The Corsican Gambit

by Sandra Marton

  Francesca knew that you played against the house in roulette, but this particular game seemed to be changing into a private duel between the two men.

  Her stomach knotted. Maximillian Donelli was up to something, but what? She had no doubt but that his every action had a purpose; he was the sort of man who went after a thing he wanted with single-minded deter­mination. She had only to remember those moments in the garden last night to know that much. The way he'd taken her in his arms and kissed her, despite her pro­tests, molding her body to his until he'd forced a re­sponse from her...

  He looked up and his eyes met hers. A slow, insolent mile curved across his mouth, almost as if he'd read her mind.

  She looked away quickly, but not before a telltale swath of pink blazed across her face.

  "Charles-please, can't we-?"

  The little ball clacked as the wheel spun again.

  "Vingt. Noir, pair, et manque."

  Charles cursed under his breath as the croupier raked in his chips. Across the table, Maximillian Donelli smiled as he gazed at his winnings. He made Francesca a mocking little bow, and she swung away and put her hand on her stepbrother's arm.

  "This is ridiculous," she said sharply. "Haven't you had enough yet?"

  His muscles knotted under her fingers. "Yes," he said, "you're right."

  She puffed out her breath. "Good. I can hardly wait to--"

  "It's time we had a go at something else. Chemin de fer, I think." He rolled his shoulders, smiled, and glanced quickly across the table. Her breath caught as she saw his smile slip, revealing the hatred that blazed just be­neath it, but his mask was quickly back in place. "Come on, darling," he said, loudly enough for others to hear, "I can feel my luck changing."

  But it didn't change. He lost with the first turn of the cards, and when Francesca heard the indrawn hiss of his breath she wasn't really surprised to look up and see Maximillian Donelli strolling to the table. He gave her that same mocking bow, then placed his bets.

  And he won. Consistently-just as consistently as Charles lost.

  When her stepbrother's last chips had been swept away, he put his hands on the table and stared across it. A silence fell across the room, as if everyone in it were caught in a warped pocket of time. Charles and Maximillian Donelli exchanged long looks. Charles's face was twisted with visible hatred, but it was the expression on Donelli's that frightened Francesca more.

  He was smiling. Dear God, he was­.

  "Come."

  Charles's hand clamped around her wrist. She trotted along beside him, praying that this meant he was finally

  giving up.

  "Are we leaving?"

  "Leaving?" He made a sound that she assumed was a laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. We're getting more chips." "Charles, this is foolish-"

  "And we're moving to the faro table." He smiled through his teeth as he slid an impressive stack of bank notes to the cashier. "I never lose at faro."

  But he did lose, just as she had known he would, just as she knew she would look up and find her step­brother's dark nemesis lounging against the opposite side of the table. Within moments, the pattern began again. Charles lost-and Maximillian Donelli won.

  Francesca bit down on her bottom lip. Damn the man! Did he never lose at anything? And what was the point of all this, anyway? He was humiliating Charles-that much was certain. Their ugly little war was no longer private. There were eyes on them now, and whispers of amusement drifted in the air along with the cigarette smoke.

  Whatever was going on had to stop.

  She waited until her stepbrother was hurrying her toward the cashier again, then stepped quickly in front of him.

  "Charles," she said quietly, "this is insane."

  His lips drew back from his teeth. "I don't know what you mean."

  "Yes, you do. You've lost a lot of money. And----"

  "I can afford it."

  "That's not the point."

  "Don't tell me you're going to start moralizing." He laughed. "This is the wrong place for it, darling. This & Monte Carlo, remember? What are we here for, if not b gamble?"

  "I'm not talking about gambling. I'm talking about­—about this sick game you and that man are playing:'

  His eyes went flat. "I don't know what you mean."

  "Yes, you do. You keep losing-and Maximillian Donelli keeps winning."

  Charles's teeth ground together. "Yes. But he'll lose, sooner or later. It's just a matter of time."

  "Charles, please. It's senseless..."

  "Better listen to the lady, Spencer."

