The Corsican Gambit

by Sandra Marton

  It took a while to convince the girl that she didn't want any help dressing, but finally Francesca was alone again. Two cups of the strong black coffee cleared her head along with some aspirin from the adjoining bathroom. By the time she took a pair of white cotton pants and a pale yellow T-shirt from the open closet, she felt almost human again. There was an assortment of canvas shoes and leather thong sandals on the bottom shelf. She slipped her feet into a pair, combed her hair, and then took a deep breath.

  All she had to do was face Max one last time and that wouldn't be very difficult, not with the sun shining brightly overhead, and then she'd be back in Monaco, safe and sound at Charles's side.

  Then why was she so nervous? Francesca paused at the door. Maria had referred to Max as Don Maximillian, just as Luigi had last night. It had seemed an affectation then, like the faint accent and Italian-sprinkled speech, but suddenly, despite the bright sunlight and familiar, cheery smell of freshly brewed coffee, the old-fashioned title had a realistic and surprisingly oppressive sound to it.

  "You're just being silly," she said firmly. She ran her fingers through her hair, squared her shoulders, and marched out into the corridor.

  The ship was very quiet. The sandals she'd chosen were a little large; they slapped softly as she made her way toward the companionway and she had to stifle the in­stinct to rise up on tiptoe. The cabin doors she passed were all shut, and she began to wonder if she might get off Moondrift without seeing Max at all. It was probably too much to hope for, but it was a possibility. It felt as if it was still early in the morning: maybe he was still asleep in his cabin. Yes, she thought as she stepped from the companionway, why not? There was no reason for the master of Moondrift to be awake yet; he could very well be...

  "Good morning."

  Her head came up sharply. Max was leaning back against the rail, smiling, and she had the uneasy thought that he'd been waiting for her. Her gaze swept over him. She had never seen him dressed this way, in snug, faded jeans and an equally faded gray T-shirt bearing a Columbia University logo. He hadn't shaved this morning-there was a dark shadow along his jaw-and the breeze had ruffled his dark hair so that it lay in dis­array across his forehead. Don Maximillian, indeed, she thought.

  "Did you sleep well?"

  She swallowed dryly. "Fine, thank you. I-I'm sorry if I caused you any trouble last night...”

  His smile tilted wryly. "You were no trouble at all. How's your head?"

  "My head?" She gave him a quick, sharp look. "What do you mean?"

  He shrugged lazily. "I was just wondering if the as­pirin I gave you did the trick. I wanted you to take three tablets, but you insisted you'd never be able to keep down that many."

  She stared at him blankly. "I don't remember any such conversation."

  He laughed as he turned toward the sea and leaned tis elbows on the railing. "I'm not surprised. You were pretty much out of things by then."

  "Pretty much out of…' Her voice faded away. Was he teasing her, or had she really said—and done—things she couldn't recall? Color swept across her cheekbones as she thought of awakening in that sumptuous bed dressed in nothing but her teddy. Who had put her there? Worse still, how could she bring herself to ask him such a question?

  "You were asleep when I carried you to your cabin." He looked at her. "But you awoke—for a little while, anyway—when I put you to bed." He grinned as the color in her cheeks intensified. "That was what you wanted to ask me, wasn't it?"

  There he went, reading her thoughts again. Francesca gave him a cold look. "You really ought to consider taking that act on the road."

  "What act?" he asked innocently.

  "Why didn't you ask Maria to take care of me?" she demanded, ignoring his question.

  "Maria?" His smile was intimate and amused. "The sun was kissing the mountains when I put you to bed, cara. Surely you didn't expect me to disturb Maria's rest for such a simple chore? A few hooks and buttons aren't difficult.”

  Damn the man! He was laughing at her. Well, if he expected to get a rise out of her, he was in for a disappointment.

  "Nothing you haven't done before," she said sweetly.

  Laughter glinted in his eyes. "Forgive me for disil­lusioning you. I keep forgetting how much you would like to be first."

