The Corsican Gambit

by Sandra Marton

  The air was suddenly too thick to breathe. Quickly, she pushed back her chair and got to her feet.

  "Please—take me back to Monaco."

  Max's mouth twisted. "You can't keep running from me, Francesca." He moved quickly, rising from his seat and coming around the table to her like a lithe jungle cat closing in on its prey. "My people have a saying­--what fate puts before you cannot be escaped." He reached out his hand and cupped it around the back of her head. "This is fate, cara. Why are you afraid to admit it?" His fingers threaded into her hair.

  "Please." Her throat was dry, her words as insub­stantial as grains of sand on a sun-baked desert. She rose to her feet. "Please, Max, take me back."

  "No." His voice was rough as raw silk. "Not yet."

  "You said I could leave whenever I liked. Well, I—I— "

  "Dance with me first, Francesca." Her eyes widened. "What?"

  "One dance," he said as he gathered her into his arms, "and then I'll do whatever you ask."

  “Max—“

  "I promise." He began moving in rhythm to the music that had been playing softly all through dinner, and slowly she began moving with him, her body stiff at first, then growing dangerously pliant in his arms.

  A thousand warnings prickled along her skin, but how could she move away from him? He was holding her too closely and besides-oh, God. She didn't want to move away, she wanted to feel his arms tighten around her as they were now, to feel the beat of his heart quicken as hers was quickening...

  His hand cupped her head and she sighed and let it rest against his shoulder. She felt the whisper of his breath on her cheek as he bent and brushed his mouth against her temple.

  How could it feel so right to be in his arms? Max Donelli was a stranger. He was more than that-he was her stepbrother's enemy, he was her enemy, the man who had, only hours before, disgraced Charles and her both. Did he think she'd forgotten?

  She tried to draw back but he wouldn't let her. His hand slid to the nape of her neck; he urged her head to his shoulder again. No, she thought, no-but her treacherous body had its own will. She felt as if she were clay made for the sculpting touch of Max's fingers.

  He whispered her name as she closed her eyes and relaxed against him, and then he murmured something in Italian so softly that it seemed part of the music to which they danced. His hand slipped down her spine, moving gently over her gown, stroking her until she couldn't tell what was silk and what was flesh. She whimpered as his fingers traced the curve of her but­tocks and he said her name again, slurring it on his tongue as if it had been immersed in honey.

  "Cara, " he said, "bellissima mia." Her eyes opened and met his, and she caught her breath at what she saw blazing in the night darkness. "I want you, Francesca: " He bent to her and teased her lips apart with hot, hungry kisses. "Tell me you want me, too."

  His mouth slanted across hers in a kiss as fierce as it was sweet. She felt her body clench tightly in response.

  "Tell me, cara."

  The words he wanted to hear danced into her head like shadows moving on a screen. They would have no substance until she said them aloud. But how could she? How...?

  "Francesca: " He cupped her face in his hands and tilted her head back, and then his mouth closed on hers over and over again in urgent, wet kisses that deepened with each silken glide of his tongue. His hands swept down her back and cupped her buttocks; she moaned his name as he brought her body tightly against the ex­cited hardness of his.

  "I love the way you say my name," he said thickly. "Say it again, cara, and then let me taste the sound of it on your lips."

  All reason fled. She was trembling in his arms, burning with a heat that only his kisses could assuage. Her head fell back, her lashes fluttered to her cheeks.

  The soft tap on the salon door exploded into the silence like a gunshot. Francesca spun out of Max's arms. He cursed softly and stalked to the door. She turned away as he wrenched it open and rattled off a string of Italian phrases, his tone harsh enough so that she didn't need to know the words to understand their meaning.

  She caught a glimpse of the steward's pale face.

  "Mi dispiace, Don Maximillian, " he stuttered, holding out a piece of paper. "Ma il capitano dice che era urgente."

  "Give it to me," Max growled, snatching the paper from the steward's hand.

  She watched as he scanned it. He looked up and crumpled it in his hand.

  "Va bene," he said, "it's all right, Giacomo, you did the right thing."

