The Corsican Gambit

by Sandra Marton

  He laughed. "Turn your head a little, cara."

  "What?"

  "Your head." Max put his hand against her cheek and turned her gently toward the water. "What do you see?"

  She frowned. "The Mediterranean, of course."

  "What else?"

  "What is this, Max? I'm not much for guessing games—“

  "Tell me what else you see, Francesca."

  "Lights," she said irritably. "For God's sake—"

  "If you look closely," he said gently, "you can see that they're on a boat."

  Francesca blinked her eyes. Yes, he was right, she could see a boat just beyond the marina. A big boat. Fifty feet. No, a hundred—

  "One hundred and thirty-seven, to be precise," he said, still in that same surprisingly gentle voice.

  She stared at him, too confused to wonder whether she'd spoken aloud or he'd read her thoughts again.

  "Is it yours?"

  He nodded. "Of course."

  "You mean..." She blinked again. "You mean, that's where you're taking me for dinner?"

  Max laughed softly. "There's nothing like the sea air to perk up an appetite, cara."

  She looked across the dark water again. The boat­—Max's boat—was only a few hundred yards away, but suddenly—suddenly, Francesca felt as if he were asking her to join him on another continent.

  "No," she said. Her voice was breathy. "No," she said again. She took a step back. "I'd rather not. Thank you for the offer, but-"

  She cried out as Max swung her up into his arms and stepped onto the deck of the launch. “Andiamo, Luigi."

  The seaman bent to the lines that held the launch to the dock, and the boat swung free.

  "You can't do this," Francesca said, struggling in his arms, but he only laughed and held her tighter.

  "Can't I, cara?" he said, and she watched, horrified, as the dock grew smaller behind them.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FRANCESCA was not a stranger to private yachts. In her stepbrother's high-powered financial world, such vessels were often seen as corporate perks. She had gone to her fair share of parties and weekend cruises aboard a dozen or more different corporate cruisers.

  But she had never been on board anything the equal of this boat. Even now, when she was so taut with anger that it seemed difficult to breathe, she knew that this was surely the biggest, most elegant yacht she had ever seen.

  It loomed over the launch as they drew aside. Luigi cut the engines just as Francesca twisted free of Max's unwelcome embrace. She stood trembling, arms wrapped around herself, hands massaging the skin he'd bruised, fighting against the fear that lay just beneath her rage.

  Max made her a mocking bow. "Welcome to Moondrift."

  Her brain worked feverishly for a cutting reply, but what could you say to a man who'd just carried you off? Max saw her consternation, she was sure of it, because he laughed softly as he extended his hand to her.

  "Let me help you aboard."

  She cast one last, hopeless look toward the shore, although she knew it was useless. The marina was de­serted at this hour of the night. No one would be able to help her. Luigi hadn't even offered a sympathetic glance as she'd struggled wildly in his employer's arms.

  "Francesca?"

  She looked at Max Donelli, her gaze sweeping from his outstretched hand to the ladder dangling down the side of the ship. It looked, she thought with a shudder, a hundred feet high, but she knew she'd sooner brave the Matterhorn than accept his help.

  "Don't touch me," she said coldly. She took a deep breath and stepped decisively onto the landing stage, grasped the railing, then began to climb, her thoughts less on the deep, dark water below than on the man behind her and the view he must have of her hips and legs as the wind swirled her skirt into a silken froth.

  It seemed to take an eternity to get to the top, but eventually she reached the deck and found herself face­-to-face with a pleasant-looking man wearing an officer's cap.

  "Are you the captain?" she demanded.

  He touched his hand to his cap and smiled. "Bonsoir, mademoiselle."

  Francesca gave him a steady look. "I'm here under duress.”'

  His smile never wavered. Pardon?"

  "I said—"

  "I'm afraid Captain Dussage speaks only French, cara." Max smiled at her as he slipped his arm lightly around her shoulders, and then he lapsed into conver­sation with Moondrift's captain.