  She spun around at the sound of that lazy, low-pitched voice.

  "Mr. Donelli," she said furiously, "you have the damnedest way of turning up where you're least wanted."

  His brows drew together in mock indignation. "Is that the thanks I get for trying to be helpful?"

  "I didn't ask for your help."

  Charles stepped in front of her. "Get the hell away from us," he said in a grating whisper.

  Maximillian Donelli smiled, his teeth very white against his tanned skin. "The offer I made earlier still goes," he said pleasantly. "Just you and me, Spencer, mano a mano. " He looked at Francesca. "Have I got that right, sweetheart?" His voice was like silk. "I don't peak very much Spanish-perhaps you could check with the Marques. "

  "Damn you." Francesca's voice quavered with sup­pressed fury. "What is it you want from us?"

  All at once, he wasn't smiling any more. "Only what I’m entitled to," he said coldly.

  "If that's supposed to be fraught with meaning…”

  "Your stepbrother knows what I'm talking about." Charles drew a rasping breath. "I told you," he said to Francesca, "he can't accept that we've taken away his best clients. That's the reason for this-this Old West shoot-out with cards instead of guns."

  Donelli rocked back on his heels. "What's the matter, Spencer? Are you afraid to take me on in public, where your hands have to stay in sight all the time?"

  Her stepbrother forced a smile to his face. "You're drawing a crowd, Donelli. I thought you hated being in the spotlight: '

  "I do. But I hate crooks even more."

  His tone was almost conversational, but it was loud enough to draw a titter from an onlooker.

  Charles tried to laugh. "What you don't like," he said, raising his voice a little, "is losing."

  Maximillian Donelli smiled. "Ah, but you're the one who's doing the losing tonight, Spencer. At faro, at chemin de fer, at roulette-"

  "What's your point?"

  He shrugged his shoulders. "I told you. Take me on.

  Let's see which of us wins when the game isn't fixed." Charles licked his lips nervously. "Everybody knows these are games of luck, not skill. There's no point in—"

  "You're right. Roulette, chemin de fer, trente-et­quarante-they're all luck."

  "Exactly." Francesca could hear the barely disguised relief in Charles's voice. "So we might as well—"

  "Which is why I much prefer poker."

  Francesca's head came up sharply. There was a silken undertone in Donelli's voice now; looking at him, she thought of a cat patiently gauging the distance between its claws and the tail of a hapless mouse.

  Be careful, Charles, she thought. You're walking into a trap.

  "Poker's a game for riverboat gamblers," her step­brother said dismissively.

  Maximillian Donelli's lips drew back from his teeth. "If you mean it requires enough skill and guts to put it out of your reach, I'd have to agree."

  Someone laughed softly. Charles's face paled, and he took a step forward.

  "All right." His voice was low, the words almost gut­tural. "I've had enough. Name your stakes."

  "No." Francesca spoke quickly. "Charles, don't. Please. He's been baiting you all along, don't you see? He's just been waiting to draw you in—“

  "Did you hear me?" he said, shaking off her hand. "Poker, with a one hundred dollar ante."

  Donelli smiled. "Five hundred," he said softly. "No l
imit:'

  "Charles, for God's sake..."

  Francesca fell silent. Her stepbrother was already striding away from her, with Maximillian Donelli at his heels. After a few seconds, she drew a deep breath and followed them.

  She had gone to a bullfight once, in Madrid. Charles had talked endlessly about the magnificence of the spec­tacle, the courage of the matador and the bravery of the bull, and the crowd in the stands had roared its agree­ment.

  But all Francesca had seen was the desperation of a trapped animal; all she had smelled was the blood scent that hung in the warm air. After only a few moments of the first corrida, she had risen from her seat and fled. The elegant footwork of the matador, so appreciated by the crowd, had sickened her. It was all an awful game, she'd thought, watching as he'd taunted the bull with his scarlet cape. The poor, dumb beast kept attacking the swirling cape, while all the time it was the matador that would eventually destroy him and end their terrifying pas de deux.