  Francesca turned away as the door closed. It seemed like a long time before Max came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

  "Francesca?" he said softly.

  She drew a shuddering breath. "Please." Her voice was a whisper. "Please Max-it's very late. Take me back to Monaco."

  She looked down as he turned her slowly to him. "Look at me," he said, putting his hand under her chin and gently lifting her face to his. "Is that what you really want?"

  His voice was soft with promise. No, she thought wildly, no, it wasn't. What she wanted-what she had almost done-was insane.

  "Yes," she said, forcing her eyes to meet his, "it is."

  "Why?" His voice was bitter. "Because of your step­brother's lies?"

  "Please, don't start that again. You've had what you wanted tonight..."

  "The night's not over, cara."

  Something in the way he looked at her frightened her. "It is," she said quickly. "It will be dawn soon, and you said-"

  "I know what I said." He turned away and picked up the bottle of champagne and the crystal flutes. When he looked at her again, he was smiling pleasantly. "We'll start back soon, I promise. But first, tell me, have you ever seen the Mediterranean sky from the deck of a ship at night?" She shook her head, and he looped his arm lightly around her shoulders. "then let me show you what you've missed, cara."

  Francesca hesitated. She wanted to go with him, which was a good reason for holding back, but that didn't make sense. Nothing made sense any more, not the way she'd fallen into his arms nor even the fact that the word cara no longer grated across her nerve endings.

  "What is it?" He smiled. "Are you afraid the ship will turn into a pumpkin at midnight?"

  She gave herself a mental shake. "How could I fear that when it's long after midnight already? And you did promise you'd have me at the hotel by sunrise."

  There was the briefest pause before he answered. "We could be far from Nice by dawn, Francesca."

  She looked up at him, caught by some undercurrent in his voice. But, before she could speak or even wonder about it, he pushed open the companionway door and led her out on deck. The sight that greeted her drove every thought aside.

  It was that darkest moment that came just before dawn. The sky was a black velvet canopy shot through with silver, the sea an ebony plain undulating gently under a breeze that bore the spicy scents of Africa. "How beautiful," she whispered.

  Max filled the flutes and held one out to her. "I agree," he said, his eyes on her face. She flushed. "No wine, thank you." "A toast, Francesca."

  She hesitated, then took the glass from him. The night was almost over and she'd come through it safely. That was something to drink to, wasn't it?

  Max touched his glass to hers. "Salud, " he said softly.

  She sighed as she sank into one of the chairs. "The sky really is lovely," she admitted.

  He sat down beside her. "Have you ever counted the stars?"

  Francesca smiled. "Actually, I tried once. My sixth­-grade class went to the Planetarium. Have you ever been to one?"

  He shook his head. "No, never. What's it like?"

  "Oh, it's a fantastic place. They take you into this enormous domed room and the lights dim and you look up and you see a million billion stars."

  “Like these?"

  She drank some more wine. "No, they're not like these at all. These seem so close I feel I could almost... Look!" She pointed out toward the horizon. "Did you see? A falling star."
>
  "Quickly, cara, you must close your eyes and make a wish."

  She smiled. I wish, she thought, I wish-I wish this night might never end ...

  When she opened her eyes, Max was looking at her. "What did you wish for?" he asked softly.

  Her heart lurched. "I wished-I wished-" She tore her eyes from his and thrust her empty glass toward him. "I wished for more champagne," she said brightly.

  He hesitated, then smiled. "Of course. I'm glad you like it!'

  She felt the chill effervescence explode inside her mouth as she drained the champagne from the flute, then rush to her head in a swirl of bubbles.

  "I don't think I'd better drink any more," she said with a little laugh, "not unless you're prepared to watch me sleep all the way back to Monaco..." Her words drifted away as she looked at him. He was watching her with a dark, strange expression on his face. "Max? What is it?"

  "What if there had been no card game tonight? What if I had simply asked you to come away with me."

  Francesca frowned. "I don't-I don't understand."

  "Yes, you do." His voice was taut. "Would you have come with me?"

