Postcards From Buenos Aires. Bella Frances

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       CHAPTER NINE

      NIGHT’S DARK CLOAK lay heavy all around. Frankie woke with a start, for a moment lost, with no dawn-edged window, no lamplit carpet to guide her vision.

      She was in a huge space, lightless. Black. Warm. Safe.

      Rocco’s room. Rocco’s home.

      She flung out her hand. No Rocco.

      He liked total darkness when he slept. Blackout blinds, no lamps. Just bodies—naked, entwined—and loving, and snatches of deep, dreamless sleep.

      Then daybreak.

      But it was still so dark, so vividly velvety black. And his empty space was cold. She clutched her arms around her body and shivered.

      Rocco had been more intense than ever in his lovemaking tonight.

      Almost as soon as they had got home he had poured them both large measures of whiskey. His he had thrown down his neck in a single gulp, the stinging heat of the liquor appearing to make no impact on him. He’d seemed to waver over pouring another, glancing sideways at the bottle before putting his glass down carefully. Then he’d cast off his dinner jacket and tie and in two slow strides had hauled her against him.

      He had devoured her. It was the only way she could describe it. It had seemed there wasn’t enough of her for him. They’d kissed so fiercely her lip had been cut and he’d tasted her blood. It was only then that he’d stopped his wildness. He’d heaved himself back from her, arms locked and rigid, gripping her and staring at her with shocked concern that he’d hurt her. But she’d felt nothing. Nothing but bereft when he’d pulled himself away.

      She’d grabbed his head and pulled him back, and then they’d formed that heaving, writhing mass of fire and passion and pleasure. Hot, slick heaven. No wonder she was shivering now.

      She licked her bruised lip and wondered where he was … what time it was.

      Her hands groped over the clutter on the table beside her, grabbing for her phone. Her fingers bumped against the glass of water Rocco had placed there for her, trailed over the emerald earrings she’d carefully removed earlier and finally closed around her smartphone.

      Instantly it lit the room. 4:00 a.m.

      The screen showed two missed calls.

       Mark.

      Her heart froze. What was wrong? He rarely phoned. He knew she was here. Had something happened to her mother? Her brother? Her father …?

      She sat up straight and frowned as her eyes focused, trying to work out the time in Dublin. 10:00 p.m.? She opened her messages and clicked on the link that he’d posted. It took her straight to a news item.

      Her brother Danny. In Dubai. A photograph of him walking with a beautiful redhead. So what?

      She squinted at the text. Married?

      The message from Mark was curt. Did she know anything about it? Their mother was in a state of shock.

      No wonder! Danny did exactly as he pleased. Without asking anyone’s permission. And the last person, the very last person he would confide in was Mark.

      Frankie hated the estrangement between them. It had lasted so long. What a waste—what a terrible waste that they’d never got past their bitter feud. She thought of Rocco and Dante and the inseparable bond between them—her brothers should be like that. They really should.

      She stared at the space where Rocco should be lying. Stared at the untouched glass of water on the table beside it, at his watch beside that, and beside that …

      The tiny battered leather-framed photograph of the golden haired cherub. It was gone.

      She stared at the space where it should be—where he’d carefully placed it earlier. She’d hardly even dared to look in his direction when he’d sat on the edge of the bed, pulled it from his pocket and set it upright. Almost ritualistic, almost reverential. She’d felt the air seize up, as if some sacred event was happening.

      Of course since then she’d run her mind over all sorts of possibilities. It definitely wasn’t Dante. He’d been six years old to Rocco’s eight when Rocco had been adopted. The child in the photograph was barely two or three. She wasn’t given to flights of fancy, but she’d hazard that the child was a blood relative. Maybe they’d been separated through adoption? Maybe that was way off the mark, but there was something that ate at him from the inside—something that caused those growling black silences, that haunted glazed look, his overt aggression.

      He’d been like that tonight. She’d sensed it. Sensed it in the way he’d lain in bed, holding her after they’d both lost and found themselves in one another.

      After he’d poured himself into her she’d felt an instinctive need to hold him, cradle him. But he’d pulled away, closed down. Lain on his back, staring unseeing at the black blanket of air. Lost.

      She knew she should encourage him to talk, the way he had encouraged her. She also knew getting past the hellhound that guarded his innermost thoughts would be a Herculean task. But it was the least a friend could do. The least a lover would do.

      And that was the dilemma that she was going to have to face. What was she to him? What was he to her? And even if she worked that out, what future was СКАЧАТЬ