The Corsican Gambit

by Sandra Marton

  Or coming on to a woman. Her mouth turned down. Yes. That barest suggestion of an accent, as phony, she was certain, as his dramatic name and the way he pep­pered his conversation with "cara's and "bellassima's probably knocked 'em dead. Well, it didn't mean a thing to her. If Max Donelli really thought he could turn the clock back to what had happened last night in the garden,if he for a second hoped he could charm her into for­getting the reason she was here in the first place­—

  "Did you hear what I said, Francesca?"

  She shrugged, her shoulders moving lightly above the softly draped bodice of her silk gown.

  "I heard you," she said carelessly.

  His smile dimmed a little. "But such a compliment means nothing to a woman who has heard them all many times before."

  Her eyes met his. "Don't feel badly," she said sweetly. "I'm sure it's a line that's worked wonders on all the other women you've paraded through here."

  Max leaned back in his chair and grinned. "Ah, cara, forgive me. You wanted me to tell you that you were the first."

  "I asked you not to call me that. And I don't care if I'm the first or the fiftieth—"

  "But you are the first."

  He fell silent as their waiter brought the Dom Perignon he'd ordered. Max waved away the obligatory first tasting. He waited until their glasses had been filled and tiny bowls of grilled sardines and crudites were placed before them, and then he leaned across the table toward her and grinned.

  "The first woman I've ever won in a card game, anyway."

  Francesca flushed. "I'm afraid I don't find that ter­ribly amusing," she said stiffly.

  He sighed. "No. I suppose not." He watched her for a moment, then lifted his glass and held it out toward her. "What shall we drink to?"

  "I don't care to drink at all, thank you very much."

  "Don't you like champagne?"

  "It isn't that."

  "We can have wine, if you prefer, or an aperitif."

  She drew in her breath. "I don't want anything to drink, Mr. Donelli."

  "Max. We've already settled that, remember?" There was a sudden hard edge to his voice. "Perhaps we should go over all the ground rules for tonight. If you wish to discharge your stepbrother's debt-"

  "If?" She laughed incredulously. "Believe me, I wouldn't be here otherwise."

  "No?" His smile was quick and sly. "I gave you a choice in the car, Francesca. I offered to take you back to Monaco. You chose to come with me instead."

  Her chin lifted. "Because I chose to cancel Charles's debt."

  His lips drew back from his teeth. "Exactly. Which means you agreed to drink with me, dine with me--"

  "That doesn't mean I have to like it."

  "That remark hardly becomes you, cara" His tone was harsh. The seconds ticked away while they looked at each other, and then he smiled lazily. "Anyway, you should be flattered."

  "Flattered? To be here with you?" She smiled grimly. "I was right about that ego of yours. It's probably big enough to fill a football stadium."

  "I was referring to the way in which you came to be with me tonight."

  Francesca stared at him. "Being won in a card game is hardly flattering. And I've asked you and asked you to stop the 'cara' and 'bellissima' business. If you think that impresses me—"

  "Is that what I'm trying to do?"

  The note of amusement in his voice made her blush but it was too late to retreat.

  "Maybe."

  Max crossed his arms over his chest. "And how did you arrive at that conclusion?"

  Her color deepened. "Now you're trying to em­barrass me."

  "It's a simple question, Francesca. Can't you manage an answer?"

  There was a few seconds' silence. "Because of what happened last night," she said finally. "If you think I've forgotten— "

  "No." His tone softened and his gaze slipped over her. "I didn't think you had!'

  "What I mean is that you're wasting your time, if you think—if you hope that I'll find all this a—a turn-on." His expression was bland. "You think I've set all this up to seduce you? The game of poker, the bet with your stepbrother—"

  "This charming little cafe, the champagne." Her chin rose. "It's occurred to me," she said. "Yes."

  "And?" His voice was like silk. He leaned closer and his hand curved around her wrist, his fingers stroking lightly across her skin. "Let's assume, for the moment, that I had gone to all this trouble on your account." His smile grew catlike. "Would all my efforts have been wasted?"