  No, she started to say, of course not, but then she remembered what he'd said when he took her in his arms. "What fate puts before you cannot be escaped." How could she deny the truth, when the stars were all around them and the champagne and the taste of his kisses were on her lips?

  She drew a deep breath. "I think-I think, perhaps, I might have," she whispered.

  She waited, her heart pounding rapidly, wondering what she would do if he took her in his arms again. Minutes seemed to pass and then, to her surprise, he got to his feet. "It's getting late," he said in a voice cu­riously devoid of inflection. "Wait here until I get your wrap and bag from the salon."

  "I'll come with-"

  "No." He put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her back into the chair. "You sit here and finish your wine."

  "No more wine." She gave a rueful little laugh. "I've had too much as it is."

  "Then close your eyes and rest." His voice was gentle. "I'll just be a few minutes."

  She lay her head back as his footsteps faded. The night was over, then. A bittersweet sorrow rose up within her and she thought suddenly what it would have been like if she had met Max Donelli some other way...

  Francesca sighed and closed her eyes. It wouldn't have mattered. He was Charles's enemy; the way they met wouldn't have changed that, and Charles said he was a thief.

  Her eyes closed. A thief. Was he? Or was he only a brigand? Not that there was much of a difference. Not that it really mattered...

  Francesca's breathing deepened. Seconds later, she was asleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FRANCESCA came awake slowly, rising toward the beam of light that lay across her face, centering her growing consciousness on it in a desperate attempt to still the sharp tattoo of pain inside her skull.

  She blinked her eyes open, then groaned softly and rolled onto her belly. She didn't remember opening the curtains last night, but she must have; her hotel room was filled with bright sunlight. Was it time to get up already? It couldn't be-she'd only gone to sleep a couple of hours ago. It had been almost dawn when-when ...

  When what? Memory came slowly: the Casino, the cafe in Villefranche, then dinner aboard Moondrift... Sudden images flashed into her mind. Soft music; Max, taking her in his arms, kissing her, touching her...

  She sat up quickly. Too quickly. The room lurched; she felt its gentle motion in the pit of her stomach. Care­fully, she shut her eyes and leaned her head back against the headboard. Think, she told herself, think. She'd gone on deck with Max, they'd had some wine and talked, although she couldn't remember what they'd talked about, and then—and then—

  And then, nothing. She had no recollection at all of the trip back to Monaco nor even of entering her hotel room. How could that be? Surely she'd remember...

  Her heart gave a funny little lurch as she lifted her lashes. Her gaze swept around the room again.

  "Oh, God," she said, as if the whispered plea might change reality.

  But it didn't. The simple fact was that she was in bed, but she was not in her hotel room. She was still on board Moondrift—and the yacht was under way. The faintly perceptible sense of motion was not in her belly, it was real.

  Her heartbeat did its strange gallop again and she forced herself to take a deep breath. Easy, she told herself, easy, there was sure to be a perfectly rational explanation of why she was here instead of in her hotel room, why she was lying in a wide, satin-sheeted bed wearing-wearing nothing but her silk teddy.

  Francesca groaned softly. Of course there was an ex­planation. All she had to do was think of it.

  She fell back against the pillows. All right, she thought frantically, let's try it again from the beginning. Drinks at the little cafe, then the surprise of the launch ride across the water, then dinner... A flush rose beneath her skin and she pushed the all too vivid memories aside. They'd gone up on deck next, she thought with grim determination, and-and what?

  Francesca pushed the covers aside and swung her legs to the floor. The sudden movement sent her head spinning, but that was better than sitting here trying to remember what had happened last night. How had she gotten from the deck to this cabin? She glanced down at herself, then clutched the sheet and tugged it to her throat. Maybe the better question was how had she ended up undressed and in this bed?

  Her fevered brain raced through the litany again. Drinks. Dinner. Deck. The breath whistled from her lungs. Bits and pieces were drifting back. They'd gone on deck to see the stars. Max had poured champagne. They'd talked about this and that, she couldn't recall what exactly, it was all fuzzy...

