The Devil's Heart

by Lynn Raye Harris

  “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 interacting 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.

  Nothing else could have so effectively ruined his mood.

  “Señora,” he cut in suddenly—sharply if the startled look on her face was any indication, “the street children of Buenos Aires need more than etiquette lessons to improve their situation in life.” He gave her a clipped bow. “If you will excuse me.”

  He didn’t look back to see how the woman was taking his abrupt exit. Dios. One of the things that drove him insane about these kinds of events were the wrong-headed ideas people who’d never suffered from hunger a day in their lives had about the children he so desperately wanted to rescue.

  No child should suffer the way he knew that many of them did. Manners were laughable when survival was the goal.

  The crowd of elegantly clothed people fell away as he approached his wife. She looked up as Marcos arrived by her side. Her eyes clouded when she saw him. Surprisingly, a sharp pain pierced a spot right below his heart when she looked at him like that.

  Like he was evil incarnate, a devil come to steal her soul.

  He shoved the pain down deep and held out his hand. “Come, Francesca,” he said. “I wish to dance.”

  He didn’t really, but it was as good an excuse as any to hold her. He did not ask himself why he wanted to do so. He simply knew that he did.

  “I—” Whatever she was about to say, she changed her mind. “Yes, of course.” With a polite word to her companions, she put her hand in his and let him lead her to the dance floor.

  The music was soft, slow, flowing around them as he drew her into his arms. She gazed up at him, her smile gone. In its place was a frown.

  “Why do you smile for everyone but me?” he asked.

  She seemed startled, but she quickly masked it. “That’s not true. And I could ask why you look so severe. Did I do something wrong? Have I mixed the fish fork with the dessert spoon again? Seated the priest beside the prostitute?”

  She was trying hard to be irreverent, but the catch in her voice surprised him. He worked to force away the dark clouds wreathing his mind. “It’s nothing.”

  “You say that quite a lot, Marcos,” she said, her gaze on the center of his chest as they moved.

  “Do I?”

  “You do. Last night, and this morning when I asked you about the tattoo.”

  Her eyes were troubled. He looked away, over her head at the sea of dancers. She almost seemed worried about him. He didn’t like the way that made him feel. Like he wanted to share things with her, to make her understand.

  She intrigued him like no on else, and he wasn’t accustomed to it.

  “There are things I don’t wish to talk about, with you or anyone.”

  “Sometimes it helps to talk about the things that trouble us.”

  “Really? Do you intend to share your secrets with me? To tell me why you refuse to believe a man could want you, or why you love this Jacques Fortier so much that you would risk your life for him?”

  “I never said a man couldn’t want me. I said I wasn’t the usual type of woman you were attracted to.”

  “Ah yes, you know so much about me. I had forgotten. And what about Jacques, Francesca?”

  She refused to look up at him as they swirled across the floor. “I told you he took care of me when no one else would. I—I was very ill. He nursed me back to health.”

  He didn’t like the way the thought of her being sick pierced the shield around his heart. “You are well now? It is nothing that will return?”

  “I’m recovered, Marcos,” she said, meeting his gaze with an evenness that somehow seemed contrived. “No lingering effects.”

  “You wished to return the favor, yes?”

  “Absolutely. Jacques saved me, and I want to save him.”

  “Then you will be pleased to know I’ve had an update from the hospital. They believe he is a good candidate for an experimental treatment with a high success rate.”

  Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked rapidly to keep them from falling. “Really? They think they can save him?”

  “There is no guarantee, Francesca. He is very sick. But they have hope.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “I have only just had the call since we’ve been here, querida. They needed my authorization to begin.”

  “Your authorization? Gilles is his next of kin.”

  “Yes, but I am paying. And this particular treatment does not come cheaply.”

  She fixed her gaze on his chest again. The tip of her nose was red, he noted. She was struggling not to cry. A pang of some emotion he couldn’t name stabbed into him. What would it be like to have someone love you so much that your well-being was their first priority?

  When she looked up again, her eyes were still shiny. But the tears seemed to be under control for the moment. “Why did you approve it, Marcos?”

  He found he couldn’t give her an easy answer. Why had he approved an expensive, experimental treatment for a man he didn’t know when the usual treatments might
also work, and at a lesser cost?

