The Corsican Gambit

by Sandra Marton

  "This!”

  Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath as Max Donelli turned over his cards, his movements un­hurried and assured.

  "One deuce," he said softly. "Two deuces." Francesca clasped the table's edge, her knuckles white as bone. Donelli lay down the remaining cards and smiled. "And three lovely ladies."

  There was a collective gasp from the crowd. "A full house," someone said in awe. "Hell, who'd have dreamed it?"

  No one would have, Francesca knew that. But this wasn't a dream, it was a nightmare. Did this-this bar­barian really think he could win a woman in a card game, carry her off and-and ... ?

  She glared as he rose and came slowly around the table.

  "You're insane," she whispered.

  His gaze swept over her again, lingering on the swift rise and fall of her breasts before returning to her face.

  "Am I, bellissima?"

  Heat spiraled through her veins. His words had been soft, a whisper meant for her alone, and they brought with them a swirl of memories: the scent of the flowers blooming in the garden when he'd kissed her; the feel of his arms as they'd drawn her to him; the warmth of his mouth...

  She swayed dizzily, and Charles stepped to her side and put his arm around her shoulders.

  "All right." His voice was hoarse. "What is it you really want, Donelli?"

  "I told you. I want your stepsister."

  Francesca twisted away from Charles's arm. "You bastard!"

  Donelli smiled. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation in private."

  He reached toward her and she pulled back like a hissing cat. "Don't touch me, you-"

  "Francesca." Charles grasped her arm. "People are watching.''

  "Do you really care? You're the one who-"

  "For God's sake, shut up!" His arm tightened around her; he made some light, inane remark that drew ap­preciative laughter as he marched her out of the salle privee and into a corner of the entry foyer. Once they'd reached it, he spun toward the dark-haired man who'd followed after them. "Okay," he said tightly, "what do you really want to end this farce?"

  "You know the answer to that, Spencer."

  Charles fumbled in his breast pocket. "I'll write you a check for twice the amount I lost."

  "You can make it out for a hundred times the amount.

  I still won't take it."

  "Damn you, man! What is it you want, then?"

  "I want you to show some honor and stand behind your word." Donelli's voice was soft and dangerous. "Or is that impossible?"

  "Listen, here, Donelli, maybe that kind of talk goes over big where you come from, but-"

  "Stop it, both of you!" Francesca pushed free of her stepbrother's encircling arm, her eyes glittering wildly in her pale face. "How dare you treat me this way?"

  "The man's an animal, darling, he-"

  "And you're no better." She drew a shuddering breath. "Wagering me," she said, trembling, "as if­ as if I were a piece of property."

  "Francesca, darling-"

  "This is not some-some desert kingdom. And I am not a-a slave girl to do your bidding."

  "You would do mine, Francesca," Maximillian Donelli said softly, "if I asked."

  Color flooded her cheeks as she swung toward him. "Never," she said grimly. "I'd never do anything you-"

  His sudden smile disarmed her. "Dinner," he said, "and then dancing at the Sporting Club. A nightcap at the Living Room, and you'll be back at your hotel, safe and sound, by dawn. You'd do that, to redeem your stepbrother's debt, wouldn't you?"

  Francesca's mouth fell open. "Dinner?" she repeated foolishly. "And dancing?"

  "Unless you'd rather do something else. We can drive to Nice, or to Cannes-"

  "You mean-you mean you want to take me out? On a date?"

  He laughed and inclined his head. "I suppose that's the word to use, yes." One dark brow rose expressively. "Don't tell me you thought I had something else in mind?"

  She stared at him while the color rose in her face again. What a bastard he was, she thought helplessly. He had made a fool of Charles and of her, and he had done it in front of the very people Charles worked so hard to impress. No one that had been witness to her step­brother's humiliation would be likely to forget it; in fact, twenty-four hours from now, the story would have taken on a life of its own, embroidered so fancifully that neither she or Charles would ever be able to live it down.