  She swung away from that dark, sardonic smile and stared past him to the sea. A little furrow appeared be­tween her brows. She hadn't given it any thought, but, now that she looked, where was the coast? Nice was barely a stone's throw from Monaco. Surely you could see land as you traveled.

  "What is it, Francesca?"

  "Nothing, really," she said, forcing aside a vague sense of unease. "I just wondered—I assumed we'd sail much closer to shore."

  Max took her arm. "Let's have breakfast, shall we? What would you like? Fresh fruit? Croissants? Or do you prefer an American breakfast-bacon and eggs, perhaps, or sausage?"

  "More coffee is all I want, thanks." She glanced at him as he led to the aft deck where an umbrella table had been set up in a sheltered corner. "Anyway, is there really time for breakfast?"

  "There's plenty of time," he said as he drew out her chair. "How do you take your coffee? Black? Or with cream and sugar?"

  "Black is fine, thanks." She waited as he poured coffee for the both of them. Aside from the little taunts about having put her to bed, he was really being very civilized this morning and that surprised her. She'd half expected him to go on and on about last night and what had hap­pened when they'd danced...

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

  She blinked. Why did she keep remembering those words?

  "You must try some of these berries. And some crème fraiche with them. Or would you prefer—?”

  "Did you phone my stepbrother?"

  "That's been taken care of."

  Francesca nodded. "Good. He'd be awfully worried otherwise."

  “Would he?”

  "Of course." She looked at him. "You have the wrong idea about Charles-not that it's necessary for me to defend him."

  A tight smile curved across his mouth. "I'm afraid that you couldn't do that if you tried."

  She put down her cup and pushed back her chair. "There's no sense arguing about it," she said. "Anyway, it doesn't matter now. We'll be docking soon, and—"

  "We've at least three hours before we dock. You might as well relax and eat something."

  "What? What did you say?"

  Max lifted the cover from a silver serving dish. "I said that you ought to eat something. Jean-Paul's made omelets—"

  Her eyes fixed on his face. "Did you say something about not docking for three hours?"

  He shrugged as he reached for the coffeepot. "Perhaps not. Captain Dussage says it may take a little longer. Shall I refill your cup?"

  Francesca felt the abrupt flutter of her pulse. "But—­but why should it take so long?" She watched as he put down the pot and served himself some strawberries. "Max?"

  He looked up, his expression polite and pleasant-but she saw something unexpected in his dark eyes. Her pulse leaped nervously.

  "What is it, Francesca?" he asked. His voice was soft, almost gentle.

  She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. "How long—how long have we been under way?"

  He frowned as he glanced at his watch. "Let's see—­it's almost eleven o'clock. I think we put to sea some­where around six this morning."

  She sank back in her chair. "You mean we've been traveling for five hours?" She took a breath. There was another question that had to be asked, but she was afraid to ask it. The best she could do was dance around its perimeter. "But that's impossible." Her lips turned up in the stiff beginnings of a smile meant to assure m that she knew he was joking. "How could it take us such a long time to reach Monaco? I mean, it was no trip at all by car..."

  Max nodded. "You're right, of course. Monaco is a stone's throw from Nice." He bit into a strawberry, his teeth very white against the crimson fruit. "But Cors
ica is eight hours away."

  She stared at him. "Is this a joke?" Her voice was steady, which amazed her, because every other part of her body was beginning to tremble. "Because if it is, it's not terribly funny."

  He looked up. "It's not meant to be," he said quietly. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh—

  Francesca clasped her hands together in her lap. "Take me back," she said.

  "Back?" His lips drew away from his teeth in a cold smile. "Ah, yes. Back to your dear, beloved step­brother."

  "You said—" She paused and drew herself together. "You said you'd have me back by sunrise. You said—"

  Max tossed his napkin on the table and pushed back his chair. "Things have changed." His tone was flat, as flat as his eyes. "Look, you'll only make it harder on yourself if—"

  "You never intended to take me back, did you?" Her voice cracked. "You intended this right from the be­ginning." She stared at him, wide-eyed, and then she exploded from her chair. "Well, you won't get away with it. Not with kidnapping! Your crew may have been willing to stand by while you carried an unwilling date aboard for dinner last night, but—"

  "My crew," he said softly, his eyes on her face, "does exactly what I tell them to do." His mouth tightened. "Especially since they're all from Corsica."