  What if I had simply asked you to come away with me? Would you have come?

  She caught her lip between her teeth. Max's voice seemed to echo inside her head. Had he really asked her that? No. He wouldn't have; he knew by now that her answer wouldn't have been one he wanted to hear.

  Would it?

  Francesca closed her eyes. She'd had far too much to drink last night, that was the trouble. If she hadn't, she'd have awoken in her hotel room this morning instead of in this cabin. And she couldn't really blame Max for it, either. He'd left her on deck alone while he went below.

  "I'll be right back," he'd said.

  Something like that, anyway, and she'd settled in to wait-and she'd fallen asleep, instead.

  She groaned and put her hands to her face, lightly massaging her temples. Be honest, Francesca. You passed out, you didn't fall asleep. And Max had found her that way; he'd probably decided the simplest thing was to let her sleep it off in one of Moondrift's cabins, then de­liver her safely back to Monaco in the morning. Francesca's hands fell to her lap. Wasn't that going to set tongues wagging? Max's yacht docking in the harbor and she stepping off it, still dressed in last night's finery.

  She gave herself a little shake. There was no sense in lamenting what was, she thought as she wrapped the sheet around herself and got to her feet. The yacht would be docking soon-the trip from Nice to Monaco couldn't be a very long one-and she wanted to be ready to leave Moondrift the moment it did. Her brow furrowed as she looked around the cabin. Where was her dress, anyway? Not at the foot of the bed or draped across the chintz­-covered chair near the windows. In the cupboard, then. Whoever had put her to bed must have...

  Her breath caught. And just who had that been? she wondered. Who had stripped away her dress and tucked her beneath the satin sheets?

  There was a light rap at the door. Francesca drew the sheet more closely around herself and turned toward it.

  "Who is it?"

  "Buon giorno, signorina."

  It was a girl's voice, light and pleasant. Francesca's brows rose in surprise.

  "Come in," she called.

  The door swung open and a young woman wearing a black dress and white apron stepped into the cabin.

  "Signorina." She smiled pleasantly. "Io porto
it suo caffe, " she said as she crossed the room and deposited a small serving tray on the night table.

  Francesca nodded. "Thank you."

  The girl smiled again. "Non c'e de che, signorina. Che cosa posso fare per lei?"

  Francesca smiled and shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't speak Italian."

  “Ah, si, io capisco. Maria." The girl pointed to herself. "Io sono Maria, signorina."

  "How far is it to Monaco, Maria?"

  "Mi scusi?"

  "Monaco. Will we be docking soon?"

  “Ah, Monaco. Si, si." Maria poured a cup of coffee and put it on the table. "Monaco e la, " she said with a flick of her head.

  Francesca nodded. It was a relief to know that she'd figured it out right. She wondered if Max had notified Charles of the delay. She hoped he had, otherwise her stepbrother was bound to be worried about her.

  "Do you know if anyone phoned my brother?"

  Maria smiled blankly. "Mi scusi, signorina. Non parlo inglese."

  "You don't speak English? Well, then, is there anyone on board who does? Is there... Est-ce que une per­sonne who-who does parlez inglese?"

  The girl giggled at the bastardized combination of French and Italian, but at least she seemed to under­stand it.

  "Si. Don Mazimillian parla inglese."

  She added something else, a question, and it didn't take much effort to figure out what she'd asked.

  "No," Francesca said quickly, "don't-don't bother the signore. I'll do without a translator until I'm dressed. Which reminds me-where are my things? My clothes?"

  She reached out and touched the girl's dress, then pointed to herself. "Do you know where my dress is?"

  Maria's face lit. She nodded happily and pushed open the closet door. "Essi sono molti vestiti per la signorina."

  The closet was filled with women's clothing-dresses and skirts and floor-to-ceiling shelves of what looked to be sportswear. The only thing that seemed to be missing was Francesca's own evening dress. She sighed. What did it matter? She could borrow something-the left­overs of one of Max Donelli's lady friends, no doubt ­and have it returned to him later.

  "Grazie, Maria."