by Abby Green
“You are afraid to meet my sister?” he asked.
She looked up again. “No, not at all. But what’s the point, Marcos? This marriage will be over soon. Why introduce me to your family, make them think this is real when we both know it’s not?”
“It would be odd if I did not, Francesca. Surely you can get through a few hours with them. No one will become so attached to you that they will be devastated once we divorce. It’s a simple visit. And Magdalena will be far more focused on her new baby than on us, I can assure you.”
“Of course,” she said, her head dipping, her voice flat and emotionless. “If that’s what you want, I suppose I have no choice but to comply.”
She was married. Again. The ritual had been quick, sterile. Say a few words, repeat in the appropriate places, and then Marcos slipped a ring on her finger and brushed his lips against her cheek.
The office staff offered their congratulations before Marcos ushered her from the building and back into the limousine.
Francesca stared at the three-carat rock on her finger and felt numb. It wasn’t as large as she’d expected, yet it was the perfect size for her. She wouldn’t have wanted anything bigger, and though Marcos hadn’t asked her opinion, he’d still managed to pick the ideal ring for her.
Odd to think it wasn’t real, this marriage. Or that the perfect ring was only temporary. A Band-Aid to shield a wound, nothing more.
The stone shot fire as the light reflected off its facets. The platinum band was inset with diamonds. The matching wedding band was also diamond-encrusted. Though Francesca wouldn’t tell a soul, she loved beautiful things. Always had, which is why her inability to please her mother with her looks and minimal grace had hurt so much. Francesca had wanted the beautiful clothes that Livia wore so elegantly. She’d wanted the jewelry, the poise, and the grace to match.
Though she was older and far wiser now, she still felt like the awkward teenager beside Marcos’s smooth elegance. She hadn’t worried over her looks in years, had thought they were perfectly adequate for the life she led with Jacques—but Marcos’s arrival in her life had turned everything upside down again. He’d said she was lovely. But did he really mean it?
She shoved the thought aside brutally. She did not care what Marcos Navarre thought of her. Not any longer. The girl who’d desperately wanted his approval was buried in the past.
Marcos sat beside her now, his voice musical in her ears as he conducted business on his cell phone while they rode back to his home in Recoleta. Their home.
No, as beautiful as the French-style mansion was, it would never be her home. She was a temporary resident only, and she would not grow attached to the beauty of the place, the serenity of the cool courtyards with their fountains and thick foliage. She had a home in New York, with Jacques, and she would return to it as soon as Marcos let her go.
She prayed it would be sooner rather than later, but she knew Marcos was determined to fulfill some agenda that only he knew. And so long as he held the keys to Jacques’s treatment, she would remain.
The visit to his sister would surely test her in ways she dreaded. She’d not been around babies since she’d lost her own. She refused to hold them, to play with them, to spend time with them. It wasn’t that she didn’t love babies; it was simply that being around them made her ache for what could never be.
Once, long ago, she’d thought Marcos would be the father of her children. But even if they’d married for love this time, that was impossible.
How would she survive being around a woman with a newborn?
One day at a time, Francesca.
It’s how life was lived, how she’d survived the worst of the dark days in her past. One damn day at a time.
“We are attending a reception tonight,” Marcos said smoothly as he tucked his phone away.
Francesca struggled to concentrate on what he was saying. She felt like she was being ripped apart inside, and he was informing her about a social event?
God help her.
“You will wear the Corazón del Diablo,” he continued.
“I’d rather not.”
His expression grew chilly. “Reneging already, Francesca?”
“The necklace is yours, Marcos. I see little point in asking me to wear it.”
The idea of donning the necklace now, after all it had cost her, seemed completely foreign. And unnecessary. She had no doubt he knew it. He simply wanted to prove his mastery of her.
“I don’t believe I asked,” he said, his voice as smooth as aged whiskey. “You will wear it because it is mine, because you are mine.”
Francesca drew herself up, her emotions whipping higher. “You don’t own me, Marcos. You bought my cooperation, not me.”
“You are still very foolish, aren’t you?” he said softly.
Francesca felt the burn of anger—and the heat of embarrassment—skating over her body in twin spirals.
Yet she wouldn’t back down. He might own her cooperation, might own her promise to fulfill her end of the bargain. But she was adamant that he did not own her. No man did. If she’d learned anything in the past few years, it was that her life was her own.
For better or worse.
“I don’t think so, no. Because I don’t believe for an instant you would withdraw medical treatment from Jacques, not after what you said to me earlier. Unless it was a lie? Unless you only said what you thought I wanted to hear?”
He gazed at her steadily, his face a mask of detachment. Her heart thundered. Had she guessed wrong? Would he withdraw his financial support? Would he let Jacques die?
Had she gambled too much?
Marcos looked so cold, so remote and cruel that she wondered how she’d ever managed to be infatuated with him all those years ago. Why hadn’t she sensed that he was so brutal beneath that layer of charm he wore like a blanket?
Why didn’t she just wear the damn necklace and keep her mouth shut? Jacques’s care meant more than the principle of the thing.