  “Because it was the right thing to do,” he said simply. “And because you would want me to.”

  He’d spent years being unable to care for anyone but himself. Now that he had money, how could he say that one life was worth less than another? That he could only do so much?

  He couldn’t.

  “You surprise me,” she said softly, her tongue darting out to tease her full lower lip.

  His body grew hard. In spite of everything, he wanted to possess her. Now, tonight. He was still angry with her, but he was also damned by this need for her. He needed to prove his mastery over her, to exorcise the demons of his past in the body of a woman. This woman. The reprieve wouldn’t last, he knew, but at least he could have a few hours of blissful silence in the echoing chambers of his mind.

  He stopped moving to the music and drew her closer. She trembled in his arms, her breath catching when she came into contact with his blatant need for her. Her eyes grew wide as she blinked up at him.

  “Sí,” he whispered, “I want you.”

  His head dipped toward hers, her mouth parting—in surprise or need he did not know. The moment their lips touched, the moment the electricity sparked and sizzled between them, a woman cleared her throat beside them.

  “Señor Navarre, we are ready for your speech now.”

  Francesca’s heart rate refused to return to normal, even after Marcos escorted her back to their table and held out her chair for her. A fine sheen of sweat rose between her breasts, on her limbs, heating her from the inside out. Her feelings were tangled and torn.

  She watched her husband mount the podium and stand there, waiting a few moments for everyone to reach their seats before he launched into his speech. A single light shone down on him, making him seem completely alone in this crowded room.

  He was so much more than she’d thought, and yet he was dangerous as well. That he’d actually approved an expensive treatment for Jacques stunned her. She knew he had the money—that wasn’t it at all—but the obligation? He had no reason, no incentive, to do so.

  He said he’d done it for her. Even now, that thought had the power to shorten her breath. Why would he do such a thing?

  Because he was decent. Because he wasn’t as cold and cruel as she’d accused him of being. Another feeling rose in her breast, a feeling she didn’t want to acknowledge but had to nonetheless.

  Shame.

  She was ashamed that she’d stolen the Corazón del Diablo from him, that she’d held him at gunpoint and cuffed him to the bed. If she’d gone to see him, perhaps he would have helped her after all.

  You have no way of knowing, Francesca. You did what you had to do.

  Yes, she’d done what she’d had to, and the result was far better than she perhaps deserved.

  If she weren’t careful, if she didn’t keep her emotional distance, she was in as much danger of falling for Marcos Navarre as she’d ever been. And that was something she could not afford to do. No matter how compassionate he might be toward Jacques, no matter how he claimed to want her in his bed, this was a temporary arrangement and the only heart at stake, if she allowed herself to feel as she once had, was hers.

  Soon, Marcos lifted his head and the crowd quieted. When he began to speak, his voice rolled over the Spanish words with authority. She wished she could understand what he said, but she would have to content herself with the crowd’s reaction.

  “I will translate for you.” A woman dipped gracefully into the open seat beside Francesca. “Marcos has told me you do not speak Spanish yet, so I will tell you what he says.”

  Francesca thanked her even as she tried not to imagine how Marcos knew this elegant woman. It did not matter. Francesca was a contract wife, not a real wife. She wasn’t in love with him. Nor would she be.

  “He is speaking of the orphans,” the woman said. “Of our duty and responsibility to provide for the poor children of Buenos Aires. It is his passion, his life’s work to create opportunity and stability for them, to lift them from the circumstances in which…”

  Francesca’s heart contracted as the woman talked. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes at the horror of Marcos’s words. He told of children who stole food to survive, who ate garbage and hunted rats, of children who learned to be hard and angry. Who joined gangs and became menaces to society.

  She could see the passion in his expression, hear it in his words, and understand it thanks to the woman translating for her. When he finished speaking, the room erupted in applause. He looked alone, angry, and perhaps even a bit lost. Francesca glanced at the others, wondering if they saw it too. But no one seemed to see anything more than a very powerful, very rich man who asked for their support.

  And she saw what she did not want to see: a man with heart and soul.

  “He is quite a man, your husband.” The woman held out her hand. “I am Vina Aguilar, an old friend of the Navarre family. I went to school with Marcos’s mother.”

