The Playboy of Argentina. Bella Frances
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And what would her part be? The beautiful heroine? Hardly. More like the kooky best friend put in as a comedy foil. Because that was the other thing—she didn’t really measure up as his type of leading lady. She was distinctly lacking on all the fronts he seemed to major in—like big hair and big breasts. And, though her confidence was never rock bottom now, it was hardly skyscraper high, either.
A tiny part of her did wonder, even if she arrived at Molina Lario with Rocco, was sure she would leave with him, too? After all, she’d never managed to stay the course with any previous man.
She was twenty-six. She was doing well for herself. She didn’t need to create a whole load of heartache. So she’d waited ten years to see if he was still as hot as she remembered? Answer—yes. What was the next question? Was there going to be a day after the morning-after? Answer—no. Conclusion—put all thoughts of Rocco Hermida out of your head. And don’t spend the next ten years in the same state of perpetual wonder as the past ten.
There were bound to be other men who could light her up like he did. Surely!
Frankie turned the television off altogether and sighed. Her phone flashed and she leaned across to the bedside table to check it. Esme.
Hey, beautiful. We need you! Come shake off your jet lag and meet the Palm Beach boys. Told them all about you so you’d better get here soon! No excuses! X
She stared at the message. She could pretend she hadn’t seen it. She could turn her phone off and read her emails instead. But, knowing Esme, she’d turn up and drag her out anyway. So should she? Meet the Palm Beach boys? Maybe that would be just the thing to cure this once and for all. To go. Confront her demon. Let the dream shatter for good. And maybe she’d even get herself worked up over some other handsome man who was just a fraction less arrogant, less dominant, less utterly overwhelming.
The phone lit up again.
The car’s on its way. Tango time! X
That was decided, then. She stood up. In her silver sixties slingbacks she made all of five-five—‘the height of nonsense’, as her father had used to say, and not in a good way. But whatever she was, she was big enough to play in the playgrounds of the porteños and their Palm Beach buddies.
She could pull this off. Of course she could. If she could lift herself out of the blackest depression and keep it at bay for all these years she could damn well paint on a smile, slip in and hang out with her best friend.
Esme knew more than anyone that parties weren’t her thing, but this was a watershed moment. A mark of her own maturity. She had weighed it all up and traded a night or an hour with Rocco ‘Hurricane’ Hermida. She had so much more to get from life than an empty inbox and a roll in his hay.
She slipped on the Bolivian silver earrings she’d bought at a market in the Dominican Republic, grabbed her clutch. Incredible that two days earlier she’d bought these earrings, totally unaware that Rocco Hermida would hurricane his way back into her life. But there was nothing surer that in two days’ time, regardless of what happened, he would be hurricaning his way back out of it.
Just remember that, she told her wild side. Remember that and stand well back.
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