  She lifted her chin in cold defiance. "My stepbrother was right," she said carefully, "you're nothing but an ill-bred bastard. It's too much to hope that you'll ever pay for what you've done to us tonight, but I'll pray for it, nonetheless." She put a trembling hand on Charles's arm. "Come on," she said, "let's go to our-"

  She cried out as Donelli's hand clamped around her wrist.

  "Where the hell do you think you're going?" he growled.

  "Let go of me, Mr. Donelli: "

  "I asked you a question. Where do you think you're going?"

  "As far from the sight of you as I can get. You won. The game is over

  "It won't be over until the evening ends. Weren't you listening, Francesca? Dinner, then dancing, then-"

  Her eyes flew to his face. "You-you're serious, aren't you?"

  "Absolutely." His smile turned chill. "That was the wager, and I've every intention of collecting."

  She stared at him, then at her stepbrother. "Charles," she said imploringly, "please..."

  His eyes slid from hers. "Just do it, Francesca." His voice was low-pitched. "Do it and get it over with." "But-but I can't..."

  Maximillian laughed as he slipped his arm lightly around her waist. "This will be an evening to remember, Francesca, I promise you that."

  He started toward the door, and the pressure of his hand against her hip made it impossible for her not to go with him. She threw one last, despairing glance over her shoulder.

  "Charles!" she called.

  But her stepbrother had already turned away and begun striding back toward the gaming rooms.

  She blinked as Donelli ushered her out of the door and into the perfumed warmth of the night.

  "You-you can't do this," she said.

  He didn't even bother answering, and why should he? she thought crazily as he led her toward a low-slung black sports car.

  Maximillian Donelli made his own rules.

  Francesca's heart banged against her ribs. He could do anything he wanted.

  And, for tonight, she was his.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Donelli’s driving had a dangerous edge to it, the same as everything else she'd seen him do. The Ferrari leaped to life at his touch, the engine purring as a woman would if he stroked her, Francesca thought wildly, as she had done last night.

  The thought drove her back in her seat so that her already rigid posture was ramrod straight. God, how she despised Maximillian Donelli! The man had somehow managed to make a fool of her twice in less than twenty­-four hours. Her hands knotted in her lap. He had to know it, too-not that it mattered a damn to him. He hadn't said a word to her nor even glanced in her di­rection since they'd roared away from the Casino.

  Well, that was fine with her. It gave her time to think about how she would get through the hours that lay like unmarked reefs in the dark channel ahead. They would be tricky to navigate, but she knew she could manage if she was careful. The first step was adjusting to what had happened to her, assuming that she could, somehow, adjust to being carried off by a pirate.

  For that was what this man was, and never mind the expensive car or the custom-tailored dinner jacket. Max Donelli was a marauder who saw what he wanted and went after it.

  And what he wanted tonight was her.

  Her pulse rocketed. No, she reminded herself quickly, no, that wasn't true. Whatever he was, Donelli wasn't the kind who would force a woman into his bed. He wouldn't have to. He probably had difficulty keeping them out.

  She cast a quick glance at him, her eyes sweeping over the straight nose, sensual mouth and pr
oud jaw. He was a hard-looking, handsome man, even she had to admit that, but it was more than his looks that made him so attractive. There was a toughness to him, a sense of danger, that was as sexy as it was frightening. Even she had responded to it, last night in the garden. He had taken her in his arms and kissed her and

  "What are you thinking?"

  "Nothing," she said, staring straight ahead.

  He laughed softly. "There was such a soft look to your mouth, Francesca-I hoped you might be thinking of me."

  Oh, God! Was it dark enough so he couldn't see the rush of color his teasing words brought to her cheeks?

  "You flatter yourself," she said in a voice that was cool and steady.

  The car swayed as it rounded a curve in the narrow road. "Perhaps you were thinking of the Marques. " Donelli glanced over at her. "I suppose I've disrupted your plans for the evening."

  "I hate to disappoint you," she said, even more coldly, "but Charles and I planned to spend the evening alone."

  The leather seat whispered softly as he shifted his weight. "Such filial devotion," he said, his tone lending mockery to the words. "It's charming to see in this day and age."

