The car turned, and soon they were cruising along an avenue lined with ornate buildings that looked as if they’d been plucked from the streets of Paris and set down here. The architecture was ornate, beautiful, and decidedly French rather than Spanish. Soon they came to an iron gate that swung open on a mechanical hinge, then passed through and halted before an imposing white façade.
A lush collection of palm trees and flowering grasses grew in the little courtyard near the entrance. A man in a uniform hurried out to greet them as they stepped from the car.
“Señor Navarre, bienvenido.”
“Thank you, Miguel. It’s good to be home again.”
A phalanx of men moved to the rear of the car and began removing luggage. Marcos ushered Francesca inside a grand entry hall with a giant crystal chandelier, black and white marble floor tiles set on the diagonal, and a huge Venetian mirror on one wall.
The elegance made her stomach flip. She hadn’t been inside surroundings such as these in years. The weight of expectation threatened to crush her. Already she felt the walls closing in. She’d left deportment behind, left luxury and the expectation that went with it in the past. This place made her feel small, insignificant.
How could she do this now? How could she survive it? She would make mistakes, would fail where she should not. She wasn’t cut out for this life, couldn’t possibly masquerade as his wife for a single day, much less three—or six—months.
Marcos grasped her hand. Francesca uttered a little cry of surprise, then shivered when he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on the tender skin of her wrist. They’d spent the last several hours barely speaking to each other, and now this. It disconcerted her, flustered her.
What was he up to?
He gazed down at her, his expression a mixture of heat and hatred. It confused her, but not as much as his touch did. Why did she react? Why did she feel as if every cell of her body was straining toward him, wanting more?
“Until morning, mi amor. Juanita will show you to your room.”
A young woman in a starched uniform stood nearby. She curtsied when Francesca looked over at her. Francesca gave her a weary smile, hoping she didn’t look too wild eyed, before turning back to Marcos.
“Please don’t call me that,” she said in a low voice. She had to keep a distance between them, had to keep him from addling her with his sleek words and expert touch. She was still far too vulnerable to him, and it shocked her. She’d thought she’d left that girl in the past.
One dark eyebrow arched. “You do not like it? You would prefer Frankie now?”
Francesca pulled her hand away the instant his grip lightened. “No, of course not. But I don’t want you calling me your love either. We both know I am not.”
“Sí, we do indeed. And yet there is an appearance to maintain. We are marrying soon.”
Francesca’s heart skipped a beat. Dear God, what had she agreed to? She hadn’t truly realized it until she’d walked into this…this palace.
Jacques, she told herself, she was doing it for Jacques.
“There’s no reason to pretend we care for one another,” she replied. Getting through the next few months would be hard enough. Pretending to feel things for this man was beyond her ability. She’d built a wall after he’d abandoned her so brutally; she didn’t want to breach it ever again.
His expression grew hard. “There is every reason, Francesca. As my wife, there will be many public duties you must perform. I won’t have my reputation suffer simply because you are too spoiled to play the part you’ve agreed to. While you are here, while we are married, you will be happy to be my wife. Comprendes?”
Public duties. She would never pull it off. They’d know she was a fraud the instant she entered the room. And Marcos would not help Jacques.
She swayed on her feet before she could lock her knees. It was simply weariness and shock—fear, perhaps—that nearly made her fall. Marcos caught her, sweeping her into his arms and against his chest.
“No, please, it’s all right,” she managed. “Put me down.”
He said something in Spanish, something low and dark, then barked out an order to the room in general before striding toward the curving staircase.
“I’m just tired,” she said, hot embarrassment—and something else that contained heat—washing over her at the contact with his body.
She hadn’t been this close to him when they were married, hadn’t felt the power of his arms around her. But oh how she’d wanted to. How she’d dreamed of him sweeping her up just like this and carrying her into their bedroom while she laid her head against his shoulder and breathed in the wonderful scent of his aftershave.
Then he would lower her to the bed, whispering those words mi amor, before stripping her and kissing her and making love to her all night long.
But that was when she’d been eighteen. Now it was a nightmare to be so close to him. And to feel things she hadn’t felt for a man in almost four years.
He strode up the steps and down a long hall while she clung to him. The maid, Juanita, hurried past him at a run and threw open a door. Marcos carried Francesca inside and over to a low settee that stood beneath a tall window.
She closed her eyes as he set her down, both grateful and disappointed that he was no longer touching her.
When she opened them, Marcos stared down at her. “If you are pregnant with your lover’s child, you had better tell me now.”
She gaped at him, a sharp pain slashing into her heart. She felt like screaming, or laughing, or maybe even crying at the irony of the accusation, but she would do none of those things. She simply bit down on her lip and shook her head. “I’m not,” she finally managed to force out. “I’m exhausted. I need sleep, not an inquisition.”
“Perhaps you would not mind having blood drawn then. To verify.”
Oh how she hated him in that moment. She had half a mind to tell him no, to ask if he’d care to take other medical tests, but she decided it wasn’t worth the effort. It was a terrible invasion of her privacy, not to mention a hot dagger in her soul, but she only had to think of Jacques in a hospital, getting the best care money could buy.