  "Corsica?" Her voice rose; she heard the hysteria lying just beneath the surface and she swallowed hard. "You say that as if—as if it's another planet."

  His lips drew back from his teeth. "Some think it might as well be. Even the language is difficult for out­siders to understand."

  "You make it sound exotic. But they speak Italian. And French—unless you're going to try and convince me that the chef you boasted about and Captain Dussage are Corsican."

  "It doesn't matter a damn what they speak. My people are completely loyal." He gave her another wolfish smile. "And very romantic. Corsican men understand ab­ducting a woman in the name of passion. When my crew realized what I was doing, they were more than eager to help."

  Francesca clenched her fists. "You—you bastard! It wasn't enough that you made fools of Charles and me in front of everyone. No, you needed something more to soothe that insane ego of yours. You-"

  Max's chair clattered to the deck. She fell back as he came swiftly toward her, but there was nowhere to go.

  "How much do you remember of last night, cara?" His hands closed on her shoulders and he half lifted her to her toes. "Do you remember when I took you on deck to see the stars?"

  "You took me on deck to get me drunk," she said with disdain.

  A smile curved across his mouth. "You needed no encouragement from me. You drank the champagne as if it were water."

  "If I did-if I did-it was because-because I needed it for courage."

  "Ah." He laughed softly. "I see. You were afraid of me, hmm? You needed the wine to face me."

  Her chin lifted. "Something like that, yes."

  His arms slipped around her and he drew her un­yielding body into his embrace.

  "You needed no courage when we danced, cara." He bent to her and she tried to pull away but his mouth brushed her temple with fire. "I think you needed the courage you found in the wine to keep you from doing what you wanted to do."

  Francesca's heartbeat stuttered. "This is insane."

  She caught her breath as his lips pressed against her throat. "You wanted me to make love to you last night, and you were afraid."

  "No!" She twisted uselessly against his strength. "Don't be ridiculous. I never—"

  Max's hands clasped her head and held it still. "I asked you a question last night, Francesca. And you answered it. Can you recall?"

  Remember it? She remembered it all, with painful clarity, his question and her answer, too. What if I had simply asked you to come away with me? he'd asked. Would you have come ...? And she—she had said...

  "Francesca?"

  She drew a deep breath. "No. I-I don't remember."

  A tight smile curved across his mouth. "Then I must refresh your memory." His hands held her fast when she tried to turn her face away. "I asked you what you would have done if I'd asked you to come away with me last night, before your stepbrother and I played out our foolish duel."

  "I had a lot to drink, Max. I don't—"

  "And you said..." His voice dropped to a whisper as his hands spread into her hair and tilted her head back. "You said you would have."

  "I said that I might have. I never..." Color swept along her cheeks as he began to smile. "It doesn't matter," she said desperately. "It was the wine talking, not me."

  "Was it?" He moved closer to her. She felt the warmth of his breath on her face. "You were like flame in my arms."

  Her heart stumbled. "I just told you, it was the wine." "It was the same the night we met, cara." He shifted his weight until his body was pressed lightly against hers,the heat of him threatening to ignite her. "Was it the wine talking that night, too?"

  She stared into his eyes. "What—what do you want from me?" she whispered.

  Max's eyes turned to smoke. "What if I said I was taking you to Corsica so that I could finish what began that night in the garden? What if I said I was going to make love to you until you'll never wish to run away from me again?"

  What he was saying was crazy. She didn't want any of those things: Max Donelli was a stranger. No, he was less than that. He was Charles's enemy, and hers. He had made both of them look like fools, he had stolen from their corporation, and now he had abducted her.

  And yet—and yet when he touched her, when he took her in his arms, the world spun away.