  She pulled her hand from his, but not soon enough. He laughed softly, and she knew he had felt the sudden leap of her pulse under his fingertips.

  "No," he said, answering his own question, "no, I think not."

  "You can think what you like. There's no sense in arguing with that ego of yours." Francesca tossed her head. "I just want to be certain we understand each other. I've had champagne before. I've been called pet names before—"

  "Yes, I'm sure you have."

  His tone set her teeth on edge. "Does that disappoint you, Max?" She gave him a honeyed smile. "Were you hoping I'd gone through life untouched, just waiting for you to come along?"

  A muscle danced high in his cheek. "What if I said yes?" He bent over the table and the flame of the candle turned his eyes into diamonds. "What would you say then, cara?"

  Her heartbeat stumbled as she looked at him. She knew what he thought of her—he'd made that clear enough—and it didn't matter a damn. He was nothing to her; after tonight, she would never see him again.

  Still, she couldn't help wondering what he would say if she told him the truth, if she met his cold gaze un­flinchingly and said that she had never been intimate with a man, that she had never even responded to one as she had to him last night? Her eyes slipped to his mouth and suddenly she remembered the feel of it against hers, remembered the heat of his kisses and of his body...

  "Francesca?"

  His voice was soft, like liquid flame. He reached out and touched her cheek, his hand light against her skin.

  His fingertips were a breath away from her mouth. She had only to turn her head and she could touch her tongue to his flesh, taste him...

  Stop it, she told herself, stop it, stop it!

  Francesca drew away and reached for her wineglass. "I'd say," she said, after a long swallow of champagne, "that you were a little old to still believe in fairy tales."

  Max's mouth thinned. "A woman who doesn't flinch from the truth, hmm? Your stepbrother could take lessons from you, cara."

  "There you go again. I keep telling you--"

  "A slip of the tongue," he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "It's just that certain words and phrases come easiest to me."

  "Of course they do," she said coolly. "French, with Stefan. English, with Charles. And with your women you develop that tiny little accent and drop little bits of-what is it supposed to be? Italian?"

  His brows rose. "Yes. Italian."

  Mmm: ' She took another swallow of wine. Her throat felt parched, and it was foolish to let the wine go to waste. "Italian. To go with your name. Where'd you pick it from? A playbill?"

  Max began to laugh. "The name-and the language­ came from my father. I'm sorry if it displeases you." "It doesn't displease me. It doesn't mean anything to me, one way or the other. You can call yourself what you like. I told you, I'm not impressed."

  "But you should be flattered." "So you said. But-"

  "You accused me of setting all of this up, Francesca. Well, I didn't—much as I'd like to claim I did." He laughed, although the sound of it was chill. "But then, no one has to lift a finger to help Charles Spencer make a fool of himself. He has a knack for managing that all on his own."

  "That's not true. I was there, remember? You lured him into that card game."

  Max shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "I only plead guilty to making the most of an opportunity." His teeth flashed in a quick smile. "Two opportunities, in fact."

  “Two?”
/>   "Yes. The first was taking Charles in." His eyes swept over her face while a slow smile curved across his mouth. "The second was having the good sense to name you as the night's prize."

  Waves of color rose beneath her skin. "I don't like the way you say that. You make it sound as if—as if …"

  "I expect only the pleasure of your company, Francesca."

  She took a sip of wine. "Just so long as you re­member that."

  Max smiled lazily. "How could I forget, cara? I suppose I'll simply have to make the most of the little you're willing to offer me, won't I?"

  He was still teasing her. She could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. Her breath caught. She had the power to change that mocking tone. All she had to do was look across the table at him and say—and say...

  "What are you thinking, Francesca?"

  Her eyes flew to his. He spoke softly, with almost careless indifference, yet she had the sudden awful feeling he was reading her thoughts again. She tore her gaze from his. God, her head was buzzing. What was the matter with her?

  "Nothing," she said, clasping her hands in her lap, "nothing at all."

  "Are you sure?" The corners of his mouth lifted in a quick smile. "You looked so pale."