“Draw all the blood you like. I have nothing to hide.”
“You are shaking,” he said, his brows drawing down as he studied her.
“I’ll stop if you go away.”
The tightness at the edges of his sensual mouth was back. The scar was white, and she knew she must have angered him.
Too bad, because he’d angered her. And hurt her.
“Please just go, Marcos,” she said, holding onto the edges of her composure by a thread. “I don’t want you here.”
He towered over her, six-foot four-inches of angry Latin male. “You may spend this evening alone, remembering your lover, but tomorrow we begin to act like a happy couple. Buenas noches, señorita. Hasta mañana.”
Before she could say a word in reply, he strode out of the door and closed it behind him. The maid arrived a few moments later and drew her a hot bath in spite of her protestations that she could do it herself.
She hadn’t planned to take a bath, yet she discovered when she sank into the fragrant water that she welcomed the chance to scrub away the chill that hadn’t left her since Marcos had asked if she was pregnant.
Francesca closed her eyes as she leaned back on the bath pillow Juanita had provided. Damn him!
He was arrogant and proud, far more so than she remembered. She used to be in love with him, but it was a naïve, girlish love. The woman in her couldn’t love a man like that.
She could want him, unfortunately, but she could never love him. Francesca tried to forget the way her body reacted when he’d held her. She’d melted, in spite of her anger. She’d wanted, for those few minutes he carried her, to be in his arms naked. To wrap her legs around his waist and feel the power of his body moving inside hers.
Oh God.
It was shocking to feel physical desire when she’d thought she woul
d never do so again.
Francesca ran cold water into the bath to cool her heated imaginings, then climbed from the tub and dried off before she could start thinking of him again. She picked up the grey silk pajamas Juanita had left out for her. Briefly, she considered digging into the suitcase she’d hastily packed in search of her favorite cotton t-shirt, but the silk felt cool and soft, and it was so much easier to put them on than to search through her things for something familiar.
In spite of her exhaustion, she lay awake for what seemed like hours, listening to the strange sounds of a strange house and wishing she were back home in her tiny loft. She was just drifting off when a noise woke her.
A harsh cry. She bolted up in bed, her heart pounding. Had she imagined it?
But no, there it was again. A man’s voice, hard and harsh and full of anguish. She shoved the covers off and padded toward the door. Could no one else hear him? Should she get someone? What was going on?
Francesca pulled open the door and peered into the hallway. There was nothing there, nothing but silence and moonlight. Another sound came from behind the door across the hall and her pulse shot higher.
Slowly, she crept toward the entry, arguing with herself the whole way. Whoever was behind that door needed help, didn’t he? But maybe he didn’t. Maybe he would be angry with her for intruding.
She reached for the handle, twisted it. But the door was locked. The voice cried out again and any reservations she had evaporated. He sounded as if he was in pain. She pounded on the door, calling out to whoever was inside.
The noise stopped abruptly. Another minute and the door was wrenched open. Marcos stood in the opening, a sweat-soaked T-shirt clinging to his skin.
Francesca took a step backwards at the wild look in his eyes. “I heard something,” she said. “I-I—”
“You are quite safe here,” he said harshly. “You need not worry about intruders.”
She blinked. Was he deliberately misunderstanding her?
“I thought someone was hurt.”
“No one is hurt.” He looked weary for a moment, but then the hard façade was back and he seemed angry. “Go back to bed.”
The door slammed in her face. Francesca stood there in the silent hallway, wondering if she’d imagined the entire thing, wondering if she should knock again and make sure he was all right.
Finally, she returned to her room. It was a long time before she drifted into a restless sleep.
Marcos lay on the floor, unwilling to return to the soaked sheets of his bed. He could call someone to change them, but he knew from experience that he would sleep just as well on the floor as on the bed. The hard floor reminded him of what it was like to sleep in the jungle. Or on the street.
He hadn’t had nightmares this bad in quite some time. Lately, however, he seemed to experience them more frequently. Being cuffed to the bed in the hotel hadn’t helped, even if it had been of relatively short duration in comparison to his time in the enemy’s prison.
Regardless, the experience brought back the flood of memories and turned him once more into the kind of animal whose sole focus was survival.
He thought of Francesca standing in the hallway, of her wide eyes and tousled hair, and felt a mixture of hate and desire so strong it frightened him. When he’d jerked the door open, he’d wanted to haul her inside, strip her naked, and lose himself in her body for a few hours. It had taken all his willpower not to do so.
He’d also wanted to lash out, to bind her to him and make her pay for dredging up the memories of his past. Not for the first time, he wondered if bringing her here had been a mistake. Perhaps he should have simply taken the jewel and returned to Argentina. But she was here now, and he was committed to the course of action he’d chosen.
Marcos would allow nothing—and no one—to ruin all he’d worked for. And he would survive his nightmares. He always did.