  It was all she could do to keep from bursting into hys­terical laughter. A crewman who spoke only Italian and a captain who spoke only French. Well, why not? Moondrift might as well be flying the Jolly Roger. She was a pirate ship, her crew dredged from every seedy port in the world, with a-a lying Blackbeard ensconced in the owner's cabin.

  She gave Dussage a cold look but it was wasted on him. His attention was focused on Donelli. What was Max telling him? Her French wasn't good enough for her to follow. She had a swift, foolish vision of Madame Monserat trying to hammer Conversational French into the unwilling heads of the girls at boarding school. If only she'd paid attention! Was Max giving orders to raise anchor and put out to sea? Her anger had kept her fear in check but now she felt it rise along her skin in clammy waves.

  What would happen next? Anything was possible. Anything.

  Dussage turned away, and Max began urging her forward. Francesca dug in her heels.

  "You'll never get away with this," she said tightly.

  "Charles knows I'm with you, had you forgotten?" Max chuckled. "Such dramatics, Francesca. Whatever are you thinking?"

  "I'm not going with you, dammit! You'll have to­—to—“

  "You have a choice," he said softly. "You can either come quietly, or-"

  She tossed back her hair as she faced him. "Or what?" Her chin rose in defiance. "What will you do, hmm? Have one of your henchmen shackle me and drag me to your cabin?"

  The corners of his mouth lifted. He was laughing at her, damn him!

  "What a fascinating idea, cara. I've never tried such games, but they sound interesting."

  Francesca's cheeks blazed with color. "There are laws against this," she hissed. "I'll see to it you pay for what you've done."

  He laughed as he drew her forward with him. His strength was far greater than hers; she had no choice but to hurry alongside, her heels tapping lightly on the pol­ished teak deck.

  "I already am. My men will laugh for weeks about the night I had to force a woman aboard!'

  "I suppose they usually come willingly," she said, twisting against his hand as he led her below. "I sup­pose—“

  “They do, if they've heard of Jean-Paul."

  "Jean-Paul?" Francesca grimaced as Max clasped her wrist in one hand and pushed open a door with his other.

  "Who's he, the crewman in charge of the prisoners' cell rack... ?"

  Her voice faded as Max propelled her into an elegant, spacious dining room. She stared at the polished birchwood table set for two, the candles and flowers that were its centerpiece, the fine china and sterling at each setting. Overhead, a crystal chandelier blazed with light.

  "Jean-Paul," Max said smoothly, "is the finest chef this side of the Pyrenees." Max shut the door behind them and leaned back against it, arms folded across his chest. "I see you're disappointed, cara." Sarcasm coated his words like honey. "Did you expect to find something else behind this door?"

  Francesca flushed. "What is this?" she demanded.

  Max's brows rose. "Perhaps it's more important to determine what it is not," he said as he strode to the bar that curved across the far wall. "You will notice, for example, that it is not my cabin." He touched a button and a mirrored wall panel slid open, revealing racks of Swedish crystal. "You'll notice, too," he said wryly, "that it isn't a wall-to-wall bed, covered in black satin sheets."

  She swallowed. "All right. Maybe I did think that—­that—"

  "What this is," he said, taking a bottle of Perrier­-Jouet from a small fridge, "is Cafe Donelli." He stripped the foil from the neck of the
champagne bottle, then eased out the cork so that it made a dull pop.

  "But you said-you said you'd take me to your favor­ite restaurant…”

  "And I have," he said gently. "I dine on board as often as possible." The champagne foamed as he poured it into a pair of crystal flutes. "I sleep on board, as well." He held out a glass to her and smiled. "So much for my evil intentions, cara."

  Was it true? She flushed darkly. "That doesn't make up for anything. You took advantage of me. You-you fed me too much wine, and then-"

  There was a knock at the door and a white-jacketed steward stepped into the room.

  "Bonsoir, monsieur. Mademoiselle."