  Francesca's mouth narrowed. "I wouldn't have agreed to this-this insanity if I didn't love my stepbrother."

  "I've already said I find your-relationship charming."

  There was something in the way he said the word that made her swing toward him.

  "What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

  Donelli shrugged lazily. "You and he are so close, Francesca. He goes nowhere without you on his arm." He smiled. "Not that I blame him. You're a very beauti­ful woman-what man wouldn't show you off, if you belonged to him?"

  "I don't `belong' to anyone," she said sharply. "As for attending business functions with Charles-"

  "Is that why you came with him to Monaco? Because the conference is a business function?"

  "Of course," she said, hearing and hating the de­fensive tone in her own voice. "I've as much interest as

  my stepbrother in seeing that Spencer's does well." "You and he share controlling interest in the company, don't you?" He glanced at her. "And you rubber stamp everything he proposes."

  "I vote as Charles votes," she said sharply, "because he knows what's best for the business."

  He smiled. "No wonder you're pleased with the job he's done. He's made lots of money for you lately." Francesca puffed out her breath. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? Spencer's is doing well because Charles took clients away from you."

  He laughed softly. "Yes. He certainly did."

  "And you tried to take Spencer's from us." She waited, but he said nothing. "Good grief," she said with heavy sarcasm, "don't tell me you admit it?"

  He gave another eloquent shrug. "Why should I deny what you already know? It's clear that your stepbrother keeps you well informed."

  "He doesn't have to," she said coolly. "I told you, I trust Charles to make the proper decisions."

  "You might want to rethink that," he said wryly, "in view of the way he's behaved tonight."

  Color flooded her cheeks. "Which reminds me-just how far is Villefranche?"

  "Don't you mean, will we be there soon?" "That's exactly what I mean."

  The Ferrari hummed as he changed gears. "Another few minutes." She felt him glance across at her. "The

  breeze has caught your hair, cara. Shall I close the windows?"

  The words were simple, but he spoke them in a way that put an intimate twist to them.

  "It's not necessary. And I wish you'd stop calling me that."

  His brows rose. "Cara?"

  "Yes," she said through her teeth. "I hate it." Donelli smiled. "It's simply a term of endearment, Francesca."

  "It's a meaningless affectation, Mr. Donelli. You're as American as I am."

  "Am I?" he said, after a few seconds' pause. "You're from New York, aren't you?" "That's true."

  "And I'll bet you were born in the States."

  He looked at her. "New York Hospital," he said with a little smile, "just off East River Drive."

  Francesca gave a decisive nod. "Exactly. Sprinkling Italian words into your conversation may win you lots of points with some women, but I'm not impressed."

  There was another brief silence, and then he gave a soft laugh. "No," he said, almost thoughtfully. "I'm sure you're not. It would take more than a few foreign words to convince you that I'm not like all the other men you know."

  But you're not. Her heartbeat stuttered. The words came into her mind so clearly and quickly that she thought, at first, she had said them aloud. She swung sharply toward Maximillian Donelli, but he was looking straight ahead, his eyes on the road.

  Francesca drew a calming breath. "Exactly."

  He smiled, as if she had said something amusing. "I'll see what I can do."

  "Thank you," she said primly.

  "You're welcome."

  There was a hint of laughter in his voice but she ig­nored it. He could laugh at her all he liked, she thought grimly. What mattered was that she had won a very small, very tenuous victory. It was her first of the evening, and she had no wish to push her luck. The hours ahead were going to be difficult enough without antag­onizing Maximillian Donelli any more than she already had.

  Silence fell between them as the Ferrari raced through the night. Under other circumstances, she would have enjoyed the drive along the Corniche, the road that tra­versed the steep mountains that bordered the sea. There were three, each cut higher than the last into the craggy slopes. They were interconnected by narrow local roads that Donelli was using to move from one level to another. She had read that was the way to get the best views. Even in the dark of night, what she could see was spec­tacular. The lights of quiet villages flickered on the hill­sides; other lights, brighter and more steady, crept slowly across the infinite blackness that was the sea.