“Spanish lessons? Is this necessary?” Francesca blinked at the calendar Marcos had handed to her. It was filled with appointments. Spanish lessons, culture lessons, tango lessons, shopping, hair, nails…
It was already late morning. After the night she’d had, she’d slept in far longer than usual. She’d showered and dressed in a pale blue peasant blouse and white jeans, one of the best outfits she owned these days. She’d wondered if Marcos would be here, or if he would be gone to an office for the day. She’d hoped he would be gone, because she didn’t know what to say to him after last night.
She still didn’t.
Marcos looked implacable as she met his gaze once more. He also looked delicious, in spite of the restless night he must have had. His dark good looks were only enhanced by the white shirt and casual chinos he’d selected today. His shirtsleeves were rolled loosely, revealing his forearms. Powerful forearms.
One of them bore a crude tattoo of what she thought might be crossed swords. The ink bled at the edges, blurring the design. She didn’t remember that from eight years ago, but had she ever seen him in short sleeves?
Possibly not.
“You do not speak Spanish,” he said. “It is necessary.”
Francesca tore her gaze from his tattoo. “But I’m not going to be here very long, so why bother?”
Marcos shrugged. “Why bother doing anything, Francesca? Why get up in the morning to watch a sunrise, why eat ice cream, why read a book, why take a walk on the beach? Because they are worth doing, that’s why. Just as learning Spanish, for as long as you are here, is worth doing. Think of it as an adventure.”
“I don’t like adventures,” she replied. “I like everything the way I expect it to be, and I like my life the way it is. Was.”
“Yes, I seem to remember you were always a scared little rabbit.”
Embarrassment wrapped a hand around her throat and squeezed. “I was shy.”
He snorted in disbelief. “That’s an old excuse. Don’t try to hide behind it.”
“I’m not hiding behind anything. And I know what I want. Don’t try to analyze me, Marcos.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, his sleeve dropping to cover the tattoo when he did so. “It is an observation, not an analysis.”
“So why do you have that tattoo?” she asked. Anything to deflect the conversation away from herself. Away from her shortcomings.
He lifted his arm until the sleeve fell away. She stared at the green-blue ink, suddenly unsure she wanted the answer. Especially if it had anything to do with the sounds he had made last night.
“I did not choose it,” he said. “But it was necessary. Necessary to prove I was loyal.”
“Loyal to what?”
His eyes burned into hers. “You don’t want to know.”
She swallowed. “Maybe I do. Does it have anything to do with your nightmares?”
If she’d expected a reaction, she didn’t get it. Instead, he closed the distance between them, reached out to tilt her chin up with a finger. “Nice try, querida. But it won’t work. Your first Spanish lesson is in an hour.”
Her skin sizzled where he touched. “Do you keep it to remind you of something? Because they can laser those off, you know.”
His finger dropped away, his gaze shuttering. “It is my own business, Francesca.”
She stared at him for a moment before clearing her throat and gazing at the calendar again. “Surely I don’t need to learn the tango.”
“It is the national dance of Argentina.”
“And two-stepping to country music is rather popular in America. I don’t remember you attempting to learn this when we married before.”
“The two-step is hardly a national dance, and you are only half-American.” His brow furrowed. “Come to think of it, I never saw you dance in all the months I knew you.”
“I don’t like to dance.”
It wasn’t true, but she’d always seemed to have two left feet when she’d gone to ballet classes. Livia flourished while Francesca stumbled. She’d been too fat to get her leg up on the bar, a fact which her mot
her took so seriously she ordered Francesca be fed a diet of lean chicken, fruit and rice until she could achieve the feat. It took two months, but she had got her foot on that bar. And she’d kept it there, even if she was graceless in every other way.
Marcos raked a hand through his hair. “Then you will learn. It is expected that my wife will be able to tango.”
His wife. The words gave her chills. And another feeling she didn’t dare analyze. “I don’t seem to remember this was a requirement before. And I’ve yet to see a contract, so this talk of what I must do as your wife is rather moot at the moment.”
“The contract will arrive soon. And I don’t seem to remember having much of a say in anything to do with our marriage before.” The look he gave her was loaded with suppressed fury.
Her ears burned hot. She’d been too young and starstruck to question her good fortune when they’d married. She’d thought it was real, fool that she was. “That’s not my fault.”
“Isn’t it? I was nice to you, and you thought that gave you the right to have me for your own.” He swore in Spanish. “You sent your daddy to buy me like I was a prized pony, Francesca. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Sudden fury burned through her bones, leaving hot ash in its wake. She was tired of taking the blame for their sham of a marriage and the consequences it had wrought on so many lives. Suspicion went both ways, whether he realized it or not.
“Why were you nice to me, Marcos? Did you hope my father would agree to let you marry me? That the Corazón del Diablo would be yours because I was young and stupid and loved you blindly?”
He took a step toward her. “How dare you try to turn this around? You were spoiled, selfish, a d’Oro female accustomed to getting what she wanted. And you wanted me. Nothing could have stopped you—and I was fool enough to fall for your shy and innocent act.”
He thought she was like her mother? Like Livia? She would laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. He’d never known her at all. Everything she’d believed about him had been a lie. She’d known it for a long time now, but to have to relive it opened old wounds.
The Devil's Heart Page 4