  Max turned toward him and spoke. His French was swift and almost impossible to follow, but certain words came through with great clarity. Homard. Pate. Salade verte. Profiteroles au chocolat. Espresso...

  Francesca closed her eyes, then blinked them open. It was true. He was ordering dinner. That really was the reason he'd brought her here.

  So what? The reason didn't matter. What counted was that she was here against her will. Max Donelli had simply carried her off, and nobody seemed to give a damn! The seaman, Luigi, had heard her cry out, he'd seen her struggle wildly in Max Donelli's arms, but he hadn't even offered her a sympathetic glance. Captain Dussage had shown no interest at all in the fact that Max had practically dragged her below. And now there was another crewman, standing not three feet from her, hanging on his employer's every word and she-she might as well be invisible.

  Max turned to her as soon as the door closed after the steward. "I took the liberty of ordering dinner for the both of us. Some pate, lobsters, green salad—"

  "Are your crewmen all deaf?" Her mouth tightened. "Or are they simply blind?"

  His brows rose. "If there's some deep meaning to that, cara—-"

  "I want to be taken ashore. At once."

  "When Jean-Paul's already begun our meal?" He smiled and held out a glass of champagne. "You'd hurt his feelings."

  "You've already filled me with enough wine, thank you very much."

  "Another of my heinous crimes," he said pleasantly. "Tying women down and force-feeding them cham­pagne."

  "You took advantage of me. All that wine—"

  "All the wine did was mellow you a bit." He smiled lazily. "Is that such a terrible thing?"

  "As for Jean-Paul," she said, as if he hadn't inter­rupted her, "I don't give a damn about his feelings. I want to—"

  "You're behaving like a spoiled child!' His tone was suddenly harsh. "We don't always get what we want in this life, Francesca. You should have learned that by now."

  "You're a fine one to talk. "You—you dragged me on to this damned boat---"

  "And what would you have said if I'd simply asked a you to come with me? Would you have agreed?"

  She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. "I—I don't know."

  "The truth, cara.”

  Francesca drew a breath. "All right," she said. "I suppose—I suppose I wouldn't have. But you can't blame me."

  "No. I cannot."' Max's voice was grim. "Your step­brother has filled your head with poison about me."

  "It isn't poison. Charles told me—"

  The point is, you would have refused." He turned away and touched the wall panel. Soft music welled up and filled the salon. "And so we'd have dined at the Cygnet or some place like it, where the story of how we came together has already been embroidered a thousand times over.”

  The story of how we came together. Francesca swallowed dryly. The way he said it lent a special meaning to what had happened. An intimacy, as if—as if...

  "Which would have been ridiculous, considering that we'd already given Monaco enough to buzz about.” He smiled as he took a bottle of Perrier from the refriger­ator and uncap it. "Why should I have taken you some place where we could have given them even more?"

  Francesca watched as he filled a glass with ice and then poured the mineral water over it.

  "That didn't seem to bother you at the Casino," she said slowly.

  "Much to my regret." An embarrassed smile edged across Max's mouth as he handed her the glass. "I let myself be carried away, I'm afraid. Public displays aren't my style."

  No, she thought, she didn't think they were. Charles had said Max Donelli didn't like the spotlight, but the light had surely been focused on him tonight. Now that his anger had run its course, he was probably regretting the rashness of his actions.

  But if he hadn't been rash, if he hadn't played Charles for stakes that were so high, she wouldn't have been with him now...

  Heat flooded her cheeks. She turned away quickly and put the cool glass of Perrier against her cheek.

  "You're probably right," she said. "Walking into a restaurant together would be like taking center ring at the circus."

  "Exactly." He came up behind her and put his hand lightly on her shoulder. "Now," he said quietly, "will you join me for dinner?"

  Francesca turned slowly and looked at him. "I-I don't know. I..."

  A muscle knotted in his jaw. "It's all right," he said. "I understand." She watched as he put down his glass and walked to the door. "I'll have Luigi ready the launch-"

  "No." Her heart gave a funny little lurch, as if it had missed a beat and were racing to catch up. "No," she said when he turned toward her, "that's all right. It—­it would be foolish to do that. I mean, we're here already, and dinner's almost ready..." Her voice trailed away. "I'll have dinner here."