  Now, standing at her stepbrother's elbow in a quiet corner of a salle privee, she felt as she had felt then. Charles was intent on his cards; there was a grimness to his features, a determination that drew murmured com­pliments from the crowd. It seemed to be paying off, too. Her stepbrother had won the last three hands in a row. Compared to his, Maximillian Donelli's playing seemed casual almost to the point of contempt.

  And yet-and yet, she thought, suppressing a tremor, she knew without question that the man with the dark as midnight eyes and that slightly contemptuous smile was going to emerge the victor.

  She hadn't always thought so. When the game had begun, first one man had raked in the pot and then the other and she'd even let herself think Charles might just have a chance. Thinking it, she'd permitted herself a swift glance at Maximillian Donelli.

  You're going to lose, she'd thought-and, as if he'd read her mind, that dark, proud head had lifted and Donelli's eyes had fixed on hers.

  Her mouth had gone dry, and the intuitive knowledge of what was happening had twisted in her belly like a sudden, painful illness.

  Charles had only been winning because Donelli had let him. He was playing with Charles, waiting for just the right moment to take him. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  Francesca swallowed dryly as the image of the bull, brought to its knees, flashed into her mind again.

  Stop it, she told herself, just stop it! It's only a card game, that's all it is. Charles will lose a lot of money, perhaps even humiliate himself, and then it will be over.

  "Well?" Her stepbrother's voice was brusque. "Are you in or out?"

  Donelli shrugged lazily, shoulders straining at the seams of his elegantly tailored dinner jacket.

  "What the hell," he said, shoving a stack of chips toward the center of the table, "I'm in. And I'll raise you five hundred."

  Her stepbrother shot a barely concealed look of triumph across the table. "I'll see your five-and raise you a thousand."

  Donelli's lids came down like the shutter on the camera lens. "Here's your thousand," he said softly. "And I'll raise you three."

  "Three thousand?" Charles's voice cracked, and Donelli looked up. He smiled carelessly, but his dark eyes were as hard as glass.

  "No limits, remember? Those were the rules."

  Charles's mouth tightened. "No problem, Donelli. Here's your three-and five thousand more." He smiled as much for the onlookers as for his opponent. "How's that grab you?"

  Donelli nodded. "That's fine." He shoved a stack of chips across the table. "Tell you what, Spencer." He looked up, not at Charles but at Francesca. "How about another ten, just to make it interesting?"

  She thought, for one hopeful moment, that Charles would toss in his cards. But the crowd's whispered de­light was enough to urge him on.

  "Ten it is," he said. "And fifteen thousand more."

  The words were hardly out of his mouth before Donelli answered.

  "Your fifteen," he snapped, "and twenty-five more."

  Suddenly, Francesca thought of the heat of the arena and the matador's red cape goading the bull on. She wanted to shut her eyes and turn away, but to do that would mean defeat. Donelli might be able to humble Charles, but he'd never intimidate her.

  There was a moment of silence and then her step­brother slapped his hands against the table and pushed back his chair.

  "I'm out of chips." Was she the only one who could hear the s' in his voice? Francesca wondered. "You'll have to wait while I buy some more."

  "No problem." Donelli got to his feet and stretched lazily. "I can use the break."

  Charles clasped Francesca's arm and hurried her out of the room. "Give me your money," he hissed.

  She stared at `."I don't have any money."

  His hand tightened on her. "What do you mean? Of course you do. You must have something in that purse."

  "Just a few small coins for the ladies' room." Then she remembered. "I do have some chips. The Marques-"

  "Give them to me."

  "Charles-"

  "Dammit to hell, Francesca! Just give me the chips, will you please?"

  She dumped the chips into his cupped hands. He counted quickly, then uttered a harsh oath.

  "What am I supposed to do with this? That bastard wants another twenty-five thousand."

  "Then quit. Now, before things get worse."

  Charles laughed coldly. "I can't quit," he said, as if even an idiot would understand that much. "Don't you see? The cards are with me. Donelli thinks he can bluff me out of the game."

  "Charles." She drew in her breath. "You're going to lose. I can feel it in my bones."