  Francesca's breath caught. She felt as if she were trapped in a gallery of mirrors. Nothing was as it seemed, nothing could be trusted, and there was only one way to deal with such terrifying unreality.

  "All this has nothing to do with me," she said in a shaky voice. "You hate my stepbrother, and you want vengeance. All the rest is just window dressing and we both know it."

  Max's arms tightened around her. "Is it?" He gave a choked laugh. "Perhaps you're right, cara. But what does it matter so long as the outcome is the one fate has written for us?" He brought her closer and kissed her again and again, until her treacherous lips parted be­neath his and her body began to quicken and then he drew back. "You will end up in my bed," he said in a low, harsh voice, "and to hell with the rest."

  He looked at her for what seemed an eternity, and then he thrust her from him and strode away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Max`s words stunned her. Staring at his retreating back, Francesca wanted to shout, to run up to him and pound her fists on his shoulders—but she couldn't move so much as a muscle. Her legs felt as if they'd been caught in quicksand.

  "Signorina?" She spun around to find Luigi standing beside her, his face set in a deferential smile, a fresh pot of coffee in his hands. "Mi scusi, " he said pleasantly. "Posso lei dare ancora del caffe?"

  She stared at him incredulously. He was offering her fresh coffee, as if-as if she were a passenger on a pleasure cruise instead of a prisoner. The realization freed her, and she moved quickly toward the table and swept her hand across it. Coffee and cream spilled across the white linen; china and silverware clattered to the deck.

  "Signorina!" Luigi looked at her as if she'd lost her mind.

  "Get away from me," she spat, as he took a step toward her. "You just-" Abruptly, she spun away and ran toward the companionway.

  By the time she reached the cabin deck, she was trem­bling as much with rage as with fear. The corridor was empty, the doors all were shut. Francesca took a deep breath.

  "Max," she called. There was no answer. She waited, then shouted his name again. "Max, you bastard! Where are you? Damn you, where-?"

  The door at the end of the passageway swung open.

  "I am not deaf, Francesca. What is it you want?" "What is it L..?" She made a sound that was as much

  a sob as it was a laugh. "What I want," she said care­fully, "what I demand, is that you tell your captain to turn this boat
around and take me back to Monaco."

  His hands went to his hips. "I told you, we are going-"

  "To Corsica. Yes, I heard you. Well, now it's your turn to listen to me, Mr. Donelli." Her head lifted in defiance. "I don't know what you told my broth­er—“

  "I told him nothing." The faintest of smiles curved across his mouth. "It was you who sent him a cable, cara. You explained that our meeting last night was not our first."

  Francesca paled. "What?"

  "Your cable told him we had met the prior night, at the Marques's party. It mentioned-" his smile twisted wryly "-our strong attraction to each other."

  "You told him about the incident in the garden?" She flicked her tongue across her lips. "But-but why?"

  His smile grew sly. "Because I was sure you had not."

  "Of course I hadn't. That was-it was..."

  "Don't worry, Francesca. Charles will understand. Your cable made it very clear that you and I spent an extraordinary night together."

  Two crimson spots appeared on her cheeks. "He won't believe you."

  "And that we couldn't bear to be parted at dawn," he said, as if she hadn't spoken:

  "Is that your scheme?" Her nostrils flared with dis­taste. "To get even with my stepbrother by making him think you and I have become lovers? It won't work, Max. Charles will never believe it. He'll know it's a lie."

  He shrugged his shoulders lazily. "Perhaps."

  "He will. And he'll notify the police."

  "No, he will not." Max's smile chilled her. "The last thing your beloved stepbrother wants is publicity-es­pecially if it involves his relationship with me."

  Francesca's breasts rose and fell with the quickness of her breath. "You're so damned sure of yourself-"

  "I'm sure about some things, yes. If I were not, I wouldn't have taken this course of action."

  "Course of action?" Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Is that what you call this-this farce?"

  "Everything will be done to make you comfortable, Francesca "

  "Everything-except setting me free."

  She had meant the words to sound angry. Instead, they seemed tremulous. The hard lines in Max's face softened a little.