“No,” he said, dark eyes flashing with an emotion she didn’t understand, “I would not stop his treatment.”
She stared at him, her breath shortening at the admission. It was the last thing she’d expected. Marcos Navarre had a human side. A side that cared for more than having things his way.
Francesca bowed her head to hide the strength of her emotional reaction. He didn’t need to know how much his statement moved her. But she would give him something in return, would make sure he understood that she intended to honor the agreement. Francesca d’Oro—Navarre—did not go back on her word once it was given. She had integrity, no matter what he believed about her.
“If it’s important to you, I will wear the Corazón del Diablo.”
Disbelief crossed his handsome face. “You just stated you would not. Most adamantly.”
Francesca shrugged as if it were nothing, when in fact it was everything. “If you had asked instead of ordered …”
“Why does this Jacques mean so much to you, Francesca?”
She met his gaze evenly. “He cared about me when no one else did. Jacques is the truest friend I have.”
“And Gilles? He is your lover?”
Her pulse throbbed in her temples. He didn’t deserve an answer to that, not after the blood test he’d forced her to endure, and yet …
“No. And he never has been.”
Marcos looked puzzled. “You are a beautiful woman. I wonder why this is not so.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Marcos. I think we know where we stand with each other now, don’t you? You married me for the necklace, and I married you for Jacques. Please don’t try and prop up what you assume is my wounded vanity. I know I’m not pretty enough for a man like you. And I don’t care. I’m me, and that’s enough.”
He suddenly seemed amused, which only served to irritate her. It wasn’t the first time this afternoon and she still didn’t understand how he could find humor in any part of this situation.
She looked away from him, out of the window at the passing traffic, and tried to concentrate on what it would feel like to be one of those happy tourists strolling along the sidewalk.
“You are quite different from who you once were,” he said. “I like that you fight back. Livia would not get the best of you any longer.”
Her chest felt like someone had turned a vise. She shoved the feeling away. “You would probably have married her back then if not for the necklace.”
Marcos laughed. “You underestimate me, querida. Your sister has never held any attraction for me.”
She whirled around to face him. “Everybody thinks Livia is beautiful. And you can’t tell me you don’t agree.”
“No, she is quite beautiful—or she was eight years ago. And she knew it too.” He picked up her hand, traced his finger along the edge of her wedding band while tingles of pleasure radiated up her arm. “But you have something far better than beauty, Francesca. You seem to know who you are. I like that.”
A pang of hurt throbbed to life inside her. “It’s taken me long enough,” she answered.
His eyes were hot as they moved over her face. “I believe you always knew to a certain extent. But yes, something has sharpened your sense of self-awareness. I wish to know what.”
She pulled her hand away, folded it against her body. “Shall we trade secrets like gossiping old ladies, Marcos? I’d not have guessed that was your style.”
“I think you will tell me before our time is up,” he said. He pronounced it with so much certainty that she wanted very much to prove him wrong, to knock him down a few rungs.
“You have far too much confidence in yourself. Not every woman feels the urge to succumb to your charm.”
“But you will, querida.”
“Not a chance,” she vowed, though her pulse jumped at the look on his face. Where was that hint of anger he always viewed her with? When it was missing, he reminded her of the old Marcos. The Marcos she’d fallen for because he was nice to her.
He arched one dark eyebrow. His scar made the gesture that much more wicked. “You should not have said that, Francesca.”
“Why not? Someone needs to tell you that you aren’t irresistible. Besides, have you ever considered it might be your money and not your sparkling personality that makes women fall at your feet?”
Marcos laughed. The sound was rich, uninhibited. She liked it, much to her dismay.
“Dios, you are stubborn. But I never could resist a challenge.” He leaned in, cupped her jaw in one broad hand, and kissed her before she realized what he was about. “I will enjoy taking you to bed, Francesca. And I will learn all your secrets while we are there, I promise you …”
CHAPTER SIX
THE SUN HAD dropped beneath the horizon over an hour ago. The air coming in through the windows had the bite of early spring, but Francesca did not move to shut the pane. She liked the coolness rushing over her skin. Funny to think that in New York it was fall and the temperature was probably the same.
The heat in her body hadn’t diminished since the moment Marcos had kissed her in the car. She’d even stood beneath a cool shower as she’d prepared for tonight. The second she’d gotten out and dried off, the warmth came back.
How could her body refuse to cooperate with her head? Her head knew that Marcos was bad news. Her heart knew it too.
Her body, however, stubbornly wanted to straddle his and fulfill all the fantasies she’d ever had about him.
Francesca studied her reflection in the mirror. Her cheekbones were barely visible in the roundness of her face. She’d lost forty pounds in the last eight years, but still her face was too full. And her hair. God. Her hair was thick and unruly and hadn’t been touched by a real stylist in years. Once, she’d had artful blonde highlights and lowlights incorporated into her tresses. Now, they spilled over into natural waves that weren’t colored. The blonde wasn’t as strong as it had once been, and she was afraid her hair was too brown. Mousy.
The last time she’d had it cut was a year ago. Now, it hung down her back, a long mass of naturally curly spirals that were anything but elegant.