  Francesca blinked as she took Vina’s hand. Though this woman was old enough to be Marcos’s mother, she didn’t look a day over forty. She was tall, lean, and dressed in a Prada silk gown that showed her trim figure to perfection. Her face was unlined, except for a few crinkles around the eyes when she smiled.

  “You are not what I expected,” Vina said after they’d chatted for a few moments. “But I am pleased for Marcos. He deserves all the love and happiness he has never had. I am sure you will give it to him.”

  “Yes, he does.” Francesca dropped her gaze, hoping Vina would take it as shyness instead of the confusion currently pounding through her.

  “Are you filling my wife’s head with tall tales, Vina?”

  Francesca’s gaze snapped to Marcos as the woman laughed. He seemed perfectly normal again. Had she imagined the pain and anguish in his demeanor? The loneliness?

  “Darling, I have said not a word that wasn’t true,” Vina replied, rising and kissing him on both cheeks. “And I was just about to tell your lovely new wife that I hope you will take the time to have a few children of your own. We need more men like you, Marcos.”

  “Gracias, señora,” Marcos said while Francesca’s head began to swim. He reached down and took her hand in his. If he noticed it was clammy, he did not react. “But we are taking time to get to know each other first. Perhaps later.”

  “Of course, of course.” She suddenly waved at someone across the room. “Esteban needs me, darling. I’ll write a check for the foundation, and I’ll see you soon, yes? Bring your beautiful esposa to dinner.”

  Francesca couldn’t look at him as he dropped into the chair Vina had vacated. Children? She’d wanted Marcos’s children once. And tonight, hearing him speak so passionately about the lost children in the streets, she couldn’t help but think that Vina was right. He did deserve children of his own.

  Several people came by to speak with Marcos. Francesca sat there like a good wife, smiling and speaking with those who spoke to her, though her thoughts were far away. When Marcos eventually touched her shoulder, she jerked.

  He frowned down at her. She hadn’t even been aware he’d stood.

  “If you are ready, we can leave,” Marcos said.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, allowing him to help her up. “But shouldn’t you stay to speak with the donors?”

  He picked up her shawl and wrapped it around her. “The Foundation has a staff, querida. They are quite capable of handling the donations now that I’ve made the speech. And I’ve been speaking with people for the last half hour.”

  “How long have you been doing this, Marcos? I don’t remember you ever speaking of this charity before.”

  He cupped her elbow and steered her toward the lobby. “The Reclaim Our Children Foundation is almost eight years old. I started it as soon as I regained Navarre Industries.”

  “How did you learn about these children?” she asked as they stopped under the portico to wait for their limousine. “I’m ashamed to say I had no idea this kind
of thing went on in such a modern country.”

  He didn’t speak at first and she wondered if he’d heard her. She looked up at him, surprised at the stark look on his face. He cared deeply for these children, she realized. And perhaps she was wrong to ask questions. Clearly, it was a painful subject for him.

  “You don’t have to—” she began.

  “I learned about them firsthand, querida,” he said, slicing her off in mid-sentence with his harsh words. “Because I was one of them.”

  Chapter Seven

  WHY HAD HE told her what he’d never told anyone? His fiction had always been that he’d been sent to live with relatives. In the space of a moment, he’d told her the ugly truth.

  Marcos poured a whiskey as soon as they were ensconced in the back seat of the limo and took a long drink. Francesca sat beside him, silent as the grave. She hadn’t said anything since he’d spoken those illadvised words. Not that she’d had any time. As soon as the words left his mouth, the car had arrived.

  Now they were on their way, gliding down the drive and toward the street.

  “I’m sorry,” she said very softly. Marcos tilted the crystal tumbler back and drained it. Exactly what he did not want from anyone: pity.

  “It was a long time ago,” he bit out. “Forget it.”

  She let out an annoyed sigh. “That’s your solution for everything, isn’t it? Forget it.”

  “There is no point in dwelling on the past.”

  “But you can’t forget it, obviously, or you wouldn’t be so angry!”

  He rounded on her, ready to lash her with words—except she’d finally let those tears fall. The ones she’d gulped back for Jacques Fortier were now sliding down her cheeks for him.

  “Francesca,” he said on a heavy sigh, “it’s not important. The past is the past.”

  “But how did this happen, Marcos? What happened to your parents, and why didn’t your uncle take care of you once they were gone?”