  "Have you driven the Corniche before?"

  Francesca swiveled toward him. How did he do that? she thought irritably. His habit of seeming to know what she was thinking was disconcerting.

  "No," she said.

  "No, of course not. There hasn't been time. The shops by day, the Marques by night..."

  She drew a deep breath. "If you're trying to insult me-"

  "I was simply commenting on the long hours you must have put in since you arrived on the Riviera."

  "If you are, you're wasting your breath. There's nothing a man like you could say that would mean any­thing to me."

  His soft laughter set her teeth on edge. "Is that your subtle way of warning me that we're not going to have a pleasant evening together?"

  "I'm not trying for subtlety, Mr. Donelli. What's the point, when we both know that I'm here under duress?"

  "Perhaps you'll have changed your mind by the time we drive back to Monaco." He glanced over at her. "There's a lookout point outside Villefranche where we can watch the sun rise." The car swayed as they rounded a curve. "You'll be able to see-"

  "Thank you," she said coldly, "but I intend to breakfast in my rooms. Alone."

  His leg brushed hers as he rearranged his long frame in the bucket seat. She tensed, then scooted farther into the corner. Donelli grinned.

  "It's a little cramped in here, isn't it? I suppose you'd have preferred it if I'd hired a Rolls."

  What she'd prefer, she thought furiously, was to have him turn the car around and take her back to her hotel. Her mouth opened, then clamped shut. No. There was no point in telling him that. He was certainly aware of it already. He was good at finding weaknesses in people. It was his specialty. He had known just how to get at Charles And at you, a little voice whispered. Aren't you leaving out what happened last night? He surely hasn't forgotten that, Francesca.

  The thought made her sit up straight. Damn you, Charles, she thought furiously, this is all your fault! Her stepbrother had been a fool, and now here she was, trapped into paying for his foolishness.

  Still, no matter what Charles
had done, it was nothing compared to the machinations of Maximillian Donelli. What an unmitigated bastard he was! He'd probably planned all this from the minute she'd rebuffed him last evening.

  No. No, he couldn't have. A frown creased her forehead. He hadn't even known who she was until they'd come face-to-face in the casino. Well, then, he'd managed this nasty little melodrama on the spot so he could get even with her and Charles both. Two birds with one stone, she thought bitterly.

  Francesca gritted her teeth. Donelli wasn't a bastard, she thought grimly; the word didn't come close to de­fining what he was. Pirate. Thief. Marauder...

  There was the soft sound of masculine laughter. "A penny for your thoughts, cara. "

  "I asked you not to call me that," she snapped.

  "Take my advice, carissima," he said, the word a de­liberate insult, "and make the best of the situation."

  A flush rose in her cheeks. There was no best to this, she wanted to tell him, but even that would be more than he deserved. He had taunted her into more con­versation than he had any right to expect; from now on, she was going to be absolutely silent. All he was going to get from her were "no's," and they would start as soon as they reached Villefranche.

  No, she didn't want a drink. No, she was not hungry. No, she didn't want to dance-dance, for God's sake, dance-that was what he'd said they'd do, as if she were with him because she wanted to be, as if she'd ever, in a million years, willingly go into his arms...

  "Have you taken a vow of silence?"

  He was doing it again, she thought angrily, he was reading her mind. Francesca folded her arms across her breasts and held herself tighter. I won't answer you, she thought, I won't, I won't. She felt him looking at her, felt his gaze drift lazily over her body, his eyes lingering on the drift of crimson and pink fabric that clung to her like a second skin.

  "You should have tried one of the others first." His voice was silken. "But then I can't imagine a woman like you managing poverty or chastity either."

  The breath whooshed from her lungs. What was the point in keeping quiet if it meant letting this man walk all over her? Francesca turned to him, her eyes like cold stars in her pale face.

  "A man who'll put up a fortune on a turn of the cards is hardly one to talk about poverty." Her voice was like ice. "And I very much doubt that you've ever been chaste, Mr. Donelli."