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He watched as Frankie warily eyed the obligatory press corps as their car curved round the driveway. He had to smile at how contradictory she could be. So confident, so combative—but also so anxious about being his date.

He smiled, squeezed the hand he’d held throughout the car ride even though his mind had drifted to the next stage of the Martinez investigation—a task he’d entrusted to Dante: one final check on the identity of the man they suspected of being Chris Martinez. He scanned his phone for about the thousandth time in the past hour. Still nothing. He slid it away, held her close, tucked under his shoulder, feeling her presence soften his frayed edges.

Shadows of other times flitted through his mind, startling him. Fleeting moments when the salve of another body had shored up the pain. One happy dark morning,
before her breakdown, when he had crawled into the warmth of his
mamá
’s bed after his
papá
had left on the soulless search for work. Feeling her love as she’d closed her arms around him. And then, mere months later, he had been collapsing into the arms of the nuns at the hospital. Hiding in their long black skirts. Racked with the agony of guilt when he’d seen Lodo laid out in the mortuary.

Strange that the touch of a lover had brought of these feelings back. It never had before. The news about Martinez had affected him very deeply, it seemed.

‘Here we go, then.’

He smiled. It was unusual for him to have a date who preferred to stay in the background. Refreshingly unusual. He tried to soothe the tension in the brittle grip of her fingers and the jagged cut of her shoulder under his arm as he steered her past the openly intrigued crowd. Fields of happy, curious faces turned towards them like flowers—as if they were the sun, giving light and warmth. To him, Frankie felt colder by the second.

He knew she’d rather be curled up in his lap on the couch, watching TV and making love, than stuck in the media glare with all these gilt-edged sycophants.

Carmel had loved the spotlight. And had stupidly thought she could use her media chums to manipulate him, dropping hints that they were ‘getting serious’. Hearing that had sobered him up pronto.
Finalmento.

And of course Carmel was here tonight—she’d never miss it. All flowing golden hair and shimmering curves in a red sequined dress. Holding court in the middle of the vast foyer. She caught sight of them entering, covered her shock well. But he knew that the extravagant tilt of her head, the slight hitch in her rich syrupy laugh
and the twisting pose to showcase her fabulous figure were all for him.

Dante had warned him that Operation: Frankie Who? was well underway. Everyone was desperate to know about the girl who had caused the Hurricane to bail out of the post-match celebrations and go off radar. The fact that she was more shot glass than hourglass, and had never made a social appearance before that anyone could remember, was as baffling as it was irritating for them.

Baffling for him, too, if he was honest. He’d felt physical attraction before. But this was crazy—like a wild pony. Ten years breaking it in, and still it wasn’t tamed.

‘Look how much of a sensation you’re making,’ he whispered into her ear, lingering a moment, knowing just how to heat her up.

‘The 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 melt.

‘I’m sorry to take so long.’ He reached out for her.

‘Rocco—darling.’

At the sound of his voice Carmel swirled, pouted her glossy best, offered him her cheek. He had no time for her games. But she was quick.

‘I was looking after your date. You left her all alone, baby! Were you looking for
me
?’ she added, stage-whisper loud.

Over Carmel’s shoulder he caught a glimpse of Frankie’s inky eyes trained straight at him.

‘Did you get your call made?’

He nodded.

Carmel manoeuvred her way between them. She turned her back on Frankie, rubbed her breasts against him.

‘Rocco, baby … Have you missed me?’

She pouted and preened.

A camera flash went off.

She never missed a moment.

He opened his mouth to put her in her place, but Frankie suddenly rounded those sequined hips and stood at his other side, shoulders back and determined little chin tilted.

‘
Miss
you? How could
anyone
miss you?’

Cool, understated, but strong. Rocco’s eyes drank her in.

Carmel did an uncharacteristic double-take. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Subtlety, honey. Try looking it up.’

Rocco smiled and raised an eyebrow at Carmel. He’d never seen anyone take her on before—never mind trump her.

Frankie slid her arm around his waist, swivelled back to Carmel. ‘And, for the record, my
date
has all he needs right here.’

Carmel put her hands on her abundant hips and stuck her head forward, looking for all the world like a turkey in a burlesque show. She started gabbling in Spanish, clearly thinking Frankie wouldn’t understand, and she was totally unprepared for the volley that was fired right back at her. Even
he
was surprised at the colour of the words Frankie was using.

‘Come. Enough,’ he said, putting his arm around her and dragging her outside as she continued to sling one shocking insult after another.

Her feet shuffled to keep up as he quickened his pace, and then he spun her right round, framing them in the French windows.

‘Stop, now.
Enough!
Where did you even
learn
those words?’

He held her possessively, and when she still poured
forward mouthfuls of cheek he had no other option. He gripped her jaw and angled her mouth just where he wanted it. Heard the swell of gasps and gossip, saw the flashes of cameras as he lowered his head and kissed her quiet.

She gripped onto his arms, wavered on her tiptoes, until he felt the anger and fight ooze out of her. Fury died in her mouth to be replaced by the soothing heat that only they could build.

He pulled back and smiled at her. ‘Finished?’

As her eyes fluttered open there was a lull in the music and he heard the noise of a helicopter’s rotors in the distance. He looked up. Dante? He trained his eyes on the lights from its belly as it loomed closer.

What had he found out? Surely they were closer? Surely
someone
knew something about Martinez? He desperately wanted to know the details—still couldn’t believe it was completely a dead end—but that would have to wait until they were alone. Right now he owed it to Frankie to soothe her tension and get her well away from Carmel and the rest of this circus.

He led her down through air thick with pulsing music and events that were yet to happen.

‘Is there anyone you
won’t
take on,
hermosa
?’

He smiled softly at her. She was still tense and tight-lipped, rigid shoulders still not relaxed under his arm.

She shrugged. ‘She deserved it.’

He couldn’t disagree with that.

‘I mean—is it a party in
her
honour? Because that’s how she was acting!’

He ran his hand up to her neck, rubbed softly, his fingers bumping against the heavy earrings that even in the gloom caught scattering light.

Suddenly she swung round. ‘Are you mad at me?’

He frowned. ‘Why would I be mad?’

She swung away. ‘I don’t know—for running my mouth off? But I can’t take those kind of women. Acting as if they’ve got a mandate on life just because they’re every man’s fantasy.’

‘You believe that? Even if I tell you that some of those curves feel like leather balloons and they’re no more real than the those fake emeralds you’ve got hanging from your ears.’