“So why were you crying last night?” he demanded, catching up.
Bringing his stallion across her horse’s path, he prevented her from riding on. Forced to rein in, she exclaimed with impatience. Was Dante going to fly to Ireland to sort out her father’s problems? No. It was up to Rose to find the answers—and not at the cost of becoming one of Dante’s disposable sex toys. It was one thing flirting with him on the beach, but payment in kind was a fantasy that could only end in disaster. She couldn’t and she wouldn’t risk it.
So why was she even thinking about it?
“This is your last chance,” he warned. “I want to know why you were crying.”
“It’s not part of my job description to tell you every thought that goes through my head.” Gritting her teeth, she turned for home, and with the thought of food and a comfortable bed ahead of him, Lucifer didn’t take much urging into a gallop.
She’d need a leave of absence, at the very least, Rose had concluded by the time she rode into the yard. She would have to ask Dante to release her, and he would want to know why. All she’d achieved today was to put off the moment of reckoning. That was where pride got you. It was a destructive defense mechanism for those without the guts to get on and do or say what had to be done. And she was one hundred percent guilty on all counts.
~~o0o~~
Version two of a long, lonely night was no better than the first. In fact, it was worse, because now she had more to worry about. Ringing her father to reassure him that she was doing everything she could think of felt worse than a cop-out, it felt like a lie. What had she done so far? Precisely nothing, other than to research flights on the Internet, only to discover that there were no flights to Ireland until next week. And that was even supposing she could arrange transport from the estancia to the airport. She’d have to ask one of the gauchos to help her out with a lift—Miguel, maybe—but even if she found a flight with as few changes as possible and got herself to the airport to fly home, then what? Whatever tomorrow held, she would have to try to make more progress than she’d made today—
It was tomorrow, Rose realized in despair as she glanced at her phone. She’d never broken a promise to her father yet, and she wasn’t about to start now.
It was four in the morning when she strode toward the stable block to make plans and think. Her head always cleared around horses. They calmed her.
They needed to tonight. The fact that asking Dante for help was her only realistic chance of finding a solution hadn’t filled Rose
with confidence. She was pinning her hopes on the circles he moved in having little use for commercial airlines. There was just a faint chance he might know someone about to leave for Ireland. There’d been a lot of talk on the estancia recently about the Curragh in County Kildare, where the Irish National stud resided. She’d be the first to admit that hoping someone Dante knew might be visiting the area and could give her a lift back to Ireland was shooting for the moon, but she had nothing else.
She walked swiftly past Cesar’s fabulous beach house, where she guessed Dante was staying. The lights were out, and the only sound was the rush of the sea and an owl hooting. Crossing the yard, she put in the code for the door of the stable block and let herself in. Turned out she wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep.
“Dante?” She’d know that back anywhere. Her heart leapt. Even clothed in a casual shirt with the sleeves rolled up to display his powerful forearms, the set of his shoulders and that thick mop of inky black hair was unmistakable. With his booted legs crossed and resting on the tack room table, he appeared to be dozing in the chair.
“Rose,” he murmured, making her jump. “I wondered how long it would take you to get here.”
“You were expecting me?”
“Where else would you go if you couldn’t sleep?”
“How did you know I wouldn’t be able to sleep?”
“Really?” His face was amused as he swung around.
He was a deadly seducer. The faint smile in his voice and the way he tipped his head to give her that look… “All right. I’m desperate,” she admitted. “But not for the reasons you think.”
“Tell me,” he prompted in the same lazy drawl.
Unfolding his magnificent body, he stood, and she saw the man his opponents would see on the polo field. Big. Intimidating. Menacing. Dark. He was ruthless, possibly dangerous, and almost certainly without a scintilla of feeling in him.
And this is the man I’m going to ask for help?
What alternative did she have? Dante was a vigilante in his other life. He knew how to deal with difficult situations. He had contacts in every police force in the world. He was on first-name terms with government ministers. The Blood and Thunder team was admired equally for polo, and for its other activities, which it carried out with the full backing of interested countries. He was the best—the only—chance she had.
“I need to get home to Ireland quickly,” she admitted.
His expression didn’t change. “Why?”
“My father’s got a problem. He needs me.”
“His health?”
“No. I don’t think so. I don’t know all the facts. He wouldn’t tell me over the phone. I need to go home and see him face-to-face.”
“What makes you think I can help?”