  Max's smile lit his face. "I'm glad," he said, only that, but the words sent a tremor dancing along her spine.

  Dinner was not as good as Max had promised, it was better. The pate had been velvety, the mussels sweet and bursting with flavor. Even the salads were extraordi­nary, laced through with walnut kernels and goats' cheese and tasting of a delicate vinaigrette.

  By the time the lobster had been served, Francesca was laughing at Max's story about the first unhappy time he'd tasted mussels.

  "They were like little rubber bullets, do you know what I mean? I chewed and chewed but they never got any smaller or softer, and there I was, seated at the place of honor beside my hostess..."

  She laughed as she pushed aside her plate, propped her elbows on the table, and rested her chin in her hands. Charles wouldn't have approved, but then, he wouldn't have approved of the way she'd eaten her lobster, either, with her fingers as much as with her fork.

  "It tastes better that way," Max had said, and he was right. The meat seemed sweeter when it was coaxed from the shell. Max...

  Francesca blinked. When had that happened? When had she begun to think of him as "Max"? He'd asked her half a dozen times tonight to call him by his first name but she'd refused. Now, without even realizing it, she'd slipped into not only using it but thinking it, too.

  She smiled to herself as she watched him pick up a lobster claw and crack it open. Somewhere between the moment the steward had served the lobsters and now, that was when it had happened. After all, how could you call someone Mr. Donelli when you and he were both eating with your hands?

  "Good?"

  She looked up. "Yes," she admitted, "it's delicious."

  "I'm glad." He gave her a mischievous smile. "But you must leave room for dessert, or Jean-Paul will be disappointed."

  He went on talking, telling her an involved, funny story about chocolate profiteroles, of all things, and, although she smiled and laughed in all the right places, she wasn't really paying attention. She was concentrating, instead, on the animation in his face and the expressive way he gestured with his hands, and she thought suddenly how easy it would be to like Max Donelli very, very much.

  But it was too late to think that way. She had made a fool of herself with him last night, first going into his arms with an abandon that had shocked them both, then running from him like a frightened schoolgirl. What must he have thought? And what must he think of her now? A flush rose in her cheeks. She knew the answer to the question. What could he think about
a woman he'd won in a card game, a woman offered up as a surety for a wager? Her hands began to tremble, and she wiped them on her napkin, then folded them carefully in her lap.

  Max saw the change in her immediately. "Cara, what's the matter?"

  She shook her head. "I just-I just realized that it's getting late. I think perhaps it's time you took me home."

  "It's more than that, cara. A moment ago your face was alive, and now-"

  Her heart gave a panicked stutter. "Don't," she whis­pered before she could stop herself.

  "Forgive me. I know you don't like me to call you that-"

  She shook her head and looked down at the table, her hair falling around her face like a pale cloud.

  "I-I meant, don't-don't do what you were doing."

  Max frowned. "I don't understand."

  She took a deep breath as she raised her eyes to his. "You-you won the right to have me with you tonight. Surely you realize that was embarrassment enough."

  "Is that why you think I made the wager with Charles? To humiliate you?" His voice roughened. "I had no such intention, Francesca. Your stepbrother and I were playing for high stakes-"

  "You don't have to go through it," she said quickly. "I saw it all, remember?"

  "But you misunderstood what you saw." Max pushed back his chair. "Charles agreed to stake something in lieu of cash."

  "Please. I just asked you not to-"

  "That meant he had to risk something very valuable." He paused, and she could hear the swift leap of her pulse. "And what could that possibly have been except you?"

  His words whispered into the silence. Francesca stared at him while she searched for something to say, a clever rejoinder that would shine with sophistication, but her tongue felt as if it were stuck to the roof of her mouth. All she could do was look at him while his eyes, black as obsidian, moved over her face like a caress.