.’

His face eased into a smile. ‘I knew it.’

She smiled, so softly, nodded in the half light of the stable.

‘It’s funny how things turn out, isn’t it? Who would have thought that my grumpy old goat of a father would be the one to give me the best advice about love?’

‘What advice was that, then?’

He moved closer, cutting out the sunlight that bathed her, casting her slightly into shadow. But she didn’t need any sunlight. She
was
sunlight.

Even in the gloom he saw her smile deepen and her eyes sparkle with humour. She turned back to the pony, soothing her with slow, soft strokes.

‘He said men can be very stupid sometimes. You in particular.’

He kept pacing towards her.

‘Is that right?’

The pony whickered, looking for more affection, but she trained her eyes on his and kept them steady.

‘Definitely.’

‘He said
I’m
stupid? But I’m not the one who’s fallen in love with a bad-tempered, jealous
porteño
with more bumps and scars than a beat-up car.’

She made a face, as if perusing him for the first time. Nodded. ‘True, true … You could do with a new paint job.’

The heartbeats that passed were the sweetest of his life. He felt his cheeks almost split as a smile burst right across his face. He took another step closer.

‘But he’s right. I’ve been
very
stupid—falling in love with the cheekiest, most smart-mouthed little minx who ever climbed into my bed. Naked.’

‘I was looking for something …’ This time it was her turn to smile from ear to ear.

‘Tell me you found it.’

She smiled coyly. ‘Oh, yes. I found it, all right.’

‘I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you blush, Frankie Ryan.’

That crackle of heat began.

‘It’s too dark to see in here.’

‘Maybe I just need to get a little closer to be sure, then.’

He was right beside the horse’s withers.

‘You’ll have to wait in line. I came to see Roisin.’

He stepped right up, so they were almost toe to toe. He saw her chest rise as she drew in a sharp breath. Her lips parted slightly. His appetite for her roared into life. The hunger that would gnaw at him forever.

‘You’ll have all the time in the world to get to know her.’

He scooped his hand around her neck, felt the warm,
supple skin and silken hair. Sweet heaven, how had he lived these days without her?

‘Oh, really?’ she whispered, tilting her head back, her perfect wet lips opening in invitation.

He accepted. With the slowest, softest, sweetest kiss.

‘Oh, yes,’ he murmured, against her mouth. ‘I’m not stupid enough to let you go for a third time.’

Thoughts of everlasting days and nights with his woman, his wife, swirled in his head—made him dizzy with his love for her.

Roisin stamped her foot. He grabbed Frankie by the hand, led her out into the sunlight.

‘Come on. We’ve got two hours until we need to be at Palermo. It’s Dante’s first match as captain. He can help us celebrate.’

She stopped, narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Celebrate? What …?’

He bumped his brow. ‘Of course. How stupid of me.’

There in the middle of the yard she planted her feet like a stubborn mule. Folded her arms and scowled a grin at him.

And he did the thing he never dared hope he would do, but in his mind had been practising for twenty years. He dropped to one knee, held her pale skinny fingers in his hand, slipped the Ipanema ring off her right hand and looked up into that darling face. Her eyes, filled with trust and hope, and now glistening with tears, stared down.