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thrummed aroundhim. Simmering, menacing, mesmerising. Faces turned awestruck and adoring.
    Frankie turned away, clutched at the table and steadied herself.
    She’d half expected that he would come for her. Chilled when he didn’t, she looked back. He and his brother were surrounded by lights, laughter, a myriad of love. He looked at her—just for a moment. Long enough to let her know that he had seen her and had dismissed her.
    Was that it? Had she had her moment in the sun? Had he already moved on?
    Of course.
    She was ridiculous to think otherwise.
    Suddenly her ‘New Frankie’ plan seemed preposterous. She put down the flute, saw the huge smudge of lip gloss on its edge and rubbed at it almost apologetically. Esme must be here somewhere. She would find her and camp out with the Palm Beach crew. That had been her plan all along, and she owed it to Esme and to herself to follow through. It was either that or go back to the hotel. And, really—was she going to give in that easily?
    Still aware of the Hermida circus to her left, she turned her back and fumbled in her bag, found her phone. Thank God for distraction. And a text from Esme.
    Hurry up! Tango Bar—Hugo waiting. ;-)
    There were lots of Hugos in the world of polo, but only one on the Palm Beach team. He was nice, she supposed—a tall, square-jawed picture of health and handsomeness. And he played well—really well. But the thought of small talk with such a big guy held very little appeal.
    She clicked off her phone and dropped it back in her bag. Still, if she was going to make a go of the evening, she’d better fill it with something other than the mouthwatering sight of Rocco.
    Her eyes slipped away of their own accord, to see if she was even on his radar, but he was now in front of the screens, his arms round some girls, gaze straight ahead. The understated scowl of a smile just added to his allure and made her recoil like a sulky cat. So she was that disposable?
    Tango music drifted up the stairs, meaning that she was going to have to walk past the impromptu photo-shoot to get to it. She could do that. Sure she could.
    Trying to paint ‘not bothered’ all over her face, she tilted up her chin and began her stalk past. A photographer stepped back to get a better shot and she had to swerve swiftly to avoid him. Her ankle twisted in her shoe and she swallowed a yelp of pain.
    Big biceps reached out, steadied her. She looked up, startled, into the face of Dante Hermida. Like a sunbeam of happiness he sorted her stumble, flooded her path with smiles.
    ‘Hey—are you okay?’
    His touch was disarming, warming, lingering just that second more than necessary.
    Solid—like a brother’s.
    ‘Fine. Thanks.’
    ‘Are you sure? You seemed in a bit of a rush, there.’
    Frankie opened her mouth to speak, but a figure immediately loomed up, put an arm across Dante’s shoulder, steering him round.
    ‘I’ll take over here.’
    Rocco. Like an unexploded bomb.
    His brother didn’t lose a beat.
    ‘You reckon?’
    Rocco didn’t even reply, just exuded danger.
    Frankie stared from the bemused smile of Dante to the intense frown of his brother. Like a wall of testosterone. One of them was hard to cope with, but two was ridiculous.
    Looking past them was not an option. Rocco’s eyes demanded hers. Her heart thundered in her ears. Resolve began to crack and crumble.
    She spoke up into the rock-like face. ‘Thanks—that’s kind of you, but I’m going to meet my friends.’
    Dante laughed, thumped Rocco on the back.
    ‘You win some …’
    Rocco continued to stare. One second more and she would cave in completely. She had to go. She dragged her eyes back and, head down, she bolted. Distance was her only hope. Because there was something he did to her that nobody else could do.
    He entranced her. Absorbed her. All she could see were those eyes. She could still feel the touch of his lips. Longed for them.
    It was frightening just how much.
    She rattled down the