  She swallowed dryly. "Did I? Perhaps—perhaps I'm hungry. I haven't eaten in hours."

  Stupid. Stupid! How had that slipped out? It was true, but she hadn't planned on eating. She gave a mental shrug as she lifted her glass and drained it. What did breaking bread with him prove? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  "Where are we going for dinner?" she asked with a polite smile.

  Max lifted the bottle of Dom Perignon and refilled her glass. "I hadn't given it much thought." His eyes flickered from her glass to her lips as she raised it again. "How about La Coupole?"

  "Without reservations? You can't—" She broke off when she saw him smile. "Forgive me," she said coolly, "I forgot. I'm sure you can get a table anywhere you like."

  "La Coupole is too noisy. The Grill at the Hotel de Paris, perhaps?" A frown creased his forehead. "No. I'm sure you've had dinner there already."

  "I have. Twice." She put down her glass and looked directly at him. "Which reminds me, Mr. Donelli " This time, his smile was almost gentle. "Max."

  "Max. Where do you dine? For that matter, where do you stay? Everyone who's attending the conference is at either the Hotel de Paris or the Hermitage, but I haven't seen you at either."

  His brows rose. "Have you looked for me?"

  "No," she said, making a face, "of course I haven't. But I'd have noticed you, if—"

  She caught her lip between her teeth as he began to smile.

  "Go on," he said softly.

  Francesca blew out her breath. "It's just that—that one keeps bumping into the same people, in the eleva­tors and corridors..." Her eyes swept to his, and she blushed and looked away. "Never mind," she said, lifting her glass. "It doesn't matter."

  Max watched her in silence and then he pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

  "Will you excuse me for a moment? I have to make one quick phone call." His smile was dazzling. "And then I'll show you where I've been staying. Would you like that?"

  "I told you, it doesn't—"

  "And I'll take you to dinner at my secret place. How does that sound?"

  Francesca smiled. "Secret? A secret restaurant here, on the Riviera? What does that mean, that it's only got one star in the Michelin?"

  Max laughed, too. "I'll just be a minute. Why don't you finish your champagne while I'm gone?"

  She watched him make his way into the cafe, and then she stared at her wineglass. It was full again—when had that happened? A warning rang in her head as she reached for it, but she shrugged it aside. She wasn't the one who was driving, she thought with a little laugh. Max was. And it would damned well serve him right if she fell asleep in the car while he drove.

  That might not be what he'd meant by wanting the pleasure of her company, but it would be more than he deserved.

  Her head was buzzing dangerously by the time they reached the car. "Are you all right?" Max asked solici­tously as he helped her inside.

  "Fine," she answered.

  But she wasn't fine. The car seemed to be moving even before he turned on the engine. She closed her eyes as he swung on to the road, but that was a mistake. Closing her eyes only made her feel dizzy. Had she drunk too much champagne? No, she'd only had a glass. Two, maybe. Or three...

  "Do you like lobster, cara?"

  She stirred in her seat. "Lobster?" she asked muzzily. Max nodded. "Lobster. And mussels. I trust you like both."

  Francesca cleared her throat. "Could you open the windows? It's a bit warm in here."

  The night air made her feel a little better. She sat up straighter and put her hand to her forehead. "Does your head hurt?"

  She glanced at him. "How do you do that?" she asked irritably.

  "Do what?"

  "You seem to know what I'm thinking even before I've finished thinking it."

  He grinned as he shifted gears. "Magic, cara."

  "And don't call me that," she said wearily, leaning back against the headrest.

  He laughed softly. "Sorry."

  "You're not sorry at all."

  "But I am. I've no wish to anger you, Francesca." She sighed and closed her eyes. "That's not true." "Are you calling me a liar?" His tone was teasing. She rolled her head to the side and opened her eyes.

  "Not a liar, exactly."

  He smiled. "Then what, exactly?"

  "You're—you're..." She sighed. "What you did to­night wasn't right. Luring Charles into that card game—“

  "What did your stepbrother tell you about me?" She turned her face away from him. "Enough to know that you tried to steal Spencer's."

  "What would you say if I told you he was lying?"