She eyed the black dress hanging nearby with longing. And fear. They’d stopped at a boutique on the way home, Marcos insisting she needed a proper gown for tonight. All her efforts to choose something that flowed over her body without clinging anywhere were thwarted as Marcos instructed the shop girl to dress her in something strapless and form fitting.
When she’d emerged in this dress, her breasts shoved into a push-up bra and her waist corseted so tight she’d never be able to bend over, he’d looked mildly surprised. And interested, in a way she’d have never thought possible. For the first time, she’d begun to believe that maybe he wasn’t lying when he said he intended to bed her.
And that scared the hell out of her.
Because Marcos Navarre was still the sexiest man she’d ever known. Even his scar was sexy. The more she was with him, the more she wanted to kiss her way across his jaw, to feel the silvery zigzag beneath her lips before claiming his mouth in a kiss.
Stop.
Thoughts like those were dangerous. She couldn’t really be vulnerable to him anymore. It was a long time ago, and she was an entirely different person. She was no longer naïve or innocent, no longer believed the best of people.
With one last look in the mirror, Francesca gathered a shawl and the tiny studded purse that matched the dress, and made her way down to the foyer. Marcos was talking with the majordomo. When he turned to her, the words he’d been speaking seemed to die away.
His gaze raked over her. She stood stiffly, more uncomfortable than she cared to admit in clothes that clung to, instead of masking, her faults. Why hadn’t she insisted on the kind of garment she preferred?
Marcos came over and took her hand. When he lifted it to his lips, the shiver that slid down her body wasn’t entirely surprising.
The force of it was.
“You look lovely, mi esposa.”
“So do you,” she said, and then cursed herself for the inanity when he chuckled.
But he was lovely. The tuxedo he wore had been custom fit to his powerful body. The shirt was as white and crisp as new snow, the jacket and pants as black as sin. Marcos was tall and imposing. He smelled expensive, and he looked absolutely edible.
Just as he had the night she’d broken into his room and held him at gunpoint.
He hadn’t forgotten it either, if his expression was any indication. “Perhaps we can play cops and robbers later, yes?” he rumbled in her ear, his lips brushing her cheek as he withdrew. “Though I hope you won’t mind if we only pretend there is a gun.”
“I might need a real one,” she said. “It helps get me in the mood.”
Marcos laughed. The sound surprised her. Sent an answering grin to her lips. God, he was sexy.
She wiped the smile away as quickly as she was able. She did not need to be too friendly with him. She didn’t really believe she was in danger of being charmed the way she’d once been, but she could take no chances. It was safer to keep her emotional distance from this man.
“You look far too serious, Francesca,” he said. “It’s a cocktail reception for a charity I support, not a guillotine we are going to.”
“I haven’t been to an event like this in years. I don’t know what to do anymore.” There was no sense hiding it from him; he would know soon enough when she tried to fade into the background.
“It will come back to you,” he said with more confidence than she felt. “You’ve spent the last several years running a shop—how could you not be a natural at inter acting with people?”
“That’s different.”
“I doubt that,” he replied. His gaze skimmed over her once more. “You need something else.”
He retrieved a long velvet box from the antique foyer table. Francesca’s stomach flipped. The Corazón del Diablo. She’d promised to wear it.
But when he opened the box, it wasn’t the necklace
she’d expected. The jewels sparkling against the deep blue velvet were cool and green. Emeralds of the finest variety. Her practiced eye skimmed over them: they would have cost him a fortune.
Though of course he hadn’t bought them for her, she reminded herself. No doubt he’d had them locked away and pulled them out for tonight. But why hadn’t he brought the Corazón del Diablo? She gazed up at him as he took the necklace from the box.
“Another time, perhaps,” he said. “This is better for tonight.”
Francesca hesitated, then turned and held up her hair while he laid the stones against her collarbone. One egg-shaped emerald dripped into the shadow of her cleavage. The stones were cool in their platinum settings, but she welcomed the shivery feeling.
His fingers brushed the back of her neck, sending prickles of heat up her spine, down her back. She couldn’t stop the ripple of a chill.
Marcos’s hands settled on her shoulders, pulling her back against him. His lips touched her ear. “You look beautiful, querida.”
Her silly heart thrummed at the compliment. Her head told her not to believe it.
“I believe this time,” he continued, “our wedding night will end as it should.”
Marcos watched his new bride as she stood nearby, engaging in polite conversation with a group of ladies. She looked as elegant and polished as any of them, and if she were at all nervous or uncomfortable, she hid it well. Not that he’d expected anything different. She was, after all, a d’Oro female. She’d grown into a woman every bit as elegant as her mother and sister had been.
His eyes skimmed down her lush form. She’d protested over the dress, but she looked fabulous in it. How could she look in the mirror and not know how very enticing she was? And why did she insist on wearing shapeless clothes that hid her curves?
He sipped the glass of wine a waiter handed to him and studied the sleek lines of one leg as the side slit in her dress opened. He had a sudden urge to go to her, but he’d been caught in conversation with an elderly matron. The woman nattered on about something he ignored—until she began to speak of teaching proper manners to orphans.