  He brushed past her. "I can't lose. My hand is good enough to beat anything he has. I'll write a check," he said tightly. "This time, I'm going to squash him for good."

  But the manager politely refused. Surely Monsieur understood that there was a limit to how much credit the Casino could extend?

  Charles's face was pale when he returned to the table, and all at once Francesca thought she could see the espada deftly concealed beneath the matador's elegant cape.

  Was this it, then? Yes, she thought, of course it was. Charles would have to withdraw from the game, forced out by a lack of funds. It was meaningless, considering the enormous amount he'd lost tonight, but to a man like Charles, to whom appearance mattered more than anything, it was a humiliation he would long remember.

  She stared at his opponent, hating him for what he'd done. Look up, she thought, look at me so you can see that I understand what you've done, so you can see that I hate you for it...

  His dark head lifted slowly and his eyes met hers. Francesca's heart skipped a beat. No. There was more to this than she'd imagined. Donelli wanted more than humiliation. He wanted subjugation.

  He stirred lazily, leaned forward, and smiled across the table. "I'll extend credit to you, Spencer," he said in a silken whisper.

  Her stepbrother didn't hesitate. "Good." He spoke brusquely. "I'll write you an IOU."

  "No IOUs."

  "Very well. My personal check, then."

  "Sorry." Donelli's teeth flashed in a quick grin. "No checks, either."

  Her stepbrother flushed. "What the hell is this, Donelli? You said you'd extend me credit."

  The other man straightened and folded his arms across his chest. All the sly amusement had fled his face, leaving it cold and empty.

  "What I meant was that I'd be willing to let you wager something other than money."

  "Other than..." Charles flushed. "I might have ex­pected something like that from a man of your back­ground. Okay, what will it be?" His lips compressed as he pushed back the sleeve of his dinner jacket. "My Cartier watch?"

  Donelli smiled coldly. "Why would I want yours, when I have one of my own?"

  "What, then?" Charles frowned impatiently. "My cuff links and studs? They're eighteen carat-"

  Donelli sighed and tilted back his chair. "Cuff links. Good God, man, what do you think this is? A flea market?"

  C
harles's face purpled. "Listen," he said, "if you think I'm going to put up Spencer's-" Maximillian

  Donelli laughed, and Charles's face grew even darker. "What do you want, then?"

  A hush fell over the little gathering. In that last minute, before Donelli pushed back his chair and rose slowly to his feet, Francesca felt a sharp premonition of disaster. She took an unconscious step back, just as those dark, fierce eyes turned toward her, swept over her with in­solent ease, then fastened on her face.

  "What I want," he said, almost gently, "is your stepsister."

  There was a second or two of stunned silence, fol­lowed by a peal of delighted laughter. Voices buzzed with excitement. Francesca heard it all, but none of it was as loud as the drumming beat of her own heart.

  She stared across the table, telling herself that she'd misunderstood, but that hope slipped away as soon as she saw Donelli's face. The insolent smile was gone, re­placed by a hard-mouthed determination that matched the forward thrust of his jaw.

  Charles pushed back his chair, too. "What did you say?" he demanded.

  Donelli's mouth softened. He smiled lazily, rocked back on his heels, and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

  "You asked what I'd accept in lieu of your money, Spencer, and I told you."

  "Charles." Francesca's voice was reedy, and she cleared her throat. "Charles, for God's sake, don't even dignify that with an answer."

  "Never mind." Donelli's smile was the smile of a shark. "I knew you didn't have the guts."

  Charles slammed his hand down on the table. "Done!”

  Francesca stared at her stepbrother in disbelief.

  "Damn you, Charles, are you insane? You can't-"

  "Let's see you beat this," he said, his voice slicing across hers with smug self-assurance as he fanned out

  his cards. A smile twisted across his mouth. "They're all diamonds." Donelli didn't move, and Charles began to chuckle. "You see?" he said to Francesca as he began reaching for the tumbled chips in the table's center, "There was nothing to worry about. A flush beats any­thing but-"