  "Charles wouldn't lie to me."

  "Is that your answer?"

  She looked directly at him, her jaw thrust forward. "Did you expect something different?"

  There was a moment's silence, and then Max shook his head. "No." His voice was without expression. "No, I suppose not."

  "Is that what this is all about? Did you think you could get me to change my stepbrother's mind about you?"

  Max laughed. "It never crossed my mind."

  "Good." Her voice was grim. "Because—be­cause..." She sat up straighter and peered out of the window. "Where are we?"

  "Nice." He swung the wheel and they turned down a narrow street that seemed to be leading to the water. "Haven't you been here before?"

  "No. Charles promised, but..." She shrugged. "He's been busy."

  "Yes, I'm sure he has." He pulled the car to the curb and switched off the engine. "Come, Francesca. Let me show you my favorite restaurant."

  She waited until he came around to her side of the car and then she swung her legs out of the open door. Max took her hand as she got to her feet.

  "I can manage on my own," she said, pulling away from him.

  She could, but only with effort. Her legs felt a little rubbery, as if she'd been out climbing mountains all afternoon. Max made an impatient sound and put his arm around her waist.

  "I told you, I can—"

  "Of course you can," he said in a soothing whisper. His arm curved more closely around her. "But you're wearing high heels. You don't want to catch them in the cobblestones, do you?"

  It was a reasonable precaution, one with which she couldn't argue. Besides, her legs really did feel strange—as if they were filled with champagne instead of bone and muscle. She choked back a giggle. "Something amuses you, cara?"

  She almost told him that everything amused her all of a sudden: her wobbly legs, her muzzy head, the way Max's accent seemed to be gaining as they grew closer to the water,

  The water. Francesca frowned. Why were they heading toward the sea?

  "Is there a restaurant down here?"

  "The best in the world."

  "But where? I don't
see—"

  "Good evening, Luigi."

  "Buona sera, Don Maximillian."

  She blinked. A man had stepped out on the path before them. He was dressed in pressed jeans and a dark chambray shirt.

  "Tutti sono pronto, signore."

  Max nodded. "Va bene."

  Francesca looked at him. "Do you know this man?" He smiled. "Luigi works for me. Watch your step­--the planking is slippery."

  She glanced around her. They were walking along the dock, moving farther and farther from the street.

  "I don't understand," she said slowly. "You said there was a restaurant..."

  "Signorina."

  Luigi was standing beside a sleek launch, his hand outstretched. Francesca looked from him to Max.

  "What does he want?"

  "He wants to help you board, cara."

  "Board?" Francesca came to a dead stop. "What do you mean, he wants to help me board?"

  Max sighed. "The boat, Francesca."

  The idea chilled her. "No," she said, digging in her heels, "I don't want to."

  "Francesca. Don't be silly. You said you wanted to see my secret restaurant and my hotel."

  She stared at him, trying to read his face, but it re­vealed nothing.

  “Max—“ His smile was as cool. "Ah," he said softly, "the lady knows my name."

  "Max, what's this all about?" She peered out to sea. “Is there a floating hotel out there? I never heard of one, but-"

  "No." His arm tightened around her. "There's no floating hotel."

  "Well, then, what—?”

  "Get in the boat and I'll show you"

  Francesca looked up at him. Her heart was beginning to pound, but that was crazy. Max Donelli was a hard man, a powerful one, but there was no reason to fear him.

  "Why?" She gave what she hoped sounded like a laugh. "It's a nice boat, Max, but if you're going to try and convince me that it houses a hotel and a res­taurant—“

  "Signore, per favore. . ."

  Max nodded. "Si, Luigi, si."

  She looked from one man to the other. "What's he saying?"

  "He's reminding me that it's getting late. Our meal will be cold."

  Francesca stared at him. "What in heaven's name are you talking about?" Her brows rose. "Is this boat yours?" When he said nothing, she looked at the launch again. It was sleek and handsome, and suddenly she pic­tured the cozy little table that had probably been set for two in the cabin below. "If you think I'm going to dine alone with you on that—"