Free 0263249026 (R) by Bella Frances Page B

rolling into the distance, underlining the vastness of the lands, the importance of the estancia, the power of the man.
    But she was not prepared for the huge lump that welled in her throat or the hot tears that sprang to her eyes when she saw the horses that galloped over to the fence to welcome their master home, racing alongside the car as he drove, happily displaying their unconditional love. Nor was she prepared for the uninhibited smile that lit up Rocco’s face as he watched them.
    The freedom they enjoyed shone out as they played in the fields surrounding La Colorada. It had been so long … so, so long since she had enjoyed that self-same freedom. After Ipanema had gone she’d never felt the same. She’d barely even sat on a horse—she’d thought she’d grown up, moved on from her teenage fixation with horses, moved on to her adult fixation with escape.
    But here, now, it all came flooding back. Maybe it was just because she was so tired, or maybe it was a reflection of all that had come at her these past several hours, but she struggled to hold back a sob as memories of her happy childhood slammed into her one after another after another. A childhood that had been so completely shattered with the arrival of Rocco Hermida.
    She twirled her ring and swallowed hard.
    ‘I have to find Juanchi. You can wait in the house—relax until supper. Come on, I’ll show you inside.’
    Those were the first words he had spoken to her in the best part of an hour. They’d gone back to bed, both drifted off to sleep, and when she’d woken he’d been pulling on clothes with his phone clamped to his ear. It hadn’t moved far ever since.
    Her little vinyl carry-on case had arrived, its gaudy ribbon, scuffed sides and wonky wheel incongruous beside the butter-soft leather weekend bag Rocco had been chucking things into as he spoke.
    Rattling out questions, he’d glanced at her, given a little wink, then turned his back and walked to the window, continuing to berate the poor director of some vineyard who was on the other end. His hand had circled and stabbed at the air as he’d punctuated his questions with a visual display of his frustration.
    She’d showered and dressed quickly in what she’d thought might be appropriate—denim shorts and a pink T-shirt. What else would you wear to a ranch? She’d slipped her feet into white leather tennis shoes and thrown everything else in her case. Rocco had dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. He’d paced up and down. More gestures, more rattled commands, more reminders that the Hurricane was well named.
    She’d looked around, making sure she hadn’t forgottenanything. She wouldn’t be back there after all. Spotting her watch on the floor, where she must have thrown it earlier, she’d bent to pick up. Where were her new earrings? She’d glanced all around and then had seen them at the side of the bed, there beside a little photograph. She’d walked round and reached out to scoop them up, but her hand had closed on the tiny frame that lay face down instead. She’d placed it upright.
    It had been a picture of a child. She’d lifted it up to have a closer look. A blurry picture of an infant, maybe two or three years old. Bright blond hair, kept long, but definitely a boy. Solemn dark eyes, only just turned to the camera, as if he really hadn’t wanted to look. There had been something terribly familiar in the scowling mouth. Dante? She didn’t think so.
    She’d turned to ask Rocco. He had stopped his artillery fire of instructions for a moment, had been standing framed in the hugely imposing window, an outline of the blue day all around him—so light and bright that she hadn’t quite been able to see his features.
    She had smiled, held up the picture.
    The phone had been dropped to the end of his arm, a voice babbling into the air unheard. He’d paced forward as a thunderous tension had rolled through the room. Something akin to fear had spread out from her stomach at